Page 27 of Seashells and Daiquiris

His gaze doesn’t waver, and the longer we maintain this, the more heat that pools in my cheeks. “Okay," I say, exhaling. "Nineteen days."

Liam gently dips his head. “Nineteen days."

My heart rushes, but I want to so badly press with this next piece. Because the more I watch his mouth move, I just can’t take it anymore. “And then the kiss."

There’s a small moment where his gaze deepens, something more intense leaking out. For a brief moment, I’m aware that I caught a glimpse at a side of him that is very intimate, before he clearly shifts gears in his mind. “And then the kiss."

Here's the thing about living with someone—you learn their rhythms whether you want to or not.

By day six, I know that Liam wakes up before the sun. I know this because I hear him. It’s not that he’s obnoxiously loud or disruptive, if anything he's almost silent, but it’s the way his feet softly move across the floor.

I also know that he likes to be in the water around the time that the sun rises, and of course I’ve peeked out my window many times. He’s so ridiculously built that it honestly makes me step away, because there’s no way a man like him is going to indulge in me beyond whatever we’re doing.

To which I’m still very cautious with the soulmate stuff.

It doesn’t stop me from being nosy, though.

I know he drinks his coffee black and standing up, leaning against the counter, staring at the ocean through the glass like he's having a conversation with it. I know he reads before he opens the bar—mythology, mostly, thick books with worn spines that he handles carefully. Did I mention that I have a thing for hands? The manly type, the ones that look like they’ve seen and done a lot of work, with callouses and veins. Especially to know watch him gently touch the pages…

It’s so hard not to let those thoughts cascade, because I also know that he works out. Usually after he swims. I’ve left my window cracked open to let in the salty air, which of course means that I can hear movement, breathing, and the occasional low grunt that I am choosing to interpret as exertion and absolutely nothing else.

I have not gone downstairs during this time, despite being wide awake. I have remained in the loft, under the duvet if not looking out the window.

The shell is always telling me there are no boundaries. He’s supposed to be my soulmate, and fake dating would be so much easier if we actually touched each other. Maybe made out a few times. Clothes would even be optional.

Today, however, I need water.

I forgot to bring a glass up last night and my throat feels like sandpaper.

I tell myself this is as I pad barefoot down the stairs in my sleep shorts and an oversized T-shirt, hair a disaster, no bra, because it's six thirty in the morning and I assumed that whatever workout situation was still going on because I had heard him just start it.

My stomach drops as I see Liam in-between the space of his kitchen island and the wall cabinets, texting away on his phone as he leans against the island. His shirt is off, his hair loose and damp with sweat, silver strands clinging to his neck and shoulders. His back is to me, which means I have an unobstructed view of his muscles, his tattooed arm flexing slightly with his move of his fingers. And did I mention I am weak for a man with ink? It stretches from his forearms up over his biceps and across one side of his ribs, which look like waves and tide charts and something that looks like old script, all of it moving with him as he breathes.

I stop on the last stair.

I should go back up. I should absolutely turn around and go back up the stairs and wait until he's done and has put on a shirt and become a person I can look at without my brain shorting out.

"We're staring."

Liam glances up after Shellie speaks, then stands up straight as he quickly looks me over. "Morning," he says, like he's not standing there looking like that.

"Water," I say, which is not a greeting but is the only word my brain has available. “I’m just grabbing some water.”

“This is so embarrassing.” Awesome. Even the shell is embarrassed for me.

We both stare at each other, an awkward chuckled shared between us but we also don’t look away.

This is different from the other times. The banter, the shell's commentary, the laughing it off, that's been the usual pattern. He says something almost-flirty, the shell says something unhinged, I get embarrassed, we both pretend it's funny, we move on.

But the chuckle is behind us as we continue to stand here.

He's looking at me with those golden-brown eyes and they're not guarded. They're not careful. They're open, in a way I haven't seen before, and I realize he's not putting the mask back on. He's just standing there, breathing hard, sweaty and shirtless and looking at me like he's trying to memorize what I look like at six thirty in the morning with no makeup and bed hair.”

“His pupils are dilated and his breathing changed when he saw us."

Oh, that’s not good for me to hear. I admit… something electric fires off in my navel, especially as it’s now his turn to glare at the shell. So it’s not wrong, then?

"I need to get past you," I say quietly, clearing my throat, looking at the fridge behind him where the filtered water is. "To the kitchen."