“Sure.”
I follow him up the stairs and into the kitchen. The house isn’t new; it’s definitely lived-in. A calendar and magnets are on the fridge. There’s a fruit bowl with a banana way past its prime. Clutter on a sideboard, a basket of car keys and mail. It smells like laundry and toast and something faintly floral.
“I think TV lied to me,” I mutter.
“What’s that?” Liam asks, opening the fridge.
“Oh, you know. Beckett is like a famous sports guy. I thought they all lived in mansions with indoor basketball courts.”
He gives me a look, like he’s trying to inventory every single thing I say and do. Why did I think I could do this? Liam’s always been smart. He’ll figure it out.
“Yeah, well, that flashy kind of life doesn’t really suit us. Doesn’t suit Beckett. That’s never really been his style.”
“Oh,” I say. He grabs a bottle of water and twists it open for me. “Thanks.”
He leans against the counter, arms folded. “So, have you known Beckett long?”
I shrug, trying to keep it casual. “No. There was this whole PR thing. We met yesterday.”
He nods. I feel like if I lied, he’d smell it on me. I don’t know what Beckett’s told him.
“Don’t you have another packmate?” I change the subject.
“Yeah. Pierce.”
I don’t ask where Pierce is, even though I want to. Even though I don’t want to. Trying to play cool around Liam is hard enough.
Liam looks at me probably how I looked at Estelle the first time we met. Suspicious, assessing what game she was playing. Now that it’s just us, I can pick out his scent more. It smells like wood and something sweet and smoky, maybe.
I resist the urge to brush my bangs down to hide my face more. Does he recognize me? It’s been a long time, and I was just a kid the last time he saw me. I’m all grown and an omega now too.
He’s about to say something but the doorbell rings. I jump a little, but he doesn’t. His eyes narrow, like he just figured something out. He flashes me a smile and walks past me to the door. I take a sip of water and try not to watch him.
He’s… very handsome. More so than I remember. But so different from Beckett, less big, less cuddly, but more… I don’t have words for it. It’s that feeling that you know everything is just handled. Whatever it is, it’s handled. I fan myself; it’s hot in here. This house smells too damn good.
He’s back in seconds with half a dozen plastic bags hanging from his fingers. He puts them on the counter, and they make that horrible crinkling sound. I hate putting together to-go orders at the diner. The bags feel worse than they sound.
I raise my brows. “Whoa, are you having guests?”
“You obviously have never fed a professional athlete.”
I stand on my tiptoes to see into the bags. Liam begins to stack styrofoam cartons and quart containers on the island counter.
“We usually meal prep for Beckett during the season. Steak and broccoli. Chicken if he’s feeling wild.”
“Broccoli’s terrible,” I mutter.
Liam pauses and looks at me. Something about that breaks the ice just a little. I’m not sure why though.
“Yeah. The only veggie we had as kids was broccoli, microwaved until it was limp and gray.”
“Cheese can’t even fix that.” I snort.
He cocks his head and looks at me weirdly again. “He’s out with an injury for a week or two, so I figured this was a good excuse to ruin his macros.”
“What’s a macro?” I ask.
“Fuck. Pierce is gonna…” The bags are crinkling too loud for me to hear the rest of that.
