One of his idols is former pro-wrestler Stone Cold Steve Austin, who, I guess, is now a cat dad.
I snort. “I think I’ll wait until I have a house where I can take one inside.”
“Okay,” Liam nods. “But the offer still stands.”
Warmth curls in my chest before I can stop it. That offer isn’t really about the cat. Not entirely.
“What were you going to say?” he asks.
“I was just going to say I think it’s sweet that Sam’s getting Charlie a kitten as a surprise.”
He glances at me, one brow raised. “No roses for you, then?”
I shake my head, smiling into the rain-dimmed window. “Roses wilt. Kittens stick around.”
Liam hums low under his breath as we turn onto the road that leads back into Broken Heart Creek. The rain’s falling harder now, a steady rhythm on the windshield, blurring the world into soft edges and streaked lights.
But Liam’s hands are steady on the wheel. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t flinch.
We pull up in front of Lura’s Porch without incident, the familiar glow of the sign casting warm light through the rain. The engine idles, quiet and comforting.
“Stay right there,” he says before I can even reach for the door handle.
He grabs an umbrella that’s beside his seat and hops out, boots splashing in the puddles as he circles the front of the truck. By the time he opens my door, he’s already popped the umbrella open, rain sliding off it in sheets. He holds it over me like a shield, his free hand extended.
I raise an eyebrow. “I could have run. A little rain never hurt anyone.”
“My date,” he says, dead serious, “is not going to run.”
Like I’ve just insulted his honor or something. I bite back a smile and take his hand.
The moment my boots hit the ground, they slip a little in the slick mud. I start to fall, instinct kicking in as I reach for him, and he’s already there. One arm comes around my waist, strong and sure, holding me steady.
For a second, I forget about the rain. The cold. Everything.
I look up.
He’s already looking down at me, rain beading on his lashes, his hand still at my waist.
“Thanks,” I whisper, my voice barely carrying over the hush of the rain.
His eyes search mine for a beat too long, the air between us charged and quiet.
“Anytime,” he murmurs.
He doesn’t let go right away.
His hand is still at my waist, fingers splayed. The umbrella hovers above us, barely doing its job as the rain shifts sideways in the wind, but neither of us moves.
We just stand there.
Too close.
Too quiet.
Too charged.
I look up again, and this time I can’t pretend I’m not staring. Rain clings to his lashes, drips from the brim of his hat, and his lips are just there. Soft. Unreadable. Tempting.
