“What are you . . .” Emily’s words faded as she dropped her gaze to the white tee she was wearing, and her eyes widened. “Shit!” She slammed the door shut and staggered back.
She’d answered the door in only her T-shirt and underwear knowing full well it was Liam since she’d checked the peephole first. What was I thinking?
“I have seen you naked before,” he said loud enough for her to hear. Probably loud enough for Miss Peterson next door to hear even over her seven constantly yapping Chihuahuas. Another reason Emily was anxious to move into her new place next month.
“One second!”
After putting on a bra and pulling on a pair of jeans, she checked herself in the hall mirror and frowned. No time for makeup, damn it.
She swung the door open to see Liam in the same spot, his palm pressed to the frame of the door.
His lips briefly rolled inward before a lazy grin exposed the devastating dimple in his right cheek.
“You’re not in the townhouse anymore.”
“Would you have stayed there if someone you dated, even if it’d been super casual, was killed right in front of you?” She waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind. Don’t answer that.”
She shrugged, trying to act casual even though the entire event had been insane—but it’d also been how she met Liam and his buddies, and so . . .
“I’m renting this place until my new home is ready.” Her brows stitched together when a thought occurred to her. “But um, how’d you get up here?”
Her building had top-notch security—plus, she had a bodyguard outside.
“Does it matter how?” He dropped his hand, and her gaze followed one of the veins in his forearm up to his bicep. The sleeve of his shirt battled against the muscle there. Every time she looked at his arms the word damn popped into her brain. No exception now.
“Did Owen call you?” She forced herself to tear her eyes away from his muscles as she considered whether or not Owen may have dialed Liam after dinner tonight.
“Why would Owen call me?” He once again braced the doorframe as if he needed the support.
Was he drunk? It was hard for her to believe a guy like him couldn’t handle a few drinks, but then again, alcohol had been the culprit in their whole saying I do debacle.
She leaned forward as if she might be able to smell booze like she was one of the old hunting hounds her grandfather had kept back on the ranch in Montana.
She blinked a few times at the realization that the only thing she could smell was the intense odor of garlic coming from her neighbor in 3-B. The guy loved to bathe his food in garlic to the point she could feel the natural benefits just from a few daily whiffs on her way in and out of her place.
“When did you get to D.C.?” she asked, ignoring his question about Owen once he was inside, and she’d closed the door.
“This afternoon. I stopped over to see my grandfather in Virginia first.” He pointed at her living room, which was five feet away from the area serving as her foyer. “This doesn’t look like you. Not a place you’d live in.”
How many times have we hung out? She did a quick count in her head—six.
Was it really only six times they’d been around each other?
First time—he’d shown up at her door with Owen and Asher and warned her the guy she was dating was dangerous and also an asshole of the highest order.
The next time she’d hung out with Liam was at Luke and Eva’s baby gender reveal party, and although several of the guys had stolen her away to chat, she’d had her eye on Liam the entire time. How could someone not? The guy could’ve been Chris Hemsworth’s twin. Accent and all. The God of Thunder from Down Under.
She breezed through the other times they’d spent together, trying to get a handle on how he seemed to know her well enough to determine her current rental wasn’t “her.”
There was the Christmas party. Liam had been devilishly charming that night, but she’d had too many eyes on her to even think naughty thoughts, let alone act on them.
Then a quick trip to Owen’s pub in Charleston in January with Sam—but Liam had been on his way out, and so, they’d only shared a few hours together over breakfast.
Dancing with Liam at a club on Valentine’s Day in New York had only left her with a case of female blue balls.
And then there was Vegas.
“How would you know what kind of place I would live in?” she asked since she couldn’t come up with an answer during her brief walking tour of their past.
“I was at your townhouse last year when that D.C. wanker—”
“Right, but surely you don’t remember what it looked like, or the kind of person I am to assume this place isn’t my style.” Her hands went to her hips as she eyed him.
“The main hall had artwork on the walls—watercolor, right? Scenery, not graphics,” he said without taking pause. “Two brown suede couches and an armchair in your back living room. Lots of family pictures on the far-side wall in there. A fireplace. And your bedroom . . .”
“Okay, I get it. Your memory is off the charts.”
He swirled a finger in the air as he did a three-sixty, examining her apartment. “This place is cold. Barely lived in. Like it’s almost—”
“So sterile a surgeon could operate here?” She smiled. “Well, the place came furnished. Super minimalistic, and my guess is it belonged to a doctor before, given the smell of antibiotic soap the walls sort of absorbed.” She motioned for him to have a seat on the black leather sofa. “Of course, that smell does act as a barrier to my neighbor’s love of garlic, so I can’t complain.”
“Ah, that’s what I smelled in the hall.” He jerked a thumb toward the door then dropped down onto the leather.
There weren’t any other seats aside from the sofa, but she wasn’t quite sure if she could bring herself to sit so close to him. Not yet, at least.
She had to first reduce the hammering of her heart to a near-normal level.
“The bed is mine, though,” she noted, feeling the need for him to know she wasn’t sleeping in some other guy’s bed. The idea had creeped her out, and so it’d been written into her rental agreement to swap the beds. “The rest of my stuff is in storage until moving day.”
“Good call.” He swiped a hand over his blond head. His hair was shorter on the sides and a bit longer on the top with a touch of gel to style it.
“So, um, did you get shitfaced with your grandfather before you came here?”
His green eyes, rimmed in blue, locked on her face. A palpable tension that no way could only she be feeling moved through the air and hit her.
“No.” He cleared his throat. “I stopped at the bar around the corner until I got the nerve to come see you.”
She wondered if this was alcohol-induced honesty.
But she was also currently suffering from the warm and fuzzy effects that had kicked in after she’d moved on to her second bottle of red.
A fluttery sensation traveled from her stomach up to her chest. “Owen told me you were back. I was hoping to see you soon. I just didn’t realize it’d be tonight.” She would’ve dressed for the occasion at the very least. Then again, how does one dress to sign annulment papers?
“Does he know what happened? Does Sam?” He could’ve been asking about the weather—he didn’t sound nervous or concerned.
“No, but um, how was your trip?”
He crossed his ankle over his knee and held it. “It was good, but . . . I wasn’t focused, and then there was this kid that I was worried about. Still worried about.”
“Oh.” Her mouth rounded in surprise. More honesty and she almost felt guilty about listening to him talk. She had to assume Liam was like Owen, who was super tight-lipped about his work. Liam probably wouldn’t normally share so much if he hadn’t hit the corner bar first.
So, she decided not to prod. She didn’t want Liam having any more regrets when he woke up tomorrow. Surely, they had enough already.
“Well, I have the papers to sign. I assume that’s why you’re here.” She’d been drinking wine and staring in a daze at them when he’d startled the hell out of her by ringing the bell.
“You work fast.”
She found his eyes again. There was a sadness there. She hadn’t noticed it before, maybe because she’d been too focused on his panty-melting smile.
“We used to have a no-marriage rule at work,” he blurted.
“What?” She inched closer to the couch, which she instantly regretted because, when he rose, they were inches apart.
His chin dipped so their eyes could meet—he had at least half a foot on her height of five-eight. Her legs were beginning to feel unsteady, and she had the urge to grab hold of his arms to stay upright.
“You’re so damn beautiful.” He lightly gripped her biceps, doing what she’d wanted to do to his arms moments before.
My husband. Husband!
“I, um, I doubt I’m your type,” she said, trying to deflect. To protect her heart from the look in his eyes that could surely ruin every other man for her.
“You’re right, you’re not my type.” His words were rough, like the touch of an uncut diamond drawing blood as it scraped over her skin.
She tried not to flinch, to let him know how crushing his comment had been.
He released his hold of her and shut one eye. “That didn’t come out the way I wanted.” He looked heavenward, and she took the chance to create space between them and stepped back.
“I’ll grab the papers.”
A couple of signatures away from being Emily Summers again.
She thought about her few memories from their wedding night as she went to her bedroom.
“Mrs. Evans. It sounds good,” Liam had said.
“Well, husband, what do you want to do with me now?” She’d hooked her arms around his neck.
“Make love.” The words had brushed across her lips before he’d kissed her, taking command of her mouth, and she’d surrendered and let him. Gave him complete control, too.
“You’re not my type because you are my type.”
Startled, she turned to find him standing in her bedroom doorway, his shoulder leaning into the interior frame as he observed her.
“Yeah, that doesn’t make much sense either,” she mumbled.
“Your brother would probably kill me if he found out about this,” he said once her back was to him as she reached for the papers.
Yeah, her brother, Jake, wouldn’t exactly roll out the red carpet for Liam, but she had no intention of telling anyone in her family what she’d done. “Jake’s harmless.”
“Sure.” He barked out a laugh. “He does what I do, so . . .”
The on-the-books stuff or the other top-secret work? She almost spoke her thoughts, but she was worried Liam would assume Sam had betrayed Owen’s trust and told her the truth, even though she hadn’t. Emily wasn’t an idiot, she’d pretty much figured it out.
“Do you remember more of our, uh, wedding night now that some time has passed?” he asked, his voice low and sexy, and his question derailed her thoughts.
“I, uh. Yeah, a little.”
He was behind her now. She could feel him. Smell his cologne. A touch of mint with smooth notes of vanilla as the base.
Desire unfurled inside her belly when his hand matched the curve of her hip. “Liam.”
Her pulse broke out into a full-on Mt. Everest type of climb with him so close, and she tried to hide the chill sweeping down her body as if it were his hand running smoothly over her skin.
He leaned in and brought his mouth near her ear. “You’ve been drinking, too?”
She spied the glass of wine on her nightstand. She’d left it there when she went to answer the door. “Mmhm. A lot on my mind. Work.” She paused. “You.”
He released his hold of her, and she turned to face him. “I should go then.”
She extended the papers, a slight tremble in her hand. He didn’t even look down. No, he kept his eyes on hers, his chest lifting ever so slightly as he studied her. She’d give anything to have the power to read his thoughts.
“Maybe since we got married while we were drunk, we should get divorced when we’re sober.” A sort of sad resignation moved through his words.
“It, uh, won’t be a divorce. It’ll be like it never happened.” Her stomach turned at her last statement, and she wasn’t sure why.
“‘Never happened,’ huh?” His eyes dipped to the papers.
Even beneath his beard, she witnessed the strain of his jaw as if he were attempting to pulverize stone with his back teeth.
When he peered at her again, with his lips set into a hard line and his brows drawn inward, she couldn’t tell if he was angry or confused.
She wished it’d been more than six times they’d hung out so she’d know him better, so she’d know how to handle this moment.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said. “What time will you be out of work?”
“Six-ish.”
“I’ll bring food. Thai okay?”
“That’s not necessary.”
“Please. We should at least eat a meal together before you stop being my wife.”
Wife. Why did that word sound so amazing coming from his mouth?
“Okay,” she finally caved.
He continued to stare at her, words seeming to fail him.
“Well, thank you,” she added, feeling like she needed to fill the space of the silence since he hadn’t talked in a solid minute. She’d been slowly ticking off the seconds in her head waiting.
“I’ll be back tomorrow, then.” His focus wandered to her bed as if a memory from their night together had hit him. “I, uh, should go.” A touch more of his Australian accent flowed through his speech this time. Or maybe she’d imagined it, she couldn’t be sure of anything at the moment.
A dizziness grabbed hold of her as she stood before a man who, according to the state of Nevada, was her husband.
“You’ve been in the U.S. for a while, right?” She tossed the papers back on the bed and strode toward him.
“Since I was nineteen.”
“So, you’ve lived here for almost half your life?”
He folded his arms and angled his head. “Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering how you’re still so very Aussie.”
His lips quirked into a slight smile. “Do you not want me to be?”
“No, I love your accent,” she admitted, probably too quickly.
“I happen to love yours, too.”
She poked her chest with her index finger and arched a brow. “Mine?”
“Your Southern accent is very . . .”
He looked at the ceiling instead of finishing his thoughts. Maybe that was for the better.
He gritted out, “You’re making this hard for me.”
“I don’t understand.”
His eyes seized hold of hers again. “You’re making it hard for me to walk away right now, Emily.”
Ohhh.
He scratched his trimmed blond beard. What was it about a man with facial hair, and why did she find herself wondering if his beard would tickle her inner thighs if he kissed her there?
“Are you always this candid, or is it the alcohol?”
“Probably the whiskey.”
She set her hand against his chest and maintained eye contact. “Maybe you could try it when you’re not drinking?”
He wrapped a hand around her slender wrist, then bowed his head closer to hers.
She wasn’t sure if he was going to kiss her. And was it wrong she wanted him to?
He was still her husband until they signed the papers. And right now, this ruggedly sexy man seemed to be looking at her like he wanted her.
His forehead touched hers, and he cursed under his breath.
Yeah, the struggle was real.
“I really should go.” His words were heavy. Gritty. Like he had to force them out.
“Yeah,” she whispered but didn’t pull away. “You have a place to stay, right?”
She was dangerously close to offering her sofa, which she knew would be a stupid idea given this very moment.
No way would she be able to sleep under the same roof with him, not after they’d had sex last weekend, and not with her wishing he’d rip off her clothes.
Damn her brain for not remembering everything about that night in Vegas, especially the between-the-sheets parts. Or on top of the sheets. She wasn’t sure if they’d made it to a bed until the moment they actually decided to sleep.
He stepped back, and she lowered her hand to her side.
“There’s a hotel within walking distance. I got a room there when I first arrived this afternoon.”
“Oh. Good. Well, then I’ll see you tomorrow night.”
His hand moved up to cup her cheek, and his thumb swept in circular motions as he stared at her lips. “Goodnight, Emily.”
Her cheek grew cold at the loss of his warm palm.
She followed him to the door, and once he was outside of her apartment, he glimpsed one last look at her before disappearing into the stairwell. Alcohol or not, the man still took the stairs instead of the elevator.
After he was out of sight, she closed the door and rested her forehead against it.
At the sound of a text alert coming from her phone a beat later, she locked up, then went to the living room to retrieve it.
Liam: This is your husband. ;) I thought you should have my number.
Emily: How’d you get mine?
Clearly, he hadn’t known Owen had given her his digits.
Liam: This is me we’re talking about. ;)
God, he even winked in his texts. Why did he have to be so frustratingly sexy and charming?
Emily: Good point.
She clutched the phone, considering what to say next.
So they got drunk and married and became a TV cliché—why not own it, at least?
Emily: I’d expect nothing less from my husband.
Liam: And now I kind of want to come back up there and kiss you like I wanted to before.
She almost dropped the phone. Holy shit.
Emily: You never told me—what do you remember from Vegas?
Liam: Probably more than you. Because I remember how you kiss. How you taste.
A blazing trail of heat traveled from her stomach down to between her legs.
Liam: I should probably turn off my phone before I get myself into more trouble.
Liam: Goodnight, Emily.
She was going to need her emergency stash of Oreos tonight.
And more wine.
Hell, a lot more wine.
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