"You tap your thumb when you need one specific card. You reorganize your hand when you're about to go out. You?—"
"I do not reorganize my—" Liam paused, realizing he was literally reorganizing his cards as he spoke.
Libby grinned triumphantly.
"You've been watching me," he said softly, something shifting in his expression.
The awareness hit them simultaneously—they were sitting very close on the floor, the city lights creating intimate shadows,and somewhere during the evening, they'd stopped being quite so careful about maintaining professional distance.
"I should..." Libby gestured vaguely toward the door. "I don't want Jane to have to wait up for me."
"Of course," Liam said, though something flickered across his face that might have been disappointment.
Libby gathered her things quickly, hyperaware of his presence, of the bed they wouldn't be sharing, of the way his hair was slightly messed from running his hands through it during their game.
"Thank you," she said at the door. "For earlier. With Peterson. For everything."
"Libby," he called as she reached for the handle.
She turned back.
"Same time tomorrow morning? For the team meeting?"
"Wouldn't miss it," she promised, and escaped before she could do something stupid like suggest they forget about the pillow wall entirely.
Morning came too quickly. Libby had barely slept, even with Jane's calming presence beside her. Instead, she'd spent hours staring at the ceiling, her mind racing through the increasingly complicated situation she'd created.
This was supposed to be simple. A fake relationship to control media narratives. Clear boundaries. Professional distance.
Instead, she'd spent an evening playing cards on the floor with Liam D'Arcy, telling him about her chaotic family, watching him laugh with genuine delight when she destroyed him at gin rummy. She'd seen the way his eyes crinkled when he reallysmiled. She knew he tapped his thumb when he was thinking. She'd memorized the exact tone of his voice when he'd said "You've been watching me."
"You're overthinking again," Jane had murmured around 3 a.m., not even opening her eyes.
"I'm not overthinking."
"You're literally vibrating with overthinking. The bed is shaking."
"Sorry."
"Look, I know he's not your type," Jane said gently, rolling over to face her. "Too rigid, too controlled, too... emotionally unavailable. But it's just for the playoffs, right? A few more weeks and you can go back to normal."
"Right," Libby agreed, her voice hollow. "Back to normal."
But even as she agreed, her traitorous mind supplied contradictions: The way he'd immediately covered for her accidental donation at the gala. How he'd walked her to her door that first night, making sure she was safe despite barely knowing her. His fierce insistence to the PR team that she maintain editorial independence. The quiet way he'd arranged for the Herald to send her to Portland.
"Unless..." Jane said thoughtfully. "Unless something's changed?"
"Nothing's changed," Libby lied. "Just tired."
She'd promised herself she'd wait until a reasonable hour to return, but the team meeting was at seven, and she needed her laptop and work clothes from the suite. At 6:15 a.m., she slipped back into the hallway with the spare key card, moving as quietly as possible to avoid running into any early-rising teammates.
Why hadn't she grabbed her suitcase last night? She'd been right there by the closet when she left. But no, she'd been so flustered by the whole evening—the card game, the way Liam had looked at her, the way he'd rolled up his sleeves andloosened his collar like some Olympian god in repose—that she'd practically fled empty-handed like some Regency maiden.
Professional journalist. Sure.
The suite was quiet. She entered carefully, heading straight for her luggage near the closet. She could grab her things and leave before?—
The bathroom door opened.
