“Let me use it before you get in.”
She scoots to the side and stands, then walks toward the bathroom. Once she closes the door, I stand and grab my bag from the closet that has my clothes. I pull out a pair of boxers, joggers, a T-shirt, and a sweatshirt. I hear my phone buzz on the table and walk over and pick it up again. This time, it’s my mom. I’ll answer her later too.
When Alie walks out of the bathroom, I nearly drop my clothes and take her to the bed again. She passes by me and starts to pick up her clothes off the floor.
“Hey, wait for me, yeah?” I lift my brows.
She nods. “I’ll wait for you, but hurry up, Liam.” A smile breaks out on her face.
“My name sure sounds good, coming from your lips.” I smile back at her and walk backward into the bathroom. I don’t bother shutting the door.
CHAPTER
NINE
Alie
I pull my red pantsuit over my hips, the fabric sliding into place as softly as the knot forming in my chest. If I didn’t already have plans today—and Liam didn’t have to get back to New Orleans—I would’ve stayed tangled up with him in that bed until the very last possible second. Being wrapped around him felt dangerously easy.
Through the open crack of the bathroom door, I watch him step into the shower. Steam billows around the shape of his broad shoulders, the water carving paths along his skin until he disappears behind the fog.
A smile tugs at my lips. Never in my life did I imagine I’d spend the night withhim—Liam Pitz, one of the hottest new quarterbacks in the league.
Of course I knew who he was. I always know the players; it’s impossible not to when you work in the business and your father owns the New York Titans.
But I hadn’t gone to the wedding last night, searching for him. I went because Aaron needed a plus one and also insisted I get out of my slump.
It’s been a rough few months. My ex blindsided me in the fall, breaking up with me after pretending to care for nearly a year. It turned out he wasn’t interested in me at all—just in getting close to my father. Another baller looking for a good time, as Dad put it. I learned the hard way that Grant girls need to tread carefully.
Dad made me promise, no more athletes. Not for a while. Not until my judgment wasn’t clouded by heartbreak or loneliness.
So, no, I didn’t walk into the wedding, plotting to fall headfirst into the arms of a rookie quarterback. In fact, Dad’s warning played on repeat my whole life:rookie athletes have terrible reputations—money, women, partying, football as their entire world. And when Liam told me he wasn’t ready for a family, none of it surprised me. It fit exactly what Dad had drilled into us:Do not get mixed up with a man whose entire future depends on keeping his life uncomplicated.
But then Liam smiled at me. Really smiled. And once we started talking about ridiculous things, like being in a Christmas snow globe, something in me cracked open. He wasn’t trying to charm me because of my last name. He didn’t even know my last name. For the first time in a long time, someone sawme, not the Grant legacy or the Titans heiress. He looked at me like I was just a woman in red, making him laugh. And once we were talking, I didn’t want it to end.
Maybe that’s why I let myself fall into his bed. Against my better judgment. Against every warning I’d ever gotten. I don’t know what I expected when I woke up here this morning, wrapped in his arms, listening to the low, sleepy rumble of his voice. But for a second—just a second—I wondered if this could be something more.
“What have I gotten myself into?” I whisper.
As if on cue, Liam’s phone buzzes on the nightstand.
“Hey, Liam!" I call. “Your phone is ringing.”
“It’s fine, just ignore it,” he says over the rush of water.
I try. I swear I do. But it keeps buzzing, persistently enough to draw my attention to the screen. When the name flashes across it—Sabine—my breath hitches. A woman’s name. Elegant. Familiar in a way that sends a quick, sharp sting up my spine. Jealousy flares, then fizzles, leaving humiliation simmering beneath it. I shouldn’t care. I have no claim on him. But the truth is, a tiny piece of me already does.
The buzzing stops. I exhale and shrug into my coat. Then the phone lights up again.
Scott Jackson.
I know him. Everyone in football knows him—one of the top agents in the business. Liam’s agent.
Scott Jackson: No can do. You’re in New Orleans for at least two more years, per your contract. Put in the work and keep them happy with their decision to make you one of the highest-paid rookies in your class.
Two years in New Orleans.
Two years far away from New York.
