“Yes, that thing where you bounce your arms and legs in quick succession.”
“I know what running is,” I snap, rubbing sleep from my eyes. “But I never thought people actually did it willingly at this hour. Also, hello? Your leg?” I gesture at his lower half. “You can’t run on that.”
He tilts his head, a slow smile spreading across his face. “What a good wife you are. Already telling me what I can’t do before I even had coffee.”
“Are you seriously going for a run?”
“No, but I can’t change my internal clock. Jog or not, I naturally wake up at six.”
Of course he does. Bet he also flosses twice a day and enjoys doing his taxes. Those are the only kind of people whonaturallywake up at six. I narrow my eyes, trying to decide if I have the energy to smother him with a pillow, or if I should just go back to sleep.
Before I can do either, he stands and limps toward the bathroom.
The lock clicks, and the shower starts running.
It’s fine that he’s naked behind that door, with water sluicing down his muscular body. Rivulets tracing the lines of his abs, soap bubbles sliding down the dip of his spine. I bet he has a great ass.
The water stops. Long minutes pass before the bathroom door opens, unleashing a billow of steam into the cool bedroom.
And, sweet mercy. Liam steps out wearing only a white towel slung low over his hips and a fresh bandage over his calf.
His shoulders are broad, tapering down to a sculpted chest dusted with dark hair. Water droplets cling to his skin, tracing paths over ripped abs and the V of muscles disappearing below the towel. A darker line of hair goes from his belly button down toward?—
Liam catches me looking. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t preen, but the corner of his mouth ticks up as he walks past the bed and disappears into the walk-in closet.
He reemerges ten minutes later in a suit. No ridiculous pants to save me from the impact today. This one is expensive and tailored, and, despite improved skin coverage, it’s not much better than the towel. It fits him like a shadow, emphasizing his build. His dark hair is styled back from his forehead, still damp. He has shaved, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw.
“Bathroom’s all yours,” he says casually, adjusting his cuffs. “I’m making eggs for breakfast. Does that work for you?”
I nod. “Y-yes.”
“How do you take them?”
“Scrambled.” Like my brain.
I get up, but don’t shower. No point to do it now if I’m going to haul boxes all day. I wash my face and get changed in the downstairs bathroom, picking comfy clothes from a box and bringing up my flannels and the toothbrush I forgot last night. I shove the pajamas under the pillow. And I don’t know what Liam’s policy is on making the bed, if the housekeeper does it for him, but I do it myself, folding the extra comforter on my side.
By the time I walk into the kitchen, hair wrestled into a ponytail, the air is thick with the hiss of butter and the steam of coffee. Liam is at the stove, his suit jacket draped over a stool, the shirt sleeves rolled up to expose his forearms. He plates a fluffy mound of yellow eggs and slides it across the island toward me, along with a piece of toast.
“Mmm,” I moan my appreciation.
“So.” He leans against the counter, sipping coffee, watching me eat with unnerving focus. “I thought you should take the week off to get settled before we get started on the job search. But send me your CV anyway, and I’ll start brainstorming.”
“Yes, boss.”
He drops the mug in the sink and lifts his hands. “Just trying to be helpful.” He rolls down his sleeves and shrugs the jacket on like he’s closing a runway show in Milan. “Mrs. Gable will arrive at nine, she’ll be happy to help you sort through your boxes. The empty side of the closet is yours; it should fit everything. If you need groceries, give her a list. She’ll get whatever you want.”
I nod, poking at my eggs. “Do you always have staff doing your shopping?”
“Only when I’m busy.” He adjusts his tie in the reflection of the stainless-steel fridge. When he’s satisfied, he turns and drops a set of spare keys on the island next to my plate. “Thealarm code is 4492. I’ll be home by eight. Call me if you need anything.”
He’s rattling off instructions like a CEO briefing a subordinate, efficient and detached.
And then he’s gone. The heavy front door clicks shut, sealing me into this ginormous glass house.
“Bye, honey,” I yell to the emptiness. “Have a nice day.”
I go get my phone and call Emma.
