Liam catches my gaze and holds it. That same sense of safety I felt earlier, that sense of him always having my back, twists into a deeper longing. A need. A want for more words, more touches, more kisses.
But I don’t know which of those belong to the fiction, and which belong to me.
My mother is talking about dessert, their hotel, breakfast tomorrow. I nod, smile, and hum when needed. Liam’s hand stays warm on my knee.
The rest of dinner passes in a haze of small talk and my parents’ thawing suspicion. They’re buying into our fake love story.
The problem is, I’m starting to buy into that narrative too.
30
LIAM
I don’t go back to sleeping on top of the covers. That night, when I move to sleep on the comforter, Peyton huffs in displeasure and beckons me underneath. We don’t even pretend we’re going to stick to our sides. She curls up against me, dropping her head on my chest as she thanks me for being so great with her parents.
I wrap an arm around her. “They seemed happy about the move?”
“We’re a family of beautiful liars.” She draws little lines over my pectorals, and I try not to let it distract me. “I didn’t find out my dad had arthritis until three years after his diagnosis.”
“How comes?”
“They kept it from me so I wouldn’t worry.” Peyton sighs. “They’re putting on a brave face, but they love their house. They’ve built their entire lives there; I can’t imagine it’ll be easy to let it go.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll help them find a cottage, a place they’ll love. And use my contacts to help their new office get going.”
“Thank you.” Another heavy sigh. “I still wish I’d never met Matt. That I’d never fallen for his fake charm. I wish I’d said no when he proposed.”
I don’t know what possesses me to ask the next question, but I suddenly, adamantly need to know. “Do you wish you’d said no when I proposed?”
Peyton goes rigid in my arms for a second, then she tilts her head up. “You’ve been the only thing keeping me sane this week. Thank you for being such a great friend.” She settles back down on my chest. “We are friends, aren’t we?”
The word feels too small. It’s a narrow box for the sprawling, shapeless thing expanding behind my ribcage. “Yeah, of course we are.” I drop a kiss on top of her curls and close my eyes. And close my mind to the bitter reality that I want us to be more.
* * *
Her parents stay in town for a few more days. By the time they leave, they’ve fallen in love with Blue Crescent Harbor and are determined to go through with the move. It’ll take them a few months to settle their affairs in Springfield—close their remaining client accounts, sell the house, transfer her dad’s medical care—but they’re committed. Peyton seems happy about it, even if she’s more on edge around them than she is with anyone else. She hates lying to them. I hope that when it becomes a daily requirement with them living near us, it won’t be too much for her.
After her parents drive off on Wednesday morning, life settles back into our routine. Our new normal. The rest of the week blurs past in a stream of meetings and data reviews. I barely register the passage of time until suddenly it’s Friday after lunch and I’m walking back to my office, my mind still half-occupied with the projections Peyton has emailed me.
My door is open.
I’m three steps from the threshold when I hear voices inside—my father’s deep timbre overlapping with Peyton’slighter tones. She sounds calm, measured, but with an edge underneath. That frequency she hits when she’s gearing up for a fight.
I should go in. Announce myself. It’s my office, after all.
But an instinct stops me. A hunch that tells me I need to hear this conversation without my presence changing it.
I step back from the doorway, positioning myself against the wall to listen in, glad it’s Friday afternoon and the office is empty. Everyone, including my secretary, has already left ahead of the Bobcats game.
“—been hearing about the regional strategy,” my father is saying. His version of small talk always sounds condescending, even when he’s being nice. “Your husband has roped you into his little development project, I understand. Retail analytics isn’t the most exciting work,” Charles continues, that familiar patronizing quality creeping into his voice. The one that makes my shoulders tense even if I’m not the target. “But I’m sure Liam appreciates having someone to indulge his experiments.”
Silence stretches for a beat. Two.
When Peyton speaks, her voice is ice.
“The regional curation strategy is not a ‘little project.’” Her tone is clipped, stripped of any deference. “Calling it that diminishes months of research, analysis, and strategic planning. Liam is a visionary who’s saving the company from becoming obsolete in a changing market.”
My breath catches. I step closer to the threshold, pulse hammering against my eardrums.