That's what I get for making assumptions.
I use the bathroom in the hall. Wash my hands. Brush my teeth. That's one alcohol side-effect down. To handle the other—
I fill a glass in the kitchen. Drink with eager gulps.
The lights are off. The space is quiet.
But there's something different. The door to the balcony is open.
Liam is standing there in the rain, hand around a glass, eyes on the dark sky.
"Are you okay?" It's a stupid question.
He's hiding some heavy secret. Of course he's not okay.
And what am I doing asking anyway?
What the fuck are we doing?
We're soon to be business partners. Once this ruse is over, that's it. Our relationship is strictly professional. Liam's deranged version of strictly professional, but a lot more professional than midnight meetings on the balcony in our pajamas.
My head screams no, stop, do the smart thing and don't make this more complicated.
But my feet move anyway.
Liam turns as I step into the doorframe.
At once, the frustration on his face turns to desire. His eyes flit to my bare shoulders. The neckline of my pajama top. My exposed legs.
"Do you like them?" he asks.
"Huh?"
"The silk pajamas."
"I do." They even feel expensive and luxurious. I'm not sure I need six sets, but I am glad I have this tank top and shorts set in black, wine, and green. "How do I look?"
"Is that a real question?"
I nod.
"You look hot, Bri." He gives me a long, slow once-over. "Don't tell me you don't see it."
"There isn't a mirror here."
He half-smiles, but his heart isn't in it.
Whatever it is that's weighing on him is still there. And I want to fix it. I want to soothe him.
I want to crack him open and hold him close.
But I can't say that. So, instead, I talk about the weather. "It's raining."
"It is."
"You're wet."
He raises a brow. "That's a softball."
"And you're too good to swing?"
"You followed through on the sports metaphor."
"Go Dodgers."
He chuckles sure.
I take a deep breath. Exhale slowly.
His eyes stay on my chest. This outfit is designed for temperature control. The top is cut low. The shorts are incredibly short. A lot of skin is showing.
Not that I usually think of it that way.
It's my body. If I want to adorn it in barely there shorts, that's my business.
But with Liam's eyes on my skin—
I feel impossibly on display.
And impossibly eager to show him things I shouldn't.
"Do you want an umbrella?" I ask.
"No." His eyes flit to my legs. "Are you going to stay there?"
"I can't convince you to come inside?"
His eyes go to my chest. "You're persuasive."
Yes, come inside, take off all my clothes, then all of yours. Now. Please. "Are you okay?"
"Better now."
"Really, Liam."
His shoulders relax.
"What was that?"
"Thought you were gonna call me Mr. Pierce again."
"Why does that bother you, Mr. Pierce?"
His pupils dilate. His jaw cricks. "Fuck, you're messing with my head."
"I am?"
"Don't know if I'm pissed things are weird or desperate to engage in some dirty role play."
"What role play is that?"
"Bri—"
"Yes?"
"There are bells you can't unring."
"Are there?"
"Call me Mr. Pierce again and you'll find out." The teasing tone drops from his voice. It's not a joke. It's an offer.
I want to do it. I want to tug at his fucking tie and groan what are you going to do to me, Mr. Pierce?
I want to touch him, taste him, feel him inside me.
Liam is right.
I need to go. Or I'll do something I can't take back. We'll do something we can't take back.
I can't fuck my boss.
I can't fuck my future business partner.
I can't convince myself to leave.
"Now, you're daring me," I say.
"I know." He looks at the doorframe over my head. "Are you going to stay there?"
Right. I'm not inside. Not outside. I need to commit.
I need to go back to bed, get as much sleep as possible, survive tomorrow.
But I don't.
I step onto the balcony.
Drops fall on my head, shoulders, chest.
It's raining hard. Liam must be soaked.
"How long have you been standing here?" I meet him at the railing. The city is beautiful in the rain—slick and shimmering—but my eyes return to him.
"Awhile."
"Is there a reason?"
"Thinking about shit."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"No."
"It might help."
"Maybe." He looks at the building across from us. A tall skyscraper, all steel and glass, dark except for a few pockets of yellow light.
"Do you want to not talk?"
"Your dad… are you glad you know about his affairs?"
Huh? That's a weird question. I don't usually think about it. But if an answer will help, I can give him that. "No. I'm not happy about it. It's not a happy thing. But I'd rather know the truth than wonder why my mom locks herself in her room and cries for days at a time."
"Fuck. She does?"
"Depression runs on her side of the family. It's not just the affairs but it's part of it."