Page 65 of Landing Liam

“What do you want to do?” I ask carefully, unsure of how much he’s willing to involve me.

“I need to head back to the lodge,” he replies, his jaw tightening slightly. “But I’m going to drop you off at my parents’ house first. They’re gathering there to start digging into this. My cousin, Ava, and her husband, Jack, own the local newspaper, so they’ve got a lot of resources we can use.”

I blink, surprised. “I… I’m going to meet your family?” My voice wavers. I’ve already met some of them, but this feels different. It feels significant. Personal.

“Don’t read too much into it,” he says curtly, brushing off the implication as he stands. The sharpness in his tone stings, even though I know I deserve it. “You ready to go?”

“I need to change first,” I say, motioning to the rumpled clothes I wore on our date last night.

“I’ll wait in the hall,” he mutters, heading toward the door without another glance.

As the door clicks shut behind him, I release a shaky breath. His walls are back up—solid, unyielding, and suffocating. I can’t say I don’t deserve them, but that doesn’t mean I don’t hate every brick he’s stacking between us.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Liam

I lean against the door, my head resting against the cool wood as I take a slow, measured breath. My body feels heavy, sluggish. The familiar tingling in my left arm creeps in, like pins and needles, but deeper—almost bone-deep. Stress triggers it, I know that, and this morning has been nothing but an endless stream of stress.

Maggie’s words keep running through my mind, her explanations fitting together like puzzle pieces I was too stubborn to see earlier. She wouldn’t sell me out to some trashy gossip blog—not when her career is hanging by a thread. And now, part of me wonders if she’ll lose everything because of this. Because of me. Not that there ever was a real story.

Well, maybe there is one. Just not the one anyone expected.

I exhale heavily, shifting my weight against the door. My legs feel shaky, like they might give out if I push too hard. It’s not the first time this has happened, and it won’t be the last. The symptoms are manageable most days, but when I’m run down—when the stress piles on—it’s like my body turns on me. I rub my hand over my thigh, hoping to quell the dull ache that’s begun to settle there.

This is my reality now. A reality I’ve been too scared to face head-on. But today, with everything unraveling around me, I can’t ignore it anymore. My snowboarding career, my carefully crafted life—it’s all teetering on the edge of collapse. And this… this could be the thing that sends it tumbling over.

I need to focus. I can’t let this derail me. Not today. My final run down the mountain is this afternoon, and I need to be at my best. For my family. For the sport that’s given me everything. For myself.

Then? Then the rest of my life begins.

I take one more steadying breath before pushing off the door, ignoring the weakness in my limbs. There’s still work to be done, and I refuse to let this win. Not now. Not ever.

Maggie doesn’t take long to get ready. When she steps into the hallway, she’s wearing that same beanie she had on the day I met her, paired with a soft, new sweater that clings to her in all the right ways. For a moment, I let myself take her in—her flushed cheeks, her determined expression—and I feel a pang of longing deep in my chest. But I shove it down. I can’t afford to let my emotions cloud my judgment right now. Not when my career is teetering on the edge.

Stay in control, Liam.

As we walk down the hall toward the stairs, Maggie’s phone buzzes in her hand. She glances at the screen, her brow tightening as she blows out a heavy breath. “I have to take this,” she says, looking up at me with an apologetic smile.

I nod, gesturing for her to go ahead. “Take your time.”

Her footsteps slow as she answers the call. “Hello?” she says softly, her voice suddenly more guarded.

I keep moving ahead, giving her space, but I can’t help catching bits of her tone—tense, clipped, and… frustrated. Whoever’s on the other end of the line is giving her a hard time. I don’t know if it’s her boss, whoever sent her those text messages, or someone else entirely, but it’s clear they’re pushing her buttons.

When I glance back, her free hand is gripping the strap of her bag tightly, her knuckles turning white. I slow my pace, debating whether to interrupt or give her privacy, but I settle for staying close enough to be there if she needs me. Her voice lowers, sharp and direct now, and I can tell she’s fighting to keep her composure.

“Of course, I understand,” she says into the phone, but her words are laced with an edge that makes my stomach twist. Whatever this call is about, it’s not good.

I don’t press her. Not yet. But a part of me is already running through worst-case scenarios. Who is she talking to? Is this about the story? About me? I hate the not knowing, but I’ve learned the hard way not to pry when someone’s walls are up.

By the time we reach the lobby, she hangs up with a curt, “I’ll take care of it,” and slides the phone back into her pocket. Her shoulders are tense, her jaw tight, and I know something’s weighing on her.

“Everything okay?” I ask, trying to keep things light.

She looks up at me, forcing a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just work stuff,” she says quickly, brushing it off. “Nothing for you to worry about.”

But I am worried. And I don’t buy for a second that it’s nothing.