I’m about to say he looks all man to me, but I manage to clamp my lips down on the words in time. Instead I say, “I take it you’ve lived here your whole life, then?”
“I left for a few years in my twenties. Growing up, I couldn’t wait to see the back of this place. I wanted to leave and never come back.”
I kick off my shoes, surprised when he bends to undo the laces of his work boots and take them off. He hangs his jacket on the hook next to mine and then, as if in sync, we move at the same time, heading slowly for the kitchen.
“Honeywell has this…pull,” he says. “I couldn’t stay away. It seems like most of the people who leave end up back here. A lot of newcomers, even those just passing through, end up returning or even staying.” He stops inside the kitchen doorway and looks back at me. “Consider yourself warned.”
I laugh lightly. “Thanks, but I doubt I’d survive small-town living for long. No offense, of course. I’m sure Honeywell is great.”
“No offense taken. This town grows on you. You’ll discover its charms soon enough, I’m sure.” He says this with such confidence I almost believe him, despite the fact I have no intention of allowing this town to grow on me. “I see Mae left her welcome special.” He indicates the cookies on the counter. “She owns Sweet Escapes downtown—you probably passed it on your way in. Best cookies and cakes around.”
“Help yourself.” I wave a hand toward the plate as I slide onto one of the bar stools at the kitchen counter and take a third cookie for myself. I can’t remember the last time I had more than one cookie. Hell, I can’t remember the last time I had a proper cookie, period. The bland ‘all natural and organic’ ones I sometimes buy in a moment of weakness don’t count.
Liam chooses a cookie and raises it in salute before taking a bite. Turning to the fridge, he opens the door and peers inside. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t hear any weird noises coming from this thing.”
“Sounds like normal fridge hum to me,” I agree. I look past him and see a carton of orange juice, what looks like a casserole in a covered glass dish, a few bottles of water, and two bottles of wine. “More welcome gifts from Mae?”
Liam nods. “This’ll be her famous chicken, veggie, and rice casserole. Hope you’re not a vegetarian.”
“Umm…no. I’m not.”
He makes a noise that sounds like a scoff, although he’s smiling. “You don’t sound sure.”
“Well, I mostly eat a plant-based diet, but it’s more because I have zero culinary skills and I never learned how to cook meat without burning it or having it turn out dry and flavorless. If someone else is cooking it or if I’m eating out, I’ll have meat on occasion.”
He nods as if this makes perfect sense to him. My lack of cooking skills became a source of contention with Alan about a year into our marriage. He thought I shouldwantto learn to cook. When I pointed out he could just as easily learn, he made flippant remarks about how it was a woman’s job to be skilled in the kitchen. By that point in our relationship—when the sheen had worn off and I’d long since learned his true personality was nothing like his public persona—I didn’t bother calling him out. I’d simply hand him a takeout menu and remind him we had the luxury of being able to afford to eat out or order in whenever we wanted, which meantneitherof us had any real need for culinary skills.
“Do you cook?” I ask.
“I do.” Liam takes another cookie, grinning at me before he bites into it. “I’m not bad, either. I had to learn out of necessity, but I actually enjoy it for the most part. Mind you, townspeople tend to feed me, so there’s not much need for me to cook all that often.”
“Theyfeedyou?”
He gives a low chuckle as he leans back against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. I can’t remember the last time I met a guy who was so casual and clearly comfortable in his own skin. In my line of work I meet plenty of confident men, although there’s a big difference between them—often arrogant or at least borderline cocky—and Liam’s quiet confidence. It’s sexy as hell.
“My best friend Nathan and I own a business in town called Honeywell Handymen. It started out with each of us doing the odd job here and there, and then grew into something bigger. We decided to team up a few years ago and make it official. We still do odd jobs for townsfolk, but we get bigger contracts too like snow plowing and landscaping. The smaller jobs tend to be for the older people in town, and since some of them are lonely, they sometimes ask us to stick around. I never thought I’d be one to enjoy afternoon tea, but give me one of Mrs. Firth’s homemade crumpets with jam and clotted cream any day. Or Mrs. Murphy’s Sunday roast. Despite a standing invitation, I usually only make it once or twice a month, although Nathan is at the Murphys’ every weekend.”
My lips have been pulled into a smile the entire time Liam has been talking, and I can’t seem to wipe it away. There’s something incredibly charming and endearing about him. It’s as if we’re old friends catching up after a long time apart. Except I don’t usually feel this level of attraction to my friends, old or otherwise. “It’s not tea and crumpets or a Sunday roast, but would you like to share Mae’s chicken casserole with me?”
Liam straightens to his full height, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “I wasn’t fishing for an invitation or anything.”
“Oh, I know. I just…”Like your company. Think you’re interesting. Am beginning to think Nat is on to something with this whole ‘get over someone by getting under someone else’ thing and you’d make the perfect candidate. I can’t say any of that, though. “I worry I might burn the house down while heating the casserole. Ovens and I aren’t known for getting along. Plus you’d be able to keep an ear on the fridge and see if Mae was right about the weird sound.”
I’ve tried to say all this in as casual a manner as possible—breezy and offhand, totally comfortable around incredibly hot men, that’s me!—but I’m worried I come off sounding desperate. The thing is, Iamcomfortable around incredibly hot men. I deal with them daily in my job, work alongside them, have on-screen relationships complete with kissing (although said kisses are usually lackluster, between the fact we’re being watched by a dozen or more crew members and my movies tend to call for ‘sweet, chaste kisses’ that last for about three seconds). Ridiculously hot actors I can deal with; they’re a known quantity in my world. I’ve met the likes of Richard Madden, Tom Hiddleston, and Henry Golding, and I didn’t break a sweat. Well, that’s notentirelytrue, but I didn’t have an inner meltdown the way I am now.
Liam is an unknown, though. He’s a regular person who’s not driven by appearances and ego and money. My experience with regular, normal men is limited.
“You know you literally just have to turn the oven on and put the casserole in, right?” he asks, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “It doesn’t require actual cooking knowledge.”
“I realize that, smartass,” I say, feeling a little zing of satisfaction when his eyebrows arch and he breaks into a grin. “Do you want to stay for dinner or not?”
He remains where he is, unmoving except for his eyes, which sweep over me as if seeing me for the first time. Instead of answering, he opens the fridge and pulls out the casserole, checking the handwritten instructions on top and then turning on the oven to preheat. “The key is setting an alarm once you put it in,” he says. “Then you don’t have to worry about wandering away and forgetting about it. And, you know, burning the house down.”
“Duly noted.” I rise from my stool and round the counter, opening cupboards to check their contents.
“Plates and glasses,” Liam says, leaning past me and tapping on the cupboard door beside the one I just opened. I catch a whiff of his scent—light, musky cologne and a hint of citrus shampoo—and my mouth waters. “Mae left a bottle of wine and another of sparkling cider in the fridge. Either would go well with the casserole.”
I pull out two plates, followed by two glasses. Liam takes the bottle of wine from the fridge and holds it up in question. When I nod, he opens it and pours a bit into each glass. He hands me one and raises his before tipping it forward to tap against mine. I smile at the musical clinking sound they make.
