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“I know you mean well,” I say, my chin level with the top of her head.
And she does, in her own way, even if it doesn’t seem like it at times. She lets out a heavy sigh as we break apart.
“As long as you’re happy.” She sounds gloomy.
“I am,” I assure her.
“Then let’s celebrate your double bach party.” Cora offers me her best smile, dazzling with her red lipstick.
It occurs to me that I don’t know whether Brady is planning a separate bachelor party for Liam. Images of dimly lit clubs with poles flash through my mind, but I shake my head rapidly.
Once again, I don’t want to know.
Cora and I have our bravest faces on as we return to the men at the billiards table. They’re shooting pool rather than talking, and they both straighten up at our reappearance.
Automatically, Brady scans for men who might be checking out Cora, but there’s no one else in this corner of the bar. Driven off by the O’Sullivans’ intimidating presence, no doubt.
Cora greets Brady with an effortless kiss, pointedly ignoring Liam beside him.
When I reach my fiancé, he slides his arms around my waist, then dips me backward to give me the sweetest, deepest kiss. It’s so ostentatious that it must be drawing attention, but I don’t care. Even though I’ve never been a huge fan of PDA, in this moment I want everyone in this taproom to see Liam claiming my mouth with his. Claiming me.
When he pulls me back upright and sets me on my feet, I’m breathless. He gives me another kiss, this one fleeting and aggressive, before letting me go with a light squeeze on my butt.
I gasp in surprise, my eyes wide as Liam grins mischievously. Heat floods my cheeks, followed by a pulsing sensation throughout my body. I am his.
Cora clears her throat. She nudges my elbow to hand me a double shot glass full of brown liquor. The fumes tell me it’s Irish whiskey, the smell of a fun night ahead.
When Cora hands Liam his shot, there’s a silent exchange between them—glaring hostiles who have come to a begrudging understanding. Then Brady steps between them, lifting his own double shot of whiskey.
“To Liam and Brioni,” he says, in a tone to terminate any lingering bad feeling in our group.
Cora echoes him, and when we all clink glasses, my heart feels full. The warmth of the whiskey radiates from my chest, blanketing me in a sense of peace.
We play eight-ball, girls versus boys. Liam breaks with a satisfying crack and looks amazing in his emerald sweater as he does so. Seeing the outlines of his muscles, knowing firsthand what they look like beneath, makes my core clench with the memory of his firm body pressed above mine. As he stands up smoothly from his shot, he catches me staring and winks. It’s a promise, and my core tightens again, with anticipation this time.
Cora’s up next. Whenever she has to pass Liam, she bristles, but she contains her irritation for my sake. She’s a good friend, and with Brady whispering in her ear at every opportunity, she even starts to enjoy herself.
But when Cora’s blue eyes go brightest is when Brady catches another man glance at her backside, right when she’s bent over the pool table. As Brady takes a furious step toward him, my heart stops. But Cora’s there in an instant, throwing herself at Brady, clinging to him like he’s a shirtless Fabio on the cover of a romance novel. As they make out in the middle of the taproom, she even lifts her knee to the side of his thigh, and he grips her leg tight while my face flushes with embarrassment for them.
So that’s why she wore that dress.
Cora knows exactly what she’s doing, and honestly, it’s impressive. She’s aware of mafia men’s possessiveness, but instead of avoiding triggering it, she exploits it. The way she revels in it, it’s their love language.
And it’s yet another example of the way Liam loves me.
If any man’s possessiveness is a snarling wolf, what matters is where the teeth are pointed. With Harrison, the sharp bite was always directed at me. My doing, my fault. Worthless fucking whore.
But with Liam, his possessiveness is protection. I’m at his side, my face nuzzled into him while he snarls at every bad man who threatens to come near me. Including Harrison. There’s no scalp tingling anymore, no hacked messages on my phone. I might’ve been concerned that Liam did something irrevocable in handling the Harrison situation, if not for one thing.
My best friend swore to me that he wouldn’t kill my ex.
My shiver distracts me as I try to line up my pool shot. I feel painfully gawky, my arms at all the wrong angles, my grip on the cue simultaneously sticky and slippery.
“Here,” Liam says in his deep voice.
The next moment, he’s surrounding me, bending his body over mine. Our hips, our spines, our shoulders are all aligned. I suck in a breath at the sudden feel of him. Gently, he nudges my feet wider apart, just like he did with my shooting stance. But with us bent over like this, it’s so much more… intimate. I shut my eyes to focus on his scent, the smell of safety. Protection. Liam. I’m not being taken from behind against my will, I’m being guided through pool techniques by my fiancé.
The same way he did at that house party when we were teenagers. It was after I’d seen him with Savannah Welling in the weights room, after I’d promised myself I’d never develop feelings for Liam O’Sullivan.
