Page 16 of Landing Liam

“I… uh…” she stammers, her gaze darting everywhere but at me.

Damn, she’s gorgeous.

“Do you make a habit of spilling drinks on strange men?” I ask, tilting my head. From the edge of my vision, I catch Taylor and Elle shamelessly eavesdropping, their interest in this little exchange annoyingly obvious.

“Not usually,” she says quickly, her voice rising an octave. “I’m really sorry. Seriously, I didn’t even see you. I… I…”

The warmth of the wine soaking through my hoodie snaps me out of the moment. I yank it off in one smooth motion, inspecting the T-shirt underneath. Miraculously, it’s spotless.

“I guess that makes me special,” I say, flashing her a teasing grin.

Behind me, Taylor snorts. I don’t bother acknowledging him. Instead, I focus on her, the flustered girl who somehow manages to look even prettier when she’s embarrassed. “So, what’s your name?”

“Maggie,” she says, straightening her posture slightly.

“No last name?” I press, letting the question hang in the air.

“Just Maggie,” she says firmly, the tension in her shoulders softening, though her cheeks flush a deeper pink.

“Maggie No Last Name,” I muse, rolling the words over my tongue. “I suppose that’s better than Clumsy Coffee Girl.”

“Just Maggie,” she insists again, lifting her chin as if daring me to challenge her. There’s something in her eyes now, a flicker of fire hidden beneath the softness. She might look sweet, but there’s steel in there too. I can’t help but admire it.

“Do you want to dance, Maggie?” I ask suddenly, surprising even myself with the question.

Her brows lift in an amused arch, her lips twitching with the hint of a smirk. “Girls like me don’t dance with boys like you.”

“Boys like me?” I echo, a chuckle rumbling low in my chest. “What exactly are boys like me?”

“Trouble,” she says without hesitation and no hint of the earlier stutter.

The word hangs between us, crackling like a spark in the air. And damn if I’m not intrigued.

The room feels like it’s wrapped in a warm embrace by the dark walls and soft, amber lighting. The cheap light reflects off the polished floor where a handful of couples sway to the music. The faint crackle from the speakers mixes with the hum of laughter and conversation, creating a space that feels intimate and alive. But none of it holds my attention—not the cozy atmosphere, not the music, not even the eyes of strangers watching us.

All I can see is Maggie.

She’s standing in front of me, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as she breathes out a hesitant, “If I say yes, and that’s a big if, you touch anything you’re not supposed to, and I’ll hurt you.”

There’s a fire in her eyes that could burn through the coldest winter night, and despite the warning, I catch the subtle way her breath hitches. She’s beautiful—not in the polished, put-together way I’m used to, but in a way that’s real, like the freckles dusting her cheeks or the loose strand of hair curling against her jaw. She doesn’t need the dim lighting to glow. She’s doing that all on her own.

I lift my hands in surrender, feeling a little dumb and maybe a little too buzzed to care. “Come on, Just Maggie. Dance with me.”

She swallows hard, her gaze darting to the dance floor, then back to me. With a long, resigned sigh, she slides her hand into mine, and I swear my chest tightens. Her fingers are smaller than I expect, soft but firm, like everything else about her.

As I lead her toward the center of the room, someone brushes past her a little too roughly. She stumbles, letting out a soft, surprised, “Oof!” as she collides with my chest.

My hands instinctively find her waist, steadying her as she looks up at me, wide-eyed.

“Sorry,” she murmurs, the sound barely audible over the music.

“Don’t be,” I say, my hands staying firmly in place. Her waist feels impossibly small under my grip, and I have to fight the urge to pull her closer. The soft scent of her shampoo—floral like orchids—fills the air between us, making my pulse quicken.

“Do you make a habit of running into guys like this?” I tease, letting my lips curve into a smile.

She narrows her eyes, her fire flaring back to life. “Only the ones who insist on calling me ‘clumsy.’”

“Touché,” I say with a laugh, before I lean into her and whisper. “Ready to show me how girls like you don’t dance with boys like me?”