I prop myself up on one elbow, gazing down at Liam’s handsome features as he reads from a tattered science fiction novel. “Tell me the story of your tattoo,” I murmur.
Liam doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he slowly closes his book, his gaze locking onto mine.
“She’s Rán, a Norse goddess of the sea,” he finally says. “It’s a ridiculous old sailor superstition. Legend says she controls the ocean, catches sailors in her net if they fall overboard. Having her inked on me is supposed to be some kind of protection.”
I raise a playful eyebrow at that. “You? Superstitious? That surprises me. Although you must be if your boat is named after her too.”
A self-deprecating chuckle escapes him. “It was a stupid bet with the sailing club. They thought I wouldn’t go through with it.”
Smiling, I let my fingers trace the vibrant lines of the goddess’s hair, marveling at how it stands out in contrast to the rest of the tattoo. “Her hair . . . it’s so much more vividthan the rest.”
“New ink,” he says. “Got it done a year ago.”
I pause, then state the obvious with a small smile. “She has my hair.”
A flicker of something crosses his face. “Just a coincidence,” he mutters gruffly, his gaze shifting back to his book.
I let my head fall back onto his chest, but I can’t help smiling. He might try to brush it off, but I know better. That vibrant red hair, added just a year ago? That’s no coincidence.
Liam McLaren, you’re not as unreadable as you’d like to think.
CHAPTER 38
Gemma
“I can’t believe Ilet you talk me into this,” I whisper to Lizzie, keeping my voice down so the cat lady at the front doesn’t hear me.
We’re crammed into a community center in Brixton, surrounded by what feels like fifty cat-obsessed lunatics attending a “Getting to Know Your Cat” seminar. I half expect someone to start chanting and sacrificing mice. The “cat whisperer” is droning on about spiritual connections with your cat. I’m pretty sure Winnie’s idea of a spiritual connection is me filling her food bowl on time.
Lizzie, on the other hand, is eating this up. She furiously scribbles notes, hanging on every word like she’s at a bloody TED Talk.
As for me, I’m sitting here grinning like an idiot, my mind a million miles away. Or more accurately, about 100 miles south, on a sailing boat with fisherman Liam and his . . . big rod. It’s been a few days since our last weekend getaway, but that man is still squatting in my brain rent-free.
I can’t seem to wipe the goofy smile off my face.
Three weekends now we’ve escaped to the coast. And with fisherman Liam, it’s fun. Simple. Easy-going. Last weekend we slept on the boat at Cowes at the Isle of Wight on Saturday then got up and did another hike the other side of the island. Liam eventurned off his phone for about three hours so no one could reach him. A modern-day miracle.
Now billionaire banker Liam is back, barking orders like a drill sergeant. But I swear on Winnie’s favorite toy, there’s a permanent little smirk playing on his lips. The tiniest of smirks that wasn’t there before. The man looks . . . dare I say it? Happy.
“And now,” Cat Lady chirps, snapping me back to reality, “let’s explore the transformative power of mirror play.”
I shoot Lizzie a death glare. When she said I needed to get out more, I was thinking cocktails and dancing. Not this.
We’ve already suffered through twenty minutes of “slow blinking” at your cat to show affection. Then there was the bit about mimicking cat noises to “speak their language.” I draw the line at getting on all fours and meowing like a lunatic. And don’t even get me started on the suggestion of wearing clothing with your cat’s scent to help them feel comforted. Nothing says crazy cat lady like rubbing your pet all over your clothes before leaving the house.
Two blessed cocktails later, we’re finally home, and Lizzie is keen to try out some of our new “techniques.”
I watch, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, as Lizzie stretches out on the floor, waving a makeup mirror in front of Winnie’s face. And meowing.Fucking meowing.
Winnie just stares at her reflection, looking about as impressed as I feel. Her tail twitches as she meows loudly, which only makes Lizzie more excited and meow louder. It’s full-on feline karaoke here.
“She doesn’t like it, Lizzie.” I frown, watching Winnie’s pupils dilate. “I don’t think she’s digging the whole mirror-mirror-on-the-floor thing.”
Too late. Winnie’s paw lashes out, smacking the mirror clean out of Lizzie’s hand. It clatters to the floor and Winnie bolts,disappearing into Lizzie’s bedroom. Probably to take a revenge dump in her shoes.
Lizzie pops up from the floor, looking bewildered. “Does she think she’s ugly?” she asks, dead serious. “She’s really pretty.”
I snort. “I don’t think she cares. Cats don’t have body image issues. They’re not scrolling through Instagram at two a.m. wondering why they don’t look like Nala fromThe Lion King. She probably just thinks you’re possessed by some kind of cat demon.”
