He nods, biting the inside of his cheek. “Yeah. And it’s my first time leading.”
I frown. Beneath my fingers, the knife stills. “I would be a distraction. If you had to deal with me at the same time.”
His reaction is instantaneous. Liam stops what he’s doing, pushes his hands against the countertop, leans forward, sighs low.
“You have never not,” he says, “been a distraction for me. Not a single day of the last four years. I’m pretty certain it can only go up from here, where my productivity is concerned.”
“What do you mean?” I whisper.
“I mean”—he blinks hard—“I mean it felt like everything was blurry. I’ve been meandering my way into the future, Paige. One day at a time. With half of my head still stuck in the past. My second injury. Our breakup. The way I lost your trust. I play it on a ruthless loop and justwonderwhat I could’ve done or said or been differently and still have beenmethrough it.”
My immediate instinct is to tell Liam his shoulder injury was outside of his control, but I know he doesn’t feel that way about it and won’t listen.
“But last night.” His head tilts up to mine. “When I saw you. It was like everything came into focus. Like I can finally see the catcher’s glove again and know where I’m supposed to aim.”
“Aim?” I ask. “I need your help parsing baseball analogies.”
He smiles. “This is my chance to earn your confidence back. Which is as much a benefit for me as my presence in your creative process might be for you. So no, you won’t be a distraction if you come on tour with me.”
“Come on tour?” I balk. “I figured I could maybe visit you in a few places, but—”
“I think it would be better,” he interrupts, “if you were with me the whole time.”
I swallow thickly to push off my immediate rebuttal, thendivert. “Hang on. If everything’s in focus now, does that mean I’m your contact lenses?”
Liam rumbles a laugh, turning to face me, one hip to the counter. “You aren’t the lenses. You’re the baseball.”
“Something to hurl away from your body at ninety miles per hour?”
His eyes flash. “Something that used to belong in my hands.”
Used to.
My memory skitters back to the origin of us. It was nonsensical, the way we were drawn to each other. It’s nonsensical still.
“I don’t know if we’ve thought this through,” I whisper, gently setting the knife down. I turn to face him.
His face divots in confusion. “Which part?”
I shake my head. “Actually, not us.Me.I don’t know ifIhave thought this through. I’m actually positive I haven’t.”
“You mean to tell me, before you electric scootered to my concert in a mad dash the same day you got your first offer, and then climbed the VIP fence to find me,you hadn’t thought your plan through?” His lips twist. “I sort of figured, Paige.”
“And then I said you owe me your participation in my songwriting, which is like, basically me calling you my muse in captivity.”
“I don’t mind being your muse in captivity,” Liam murmurs, still halfway smiling. “But only if you be my contact lenses.”
“Liam.”
“Sorry, you’re right, you’re right,” he says through his laughter. “You’re not the contact lenses, you’re thebaseball.”
“Can you be serious right now?”
His smile broadens. “Five more minutes.”
It’s blinding, the way that joyful, pleased smile pulls me back to the past. The two of us, lounging in the sunshine, reading on a blanket, Wild Love baked goods in a greasy cardboard box between us while Liam laughed at a joke on his page. Or when he’d grin atme right before he slipped the catcher’s helmet over my head on the baseball diamond.
I expel a sigh, and Liam takes a couple steps backward, giving me space. We’d drawn dangerously close to each other despite carefully avoiding a single touch.
