“I doubt anything will come of it. No one at that table was exactly sober tonight. I’m sure Owen won’t even remember to tell her about my art.” I look down at a cigarette butt on the sidewalk. “Besides, she’s not going to want a piece from some art school dropout.”
Liam stops walking. “You dropped out of art school?”
“I figured Cal already told you.” I shrug.
“He said you were taking a break. What’s your version?”
I rarely talk about this, and I’m an expert at changing the subject. But maybe it’s the tequila, or perhaps the way his eyes glint when he looks at me makes me want to tell him.
“When I was a kid, I loved to draw.”
“I remember. You were never without your sketchbook.”
I smile, surprised that too-cool-for-school Liam Blake ever noticed his friend’s bratty little sister, much less her sketchbook.
“Other people realized I was talented, and it just snowballed,” I say, and start walking again, thinking this will be easier if I don’t have to look him in the eye. “One show led to another, and suddenly everyone wanted something—my art, a promise of future success, a piece of me. I never felt like I could stop and catch my breath. My parents were so proud, and I wanted to make them proud, but I think I just piled all this pressure on myself and on what my art was supposed to be. I’m not sure I was ever capable of living up to it.”
“You’re clearly capable of it, if Owen could tell from a blurry iPhone photo that Meredith Langford would be into your style.”
“But that photo was taken three years ago. It’s gotten harder and harder to live up to the expectations others had of me. Or maybe harder to live up to my own expectations.”
“Welcome to the club,” Liam echoes back, holding the front door to the apartment complex open for me.
I glance back as we climb the stairs and catch him looking at me. Really looking. His smile has faded, replaced by something heavier. Something that makes my pulse stutter. I hurry up the remaining steps, trying to keep from tripping.
I fumble with the keypad on Cal’s door, the numbers swimming. “That might have been one too many tequilas,” I mutter. “Or four.”
Liam chuckles, low and warm. “Want me to try?”
I shift to the side, and although it’s dim in the hallway, I can see the faint stubble that has appeared across his jaw. I want to trace it with my finger. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing before his eyes drop to my mouth, just for a flash, and I feel it everywhere.
I think about that first night when I climbed into bed with him. The way his hands felt on my waist, the way he pressed me close, the heat of him behind me, steady and solid.
I lean in, just a little. My hand brushes his chest, and I swear I can feel his pulse dancing under my palm. His fingers lift to my hair, threading in gently, sending a curl of heat to my core. His pupils are blown wide, and he’s leaning in too now. He pauses on a ragged inhale, like he’s giving me time to change my mind—but I don’t want to. Not even a little.
His big palm cups the back of my head, angling me toward him, and my eyes flutter closed.
“I know it’s late, Jessica, but the quarterly metrics don’t sleep!” A voice shouts from the stairs.
We both jerk apart like we’ve been caught stealing.
Harper, Cal’s neighbor, crests the final step, AirPod in her ear, heels in her hand, and a look of sheer disgust on her face. She barely glances at us, still whisper-shouting into her phone. “Tell Spencer sleep is for people who have met their KPIs.”
I try the lock code one more time, and the door finally beeps. I push open the door and step inside without looking back at Liam.
Chapter 9
Liam
“I want to die,” Sophie moans from the couch. “First, I want to have my stomach pumped, then I want to die.”
I give her a glass of ice water and a cold washcloth before plopping down on the couch next to her.
“Ugh…too much movement,” she groans, placing the cloth across her forehead. “I’m going to be carsick. Can you get carsick on a couch? And why is it so bright in here?”
It was nearly noon, and she’d just emerged from Cal’s room. I was relieved she’d gotten a little sleep after the night she’d had. Around 4 a.m., I woke on the couch to the sound of her getting sick in the bathroom. I hated the thought of her being alone. I knocked gently, asked if she was okay—and when she didn’t turn me away, I stepped in and held her hair back while her body purged the mess of our questionable drinking decisions.
“Drink that water,” I tell her, pressing on my temples. I had been drinking too much since I turned sixteen. Why did last night’s drinking have my head pounding like someone was trying to get out? “How much did we drink last night?”
