I don’t respond to that one and activate the Do Not Disturb setting.
I drop my discarded clothes in the box and pick it up, to not leave evidence of me not using the primary bathroom.
As I step out, the house is quiet. Is he already in bed? My socks slide on the polished floors as I climb the stairs.
At the top of the landing, the hallway is dark, save for a rectangle of light spilling from a doorway on the left. I creep closer, hugging the wall, and give a quick peek through the doorframe to assess the threat level.
Liam is in bed, on top of the covers as promised. He’s wearing a black T-shirt that hugs his shoulders and gray sweatpants.
Gray. Sweatpants.
The internet jokes about the power of gray sweatpants do not do the reality justice.
But that’s not the worst part.
He’s holding a book. And he’s wearing glasses. Black-rimmed, rectangular frames perched on his straight, arrogant, aristocratic nose.
Oh, come on.
It’s unfair. A low blow. A tactical nuke of hotness deployed directly against my core. He looks like a sexy professor, or the villain in a movie who everyone roots for despite his gray morality. He turns a page, his brow furrowed in concentration, unaware that I’m lurking in the corridor having a hormonal crisis.
I jerk back behind the wall, pressing my spine against the plaster and hugging my box.
I can’t; it’s too much.
The book, the glasses, how good he looks in loungewear—it’s weaponized attractiveness. Assault by aesthetic.
You can do it, Peyton, it’s just sweatpants on a hot guy.
I left a man at the altar yesterday; I can handle sexy pajamas.
I go to step forward, then remember my phone.
With a heavy exhale, I turn back to the console table in the hallway, shift the box in my arms to get the device out of my pocket, and leave it on the cold surface, screen down.
I fix my face into a mask of indifference and walk into the room.
Liam doesn’t look up immediately. He finishes the sentence he’s reading, marks his place with a finger, and then slowly lifts his head.
His gaze sweeps over me, taking in the flannel ensemble in all its anti-seductive glory. The perusal starts at my fuzzy socks,travels up the shapeless plaid pants, lingers on the buttoned-up collar, and lands on my face.
One corner of his mouth quirks up.
“Ah.” His voice is dry. “Flannel. Nature’s most effective deterrent.”
I drop the box at the foot of the bed. “Would you have preferred silk?”
He lowers the book into his lap and considers me with those gray eyes that are even more striking behind the frames.
“Depends.” He tilts his head. “What’s the objective?”
“The objective is to behave.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back up to my eyes.
“Then the fabric doesn’t matter.” He shrugs. “If I didn’t want to behave, flannel wouldn’t stop me.”
He pushes his glasses up his nose and resumes reading his book as if his words haven’t just seared me from head to toe.
