“You’re more than welcome to come.”
I know she means that sincerely. If I told her yes, she wouldn’t hesitate in whisking me along with her. But I also know how much she values the tradition of returning to Crest Fall and having lunch with Ryan in that diner. It’s become somewhat of a tradition of theirs. The only reason he didn’t meet her last night was that he works nights.
I owe her too much to intrude upon their reunion.
“It’s fine,” I tell her. “I’ve got some lyrics I want to work on anyway.”
“Lyrics?” Liam says, a rumble in his voice.
I squeeze my legs together, my hole giving an unfair flutter.
“Lola’s specializing in songwriting,” Kayley explains for me when my mouth refuses to work. “That’s the reason she took creative writing. She also plays the guitar, too. She’s very talented.”
I feel Liam’s eyes burning into me. I try to grab onto some of my usual sass, the type that I erect as a shield so that I can deal with the world. But under Liam’s gaze, I feel like I’m about twelve years old again, unsure of myself, unsure of everything.
“She’s too kind,” I murmur, addressing Liam but staring devoutly down at my syrup-covered pancakes. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“Well, yeah,” Kayley laughs. “Even masters can improve, right?”
I wonder how she’d react if I blurted out what happened last night, how long it would take her to throw her glass of orange juice in my face.
What would I be able to do in response?
I’d just have to sit here, blinking the citrus from my eyes, knowing that I earned every last drop.
“What about you, Mr. Larson?” I say. “Any plans for today.”
Please say yes. Please say no.
I don’t know which way is up anymore.
Do I want him here, alone, with me?
Or do I want him gone so that we don’t make another mistake?
Another shivering, world-shattering, orgasmic sort of mistake.
“I’m heading down to the club to meet with the decorator. She’s got some wild ideas about turning the place into a palace of pink. Those were her words. Palace of pink. I don’t know if I much like the idea.”
“Here he goes,” Kayley chuckles, shaking her head.
“What?” Liam says, laughing slightly, somehow darkly. “It’s not my fault Valentine’s is a bullshit holiday, Kayley.”
“I know you’ve got your reasons for hating it,” she says quietly.
This is the time of year her mom left. She’s told me the story. She was all excited to prepare her parents a dinner date. She’d laid the table and poured them both a big bowl of cereal each, happy to show them her work. But then Liam walked alone into the kitchen, shaking his head, telling her he was sorry.
“Hmm,” Liam mutters.
“But you’re hosting the biggest Valentine’s day event in a fifty-mile radius,” Kayley goes on. “You can at least try to get in the mood. Oh, sorry.”
Her phone starts to ring. She takes it from her pocket. From the way her eyebrows shoot up and her mouth splits into a grin I can tell that it’s Ryan.
“Do you mind if I take this? I didn’t think he’d be awake yet.”
“Of course not,” Liam and I say at the same time.
My gaze snaps to his like a reflex. A smirk toys with the edges of his lips, the silver shadow of his facial hair making his jaw glisten like it’s coated in snowflakes.
Kayley answers the phone and walks away from the balcony, into the house, her voice getting quieter and quieter until it’s just me and Liam and the whispering wind.
“So you’re a Valentine’s day grump, then, Mr. Larson?” I say, trying to keep my voice casual.
I use my performing arts experience to play a role, that of the polite, unobtrusive friend. I pretend that this man means nothing to me. I pretend that I wasn’t dreaming of Liam-eyed children last night when sleep eluded me, but...
“Yes, Miss …”
I giggle when he trails off, waiting for me to finish my name for him. It’s like we’ve met in a bar. He’s slipping into a role, too.
Is this what flirting feels like?
“Fitzgerald,” I say.
“Ah, like the writer,” he says, nodding.
“Have you read Scott Fitzgerald’s work?” I ask.
“I’ve read The Great Gatsby. That’s why half the books in my library are fakes. I just want to seem smart.”
I laugh again, the joy coming far too easily. I remember the passage in the book where it’s discovered that Jay Gatsby has purchased many of his books just for show.
This is like a dream for me, bantering with an older experienced man about literature.
It would be perfect if he wasn’t Kayley’s dad.
“Maybe this decorator will surprise you,” I say. “Maybe you’ll go to the club and be swept away by this pink palace. Maybe you’ll have a Valentine’s day revelation.”