“Sure.” Gordy’s voice was even. The way it always was right before he said something that landed like a punch. “But you could also just say you were bored and lonely at two in the morning, and that’d be more honest.”
Oh, shit.
The room went dead silent.
Sam stared at him. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying.” He didn’t look away from her, which was unusual for Gordy—he wasn’t confrontational by nature and while he could be blunt and call it like he saw it, he also knew when to back off before someone blew their lid. Not now, apparently. “You do this thing where you frame everything as this empowered choice, and sometimes it is. But sometimes it’s a Tuesday night and you’re avoiding whatever’s actually bothering you, and some random guy’s bed is easier than sitting with it.”
I glanced between them, suddenly feeling like I waswitnessing something that had layers I wasn’t equipped to navigate. Sam’s expression had shifted from caught off guard to genuinely pissed off, likely made worse by the fact that she hadn’t chosen to have this conversation in front of him.
“That’s a really bold thing to say to me right now, Harrison. Especially since you were eavesdropping.”
Oh damn, she pulled out the full name. Not Harry like she usually called him even though the rest of us always called him Gordy. That was bad.
“I wasn’t eavesdropping. I was making myself dinner.” He held it up as evidence. “And you weren’t exactly whispering.”
“So that gives you the right to psychoanalyze me?”
The air between them shifted—charged in a way that went beyond their usual banter. This wasn’t friendly teasing.
“I’m not judging you,” he said, quieter now. “I’m just saying I’ve known you long enough to know the difference.”
Sam stared at him for a beat too long. Then she stood up and snatched her phone off the coffee table. “You don’t know me as well as you think you do.”
She headed for the stairs without looking back.
Gordy watched her go, his jaw working. Then he looked down at his plate like it had personally offended him, set it on the coffee table, and dropped into the armchair. The muscle in his cheek twitched.
“That was—” I started.
“Don’t.”
“Okay.”
We sat in silence for a minute. I wanted to ask what the hell had just happened, but Gordy had that locked-down look that meant the conversation was over before it hadstarted. Besides, I was hardly in a position to analyze someone else’s complicated situation with a woman when I’d just had Ava bent over a bookshelf and was trying to convince myself it didn’t mean anything.
My phone rang, and I grabbed it like a lifeline—grateful for the interruption until I saw the name on the screen.
Dad.
My stomach dropped. My dad rarely called. He texted mostly—surface-level check-ins that required nothing from either of us. An actual phone call meant he wanted something or was here in town.
I stood up and walked into the kitchen, leaning against the counter before I answered. “Hey, Dad.”
“Liam! How’s my boy?” Nick Farrell’s voice poured through the speaker like whiskey—warm, smooth, and designed to make you forget it was poison. “How’s school? How’s hockey?”
“Good. Both are good.” There was no point telling him that the season was already over. He wouldn’t remember anyway.
“That’s what I like to hear. You’re what—wrapping up the semester soon?”
“Few more weeks.”
“Good, good.” I could hear ambient noise in the background. A restaurant, maybe. Or a bar. With my dad, it was usually one or the other. “Listen, I wanted to touch base. I’ve got some work coming up in Montana—might be in your neck of the woods at some point. We should grab dinner when I’m around.”
My grip tightened on the phone. Fuck. The last thing I wanted was my dad here. “When?”
“Not sure yet. You know how it goes with my schedule. But I’ll let you know.” He said it like he was doing me afavor. Like his presence was a gift he’d get around to delivering whenever it suited him. “We’ll do something nice. Steakhouse or something. My treat.”
