I check the caller ID and let it go to voicemail. The phone beeps, confirming the caller left a message. I stare at my screen. It’s probably spam, but then what is this nervous flutter behind my sternum?
“You want to check it?” Liam says softly. I can feel the warmth of his body and the slight brush of his hand on my shoulder.
I hit play on the message.
“Hi, Sophia? This is Vandy Cooper, Senator Langford’s assistant. Owen Bishop shared a sample of your work with the Senator, and she would like to know if you’re open to a commissioned piece. I wasn’t able to find representation listed for you, so I’ve taken the liberty of sending a proposal directly to your email. Please review it and let me know if you’re interested. You can reach me at this number with your answer.”
The message ends, and I look up to find Liam’s eyes locked on mine.
“Soph,” he says, reaching for my waist, then stopping mid-air, his hand dropping to his side. “This is it.”
“I don’t know, Liam.” I hate how small my voice sounds. “I’m not sure I can paint like that anymore.”
“Just open the email,” he says. He reaches for me again, this time letting his hand settle on my shoulder. The weight steadies me. “I’m right here.”
The email from Vandy sits at the top of my inbox, subject line flashing like a neon sign: “Art Commission Proposal.” I open it and skim through the details. She wants something similar to my large-scale gallery piece, but in shades of beige.
I suck in a breath when I hit the proposed commission rate.
That fee could change everything. Months of rent covered. Student loan payments caught up. A real fresh start.
Liam waits, holding his breath. His hand lingers on my shoulder, feeding me a steady stream of bravery that I can’t seem to muster from within. I turn the phone toward him and watch his eyes widen.
“Holy shit, Soph.” Then he’s scooping me up in a crushing hug, spinning me around until I laugh out loud. When he sets me down, he doesn’t let go, tucking me against his chest. “You did it,” he whispers into my hair. “I knew you could.”
And I let myself melt into his arms, and suddenly the painting doesn't matter. The money doesn't matter. It's this—his fingers drawing soft lines along my spine, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Fuck if this isn't what I actually want to be chasing.
Everything I swore I wouldn't want from him.
Chapter 19
Liam
“Where the hell are my keys!” Sophie yells, coming out of the bedroom. I scan the breakfast bar, hook her beaded keychain’s loop over my finger, and hold it out to her as she frantically tears apart her bag, dumping everything onto the counter.
“Thanks,” she says, smiling, as she takes her keys from my outstretched finger. She’s wearing my favorite pair of barely there sleep shorts and my Iron Cats hoodie, which I’m pretty sure I’m never getting back. Her curls are a wild mess, and her cheeks still flushed from the newest addition to our morning routine.
“I like that new thing you did with your tongue,” she says with a smirk.
“I’ll be sure to add it to the rotation.” I laugh. Sex with Sophie is so…easy. We instinctively know what will make the other person feel good. When to go harder, and when to slow down. We are in tune with each other, like we have this unspoken connection.
Sophie goes into the kitchen and presses buttons on the espresso machine, sliding a perfect latte across the counter. Over the past week, she’s started making me coffee again. I’m not sure if she realizes it, but I do.
Things shifted after she accepted the Senator’s commission—nothing profound, no big declarations, but these little things that feel bigger than they should. Our standard couch positions have shifted from opposite ends to her legs draped across my lap. Yesterday, she texted me from the roof to see what she’d painted—the overlook in Pacifica, the cliff, the ocean, and the cypress trees all rendered in muted shades of purple. When I wrapped my arms around her waist from behind and kissed the top of her head, telling her it was beautiful, she sighed and leaned into me. And I never wanted to move.
I’m mid-sip of my perfect latte when Sophie’s phone buzzes. “Shit,” she mutters, “why does Cal insist on FaceTiming?”
“He likes to see the whites of our eyes,” I say.
“Yeah, well, I’m not answering a video call fromhiskitchen. So he’ll have to deal with a text saying I’m fine.”
“Have you talked to him at all since he left?”
She shakes her head, thumbs tapping across her screen. “I’m sure he means well, but I can’t really take his constant disappointment.”
“Cal’s not disappointed in you, Soph. He’s always bragging about you.”
“I don’t know. Every conversation feels like a checklist of what I’m doing wrong. It’s always how I should’ve stayed in school, or how I can’t handle my own money, or how Marshall wasn’t good enough—”
