I turn, ready to tell her that now is not the time to be ogling random men, when my heart practically leaps out of my chest. Because there, on the street, talking to the cat SWAT team, is none other than Liam.
I’m shuffling on my shoes and out the door before Lizzie can even finish her wolf whistle.
But when I get to the front gate, he’s already vanished. Like some kind of brooding, billionaire Batman.
“What did Liam want?” I ask one of the guys, my voice breathless. “Is he gone?”
“Yup,” one replies, his eyes remaining glued to his laptop screen. “Mr. McLaren was just checking in.”
“Checking in?” I repeat.
The guy finally looks up, not amused. “Yes, ma’am. Making sure we’re doing our jobs well.”
Oh. My. God. I swallow hard. Liam came in person. He didn’t knock on my door, didn’t try to apologize or seek gratitude. He just showed up, did what needed to be done, all with that infuriatingly solution-driven focus. In his own emotionally constipated way, he’s showing me he cares.
Four hours, three cups of tea, and approximately 20,000 anxious paces around my living room later according to my fitness watch, the walkie-talkie on Pet Detective #2’s belt crackles to life.
“Base. We’ve got a visual on the target.”
Winnie has been found in an old lady’s garden three streets away. Apparently, the sweet octogenarian tried to beat our heroic pet detectives with her cane when they asked for Winnie back. Then Fluffy got involved.
But Winnie is on her way home.
“I’m looking to go up to Liam McLaren’s flat,” I say to the doormen at reception, pumping my voice with confidence. No biggie, just casually asking to get into a billionaire’s penthouse apartment.
Liam’s apartment block is more protected than 10 Downing Street. I try not to gawk at the ostentatious reception, with its gleaming marble floors and walls. This place is something else. I can’t imagine living here. The smallest apartment is over five million and it’s only a studio.
Mr. Security #1 raises an eyebrow. “Name and ID.”
“ID?” I blink, momentarily thrown. “Umm. Gemma Jones. I don’t have ID with me. I have a credit card if that’s any good?”
He scans his list, his frown deepening. “You’re not on here.”
I shift awkwardly, suddenly not so sure of my grand plan to romantically ambush Liam. It seemed like a brilliant idea after a glass of wine with Lizzie and Winnie in the garden. Now? Not so much. Especially since Liam didn’t even respond to my thank-you message. What if he’s still pissed at me about missing the meeting, despite his grand gesture?
“Want me to call him?” Mr. Security #2 asks.
I nod, suddenly mute.
“Sir, there’s a Gemma Jones here . . . You weren’t expecting her?” His frown deepens, and I feel my stomach drop. This was a terrible idea. Liam’s not the type you can just pop in on. He even has his tea times scheduled to the millisecond. “Right. I see. Uh-huh. I see.”
The doorman comes off the phone, looking at me like I’m a particularly troublesome stain he needs to scrub off the marble. “Wait there, miss.”
I stand awkwardly admiring the water fountain display that must be worth a million quid.
Is Liam pissed that I turned up at his flat unannounced? Is he going to have me escorted out by these goons in suits? This was a mistake. I should’ve just sent a fruit basket or something.
“Gemma.”
That voice. Deep, rich, and heart-stoppingly familiar. I whirl around and there’s Liam, looking like a god in jeans and a T-shirt.
My body moves before my brain can catch up. I’m flying across the lobby, launching myself at him.
He catches me—just—and we stumble back a step, my arms locked around his neck, my face buried in the crook of his shoulder.
“Thank you,” I whisper into his chest, likely smearing mascara and snot all over his white shirt. “You’re my hero.”
“That’s okay,” he says gruffly, sounding about as comfortable with emotions as Winnie.
