Page 30 of Fall For Me
As if sensing my gaze, he stops scrolling. He doesn’t look around or scan the room. He lifts his head and locks eyes with me across the expanse of marble as if an invisible thread were connecting us.
Liam takes me in, from the messy bun to the pastel sweater matching his, down to the tips of my new shoes. The appraisalmust last a solid minute before he stands, sliding his phone into his ridiculous golf pants.
He smiles.
It’s dazzling and 100 percent fake.
It isn’t the relieved high-voltage smile he gave me upstairs or the unconscious grin he wore when he talked about Lila. This one is for show. Flashy, charming, and so polished it’s hollow. It projects happiness the way a billboard projects light—bright enough to block whatever sits behind it.
Liam crosses the lobby toward me, his limp hardly noticeable, masked by a confident, rolling stride. He closes the distance, and I don’t know how to react. Whether to wave or run back into the elevator.
“Peyton,” he says, his voice intimately low, carrying enough to be heard by the nearby guests.
Before I can say anything—hello, good afternoon, what’s the plan?—he wraps an arm around my waist. His palm lands flat and warm against the small of my back, fingers spreading possessively over my spine.
My breath hitches. My hands come up to rest against his chest to steady myself. Under the cotton of his V-neck, a solid wall of muscle meets my palms. Whoa.
Why does my body want to melt into him? Why is heat blooming where his palm is touching me?
Liam pulls me closer, and I go. Because what else can I do?
He lifts his free hand and cups my face, his thumb brushing along my cheekbone, feather-light and unbearably tender. He tilts my chin up. His eyes hold mine, darkening with an apology or a warning.
For a terrifying, exhilarating instant, I think he’s about to kiss me.
My heart stops. My lips part. Every nerve ending in my body lights up like a switchboard.
But at the last second, Liam tilts his head, and his mouth bypasses mine entirely, his lips grazing past my cheek to speak directly into my ear.
“Sorry about the PDAs,” he murmurs, each word vibrating against my skin. “But we need to sell the newlywed bliss.”
His breath is warm against my neck. He smells of the body wash I found in the bathtub last night, luxurious and expensive.
“It’ll be over in a minute,” he promises.
I’m not sure whether the information is reassuring or disappointing.
He pulls back, that plastic smile firmly in place, and the absence of his warmth is immediate. Like someone’s turned off a heater.
I blink, untethered, until he takes my hand. His fingers lace through mine with easy familiarity, as if we’ve done this a thousand times before. His palm is warm and smooth, the grip sure without being crushing. The contact should feel awkward, forced. Instead, it’s oddly welcome. Grounding. An anchor against the storm of my spiraling thoughts.
What is happening to me?
“Ready?” he asks.
For what? He hasn’t explained anything that’s about to happen other than we’re having dinner with his parents tonight.
“Ready,” I lie.
Liam leads me toward the glass doors. We walk in lockstep, his thumb sweeping soothingly over the back of my hand, a mockery of comfort that feels confusingly real.
A black hotel car waits under the portico outside. A driver in a crisp uniform stands ready by the open rear door, expressionless and professional.
Liam ushers me into the backseat, his hand warm at the base of my spine again, and slides in beside me. But the moment the door closes, everything changes. He releases my body and shiftsto the opposite side of the seat, putting a foot of empty leather between us, going as far as the car’s interior will allow.
He goes back to looking at his phone, as if, now that we no longer have an audience, I don’t matter.
I need to get a grip and push a barb in. Regain control. Don’t leave him the upper hand.
