Liam huffs an unimpressed laugh, but April beams, ready to frame my words and hang them in their kitchen.
I hesitate. “You know,” I add quietly, “I nearly quit that day. I couldn’t comprehend why he’d do that. Growing up, I learned fast that ‘help’ was never free. People always wanted something in return. And when you’re a girl from a run-down caravan park on the edge of town, with no mom and a dad stretched thin working three jobs, you learn to be cautious. Suspicious. But Liam? He wiped that debt away without blinking. No warning. No strings. Just ‘poof’—debt gone.”
“You’re a good kid. I did it because I could,” Liam says, low but firm, as if it’s as simple as that. Well, I guess it is for a billionaire.
And that’s why I love the big guy. He’s a complex one. He’s got layers. He's annoying, conceited, and can be such an arrogant man sometimes. But he’s also kind, generous, and mindful of others. He’s powerful and wealthy enough to bulldoze his way through life, but never through someone else. And somehow, I get away with giving him hell.
I smile at him—genuinely this time.
I’m about to grab a piece of whatever’s on April’s platter when movement catches my eye. Preston’s halfway down the stairs, one hand gripping the railing, like he’s still debating whether to join the party or melt into the shadows.
He’s dressed all proper: crisp shirt, sharp blazer; I doubt there’s an outfit that doesn’t suit him. So far, for me, the towel is still the winner.
How long has he been standing there?
“Oh,” I add sweetly, because I’m suddenly evil and can’t resist. “I’ve been very blessed to only have worked for bosses who showed me nothing but respect and professionalism.”
I flick back just enough to catch Preston’s expression—the personification of a deer in headlights. He takes another step down. Except his foot misses the stair entirely.
There’s no graceful stumble, no quick recovery. He goes down… hard. His limbs flail, one arm smacking the wall, the other clawing at the bannister like he’s reaching for a lifeline. Something crashes—a picture frame maybe—But Preston’s too busy hitting every stair on the way down to notice. His blazer flares out behind him; less superhero cape, more tragic parachute failing to deploy.
“Oh, my God,” April gasps, rushing to his side. Is she sniffing him? What the…
“You alright, man?” Liam joins her, concerned, interrupting my line of thought.
“I’m fine,” Preston mutters, rubbing at his elbow.
I hurry to check too, but he refuses to look at me, so I allow my grin to stretch a bit wider, once I see with my own eyes that he’s okay.
“Oh no,” I coo. “That must’ve hurt…” His head whips toward me, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, and I mouth, “…yourego.”
Karma’s really working overtime today, and I’m living for it. For a beat, we just stare. Preston’s gaze sharpens, looking both mortified and… murderous?
“You sure you’re okay?” April asks again, kneeling beside him. “You’re a bit red. Did you hit your head?”
“I said I’m fine.” The reply comes clipped, but he forces a tight, painfully polite smile.
I can’t help myself. I lean closer to Liam and whisper, not nearly quietly enough. “Is this an age thing? He was bumping into things earlier; now he’s falling.”
“Mia,” Liam warns, nudging my head away playfully. “Stop trying to get yourself killed.”
Preston’s stare nails me to the spot. A sniper taking aim. Way too focused for a man who might’ve hit his head on a fall down the stairs.
I imagine he’s mentally flipping a coin. Heads, he ignores me; tails, he strangles me with his bare hands, witnesses be damned.
He finally hauls himself up, dusts off his blazer, and stalks past me without a word.
“Fine, I’ll stop,” I whine for his ears only.
* * *
His head snaps back at me, but his shoulders soften a little when our eyes meet. The brat in me does too.Even though he’s probably stewing with rage, Preston opens the passenger door for me. He circles the hood and climbs intothe car before taking the wheel, hands at ten and two. It’s just us, and the first few minutes of the drive to the restaurant are silent. Uncomfortably so. Only the engine hums and the air-con whispers.
I start wondering if I’ve always breathed this loud. My knee bounces. I twist my bracelet, fingers fidgeting faster with each passing second. I’m one heartbeat away from chewing off an acrylic fingernail.
I need a distraction before my brain convinces me this man’s plotting my murder and mentally rehearsing his alibi.
When I can’t take it anymore, I reach for the radio, but his hand lands on my wrist, warm and firm.
