“You’ve had two years to talk. And you think now, here, is the best place to talk?” I look around the room and note we’re in the offensive line meeting room.
Thank God most of the coaching staff is upstairs in meetings.
“Well, if I had your number, I wouldn’t have to talk to you here.” He walks toward me slowly, closing the space between us.
He’s so handsome that it momentarily distracts me.
“You don’t need my number.”
“Alie, come on. We had an amazing night together, and then you just vanished. I want to know why.”
“That’s what you’re hung up on? The fact that I didn’t stay to greet you when you got out of the shower?”
His jaw flexes. He drags a hand through his hair—a nervous tell he probably doesn’t even realize he has. He looks unfairly good when he’s irritated. Broad shoulders tense beneath his T-shirt. Eyes dark and searching.
“Yes, actually,” he says. No arrogance. No smirk. “Actually.”
I fold my arms, pretending I don’t notice the way he steps closer without meaning to. Pretending I don’t feel the pull.
“We had this amazing night,” he continues, voice lower now. “An incredible morning. And then you were gone.”
“God, your ego is beyond what I imagined.”
His head snaps slightly, like that landed somewhere deeper than I intended.
“It’s not about my ego.” His voice roughens. “I don’t care about keeping score. I care that when I got out of the shower, you had left.”
The air shifts.
He’s not posturing. He’s not teasing.
“I mean,” he exhales, searching my face, like he’s trying to find something he lost there, “we skated in the park. You were laughing so hard that you almost fell. We had that ridiculous dinner with ginormous milkshakes. That carriage ride …” His mouth softens at the memory. “You kissed me like you meant it.”
My pulse betrays me.
“You didn’t seem like a woman planning an escape.”
I swallow. “It was just one night.”
He steps closer. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend it was nothing.”
My defenses rise automatically. “I really don’t want to talk about this right now, Liam.”
“Why?” he presses quietly. “What did I do?”
His thumb hooks into the pocket of his jeans, like he’s physically holding himself back from reaching for me.
I look away first.
“This is what he wants to know, whyhewas ghosted,” I mutter under my breath.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing, Alie. I had just made you come, not once, but twice. Then I got up to shower, and you bolted.”
“I don’t think it was twice,” I mumble, but I think he’s right, if memory serves.
