by Cindi Madsen
His eyebrows arched all the way up to his dark hair. “Uh. Yeah. I’d like that.”
“Cool.” I shoved the last couple journals into place, victory coursing through my veins and providing a nice distraction from my still-throbbing shin. “So later, then,” I said, turning to leave before I went and messed it up.
“Chelsea?”
I spun back around.
“Shouldn’t we exchange numbers? Or pick a time and place at least?”
Okay, so I’d skipped a few steps and went right to asking him out. A weird, totally not normal laugh escaped as I reached up and twisted a strand of my hair around my finger. “Probably a good idea.”
Kevin entered my number into his phone as I rattled it off, and then texted me his info. His eyes lifted to a point over my shoulder and widened, making it clear who was behind me. Liam had given us plenty of space, but if I didn’t know even his resting face naturally radiated menace, I might think he was angry, the way Kevin obviously did.
“That’s my friend Liam.” I raised my voice. “Liam, this is Kevin.”
My best friend gave one of those barely there bro nods, and Kevin swallowed hard.
“He’s nicer than he looks,” I said.
“No, I’m not,” Liam muttered, and my smile turned into gritting my teeth at him. See? Drove me completely crazy!
“Anyway, Kevin, talk later?”
He nodded and, watching my step so I wouldn’t wreck any more displays, I picked my way over to Liam.
“Mission accomplished,” I whispered. “I asked him out. Then I got his number, because I sorta forgot that part.”
“Get it.” Liam held up his hand for a high five, and I had to jump to reach it, something his crooked grin made clear he did on purpose.
Still, he’d helped me, so I let it slide. I slipped my arm around his waist in a side hug. “Thank you. For the nudge and for the books.”
When he switched the bag to his other hand, wrapped his arm around my shoulders, and said, “Anytime,” I had to smother the whorl of affection that tried to go through my stomach. If this was supposed to be aversion therapy, I was pretty sure I was doing it wrong.
…
The teen boy sitting in the theater chair to my left kept giving me an odd look every time I took a drink of my giant Coke. My next swig was on the aggressive side, and I made sure to follow it up with an obnoxious ah! noise that he probably didn’t hear over the movie, but whatever.
I’d been telling the truth when I said I missed watching action flicks, but it wasn’t exactly the movie part I had a hankering for. I mean, seriously, all the bad guys took turns fighting the hero when they’d have a much better chance of jumping him at once—either the villains were the dumbest or…yeah, they were the dumbest.
Those lackeys are clearly never going to become supervillains. Supervillains know when to fight and when to occupy the hero with their goons so they can get on with the evil-genius stuff.
Maybe that was my problem. I was fine with superhero movies, especially the Marvel ones. Their enhanced powers made it easy to buy their taking on multiple people at a time, and bonus, the actors were all eye-candy awesome, which was why Brooklyn and I usually went to them together. Liam preferred more “realistic” action movies, and he and Finn rolled their eyes at the tight superhero uniforms, which were perfection, in my opinion. Brooklyn’s, too.
But I digress.
The real reason I missed action movies had more to do with the way the light radiating from the screen lit up Liam’s features, emphasizing his strong profile while somehow softening it at the same time. If I hadn’t witnessed it for myself, I might’ve thought it impossible, so maybe I should give the bad guys onscreen who were still fighting the hero one at a time a break. It wasn’t like I had any fighting experience. Liam, on the other hand, had a lot in that realm. In the cage, anyway. Thank goodness he fought only one guy at a time, because that was enough to fray my nerves and leave me with heart palpitations. I also spent the weeks leading up to his fights stress eating. Since that happened to be when he was cutting weight, I hid it as much as possible, already feeling bad enough he couldn’t indulge in raw cookie dough and inordinate amounts of potato chips with me.
Swords clashed onscreen—is one of them a samurai? Did I miss a vital plot element, or did they not bother explaining because they figured it’d look cool?
Maybe the swords were above the fireplace? I must’ve missed something during the combative staring match I’d had with the teenager who begrudged me for being thirsty.
The hero dodged and weaved. The top goon—not to be mistaken for the head bad guy, who’d already fled to do more evil—got a jab in, a side hit that would probably hurt like hell but mean nothing in action movie land, and the good guy lunged toward him instead of using practical survival skills and dislodging the sword in his side.
He grabbed the bad guy’s hand over the hilt, jerked him forward, and head butted him.
Blood poured from the goon’s nose, and while everyone else made noises from the oh, ouch, and swear word side of the spectrum, Liam chuckled. The hero removed the sword from his side, whipped the blade in the other direction, and jabbed it right through the center of the bad dude’s chest, the kind of strike there was no coming back from.
And Liam laughed again. While plenty of people thought MMA fighters were super violent—and maybe a few were, although I’d met way more who were just superior athletes—that definitely wasn’t Liam. I think he simply enjoyed a well-executed hit.
The girl seated on his other side checked him out again. She’d flirted with him while we’d been in line at the concession stand, and she’d puckered her lips and pushed out her chest as she’d asked if the seats next to him were saved for anyone. Annoying for sure, but he’d encouraged me to score a date with Kevin mere hours ago, so I held back the daggered glare I wanted to give the unbelievably pretty girl with the exotic eyes and perfectly straight dark hair. Not that I could pull off a scowl that’d make her back off anyway. In fact, when Liam had introduced me while we’d been standing in line, she looked at me like I must be some adorable pet project of his. I was used to it. In theory. Guess I forgot the way it made bile churn in my stomach or how it awoke those stupid insecurities I tried to pretend no longer existed.
While I’d come a long way, elementary and junior high had been a special form of torture. I’d been all legs, knees, and elbows, and my bright, curly red hair had been out of control—and that was before San Diego’s humidity. It was why I’d constantly shoved it in a bun. So even though I’d grown into my body and learned how to tame the frizz a bit, part of me would always be the girl who ducked her head and avoided people so I could pretend that I was in control of not having friends.
My mom hadn’t been married to my dad, who was never in the picture and didn’t want to be. Although it’d been rough, she and I had managed alone until she fell in love with a man who lived in San Diego. After their wedding, we’d moved in with Jesse and his two kids, our goal a fresh start. Liam had been part of that, and his constant presence had definitely helped cut down the snide comments. I knew, because people weren’t nearly as kind whenever he wasn’t by my side.
I’m a strong, confident woman. Who totally got a guy’s number today.
As much as it’d stung when Liam told me to take a job in another city instead of asking me to stay, he’d been right about it being good for me. It had forced me to learn how to be okay with who I was on my own, and it made me step out of my comfort zone and stretch and grow.
If only it’d made my insecurities completely disappear.
I sipped my Coke, earning yet another befuddled look from the teen, and when I reached over to grab a handful of popcorn from the bucket in Liam’s lap, I noticed the large cup in the holder at the end of the armrest.
No, no, no, no, no.
Even though I knew Liam had bought a bottled water—which was nestled in the cupholder to his right—I took a sip of the soda, hoping
it wasn’t Coke so it wouldn’t mean…
Yep. Coke.
I cringed, my face heating as I turned to the teenage boy. “I’m so sorry. I thought that was my soda, and—”
“You can have it,” he said, recoiling from the cup like I might’ve infected it with my germs. Which I suppose I kinda, sorta had. Not that I had any gross germs right now. Not that I would drink after a stranger.
Knowingly, I guess I should add, since I’d done exactly that.
I twisted toward Liam, ducked my head on his chest, and groaned.
“Is the blood and gore getting to you?” he asked, his voice low. “Or was there some unforgiveable plot hole?”
“I’m mortified.”
“Why? You didn’t write the movie. Unless you’ve been holding out on me.”
I lifted my head, meeting Liam’s gaze. “I’ll tell you after,” I whispered.
Concern pinched his features. “What happened? Do I need to kill someone?”
“Me, possibly. Put me out of my misery.”
A few people glanced our way, and I was trying not to be rude, even as my cheeks flamed. Once Liam focused on something, though, he wasn’t easily distracted. I took my Coke out of my cupholder, lifted the armrest, and scooted closer to him.
I quickly and quietly relayed how the kid next to me kept giving me weird looks whenever I took a drink of my soda—Liam leaned forward like he was going to take care of it, and I pushed him back with a hand to his very firm chest, while wishing I didn’t notice the firmness of my best friend’s chest. Then I finished off my story by telling him how it was the kid’s drink, not mine.
A laugh exploded out of him, and without the fighting and grunting noises onscreen, it sounded extra loud. I ducked my head on his chest again, too embarrassed to keep eye contact.
We managed to make it through the rest of the movie, but as we exited, Liam began laughing again, and I knew it wasn’t about the ending—it hadn’t been a funny ending. I’d literally rolled my eyes. Screenwriters for action movies should be required to read a certain amount of romance novels before they attempted to add “romance” to their movies, because they had a long way to go in that department. Just saying.
“I should never have told you about the accidental soda stealing,” I said, heat crawling up my neck again—I had the sort of pale skin that flushed bright red, too, so there was no hiding it. “Should’ve just taken it to my grave.”
“But then how would you have explained why you had to carry out two cups?”
I shoved both red cups into the overflowing trash can, squishing them down so they wouldn’t fall out, while also trying not to touch the rest of the sticky trash—ew, why was it always so sticky?
“I would’ve made up a really good convincing story. Like, like… I got it! That I snuck out for another soda, but you just missed it, the way you don’t notice plot holes.”
Liam raised an eyebrow. “That’s not something I’d miss. You’re way too noticeable.”
If another guy said the same thing, I would’ve thought he was flirting and swooned. And okay, maybe I accidentally swooned a tiny bit anyway, especially since he’d also put his hand on the small of my back. But clearly he wasn’t flirting.
Since my luck was just that awesome, we reached the exit doors at the same time as the teen boy who’d been sitting next to me. He whispered to his friend, something I assumed was close to, There’s the crazy girl who drank my soda.
So much for all the confidence I built up earlier today.
“Should I ask him if he’s got any candy to share?” Liam asked with a teasing grin, and I shoved him out the door.
“I’m seriously never telling you anything again.”
“Oh, good. Now I don’t have to hear about how many plot holes the movie had or how the female lead should’ve been wearing pants instead of a tiny dress.”
I opened my mouth to argue, then clamped it shut, showing him that I could hold it back. I would stay silent the entire drive, and when we made it to the apartment, I’d stick to one-word answers. Pretty soon he’d be begging me to talk.
Two minutes from the parking lot, I couldn’t take it anymore. “She had a chance to change into pants! If it were me, I would’ve prioritized getting pants and proper shoes over having sex in a hotel room.”
“You must not be having the right kind of sex, then,” Liam said, and while it’d surprised me, judging from the way he snapped his mouth closed and averted his eyes, it’d surprised him, too.
I willed my face to stay normal-colored, even as heat flooded it for the billionth time since the soda incident. I picked at the remains of my pink fingernail polish. Technically he was right, especially since I’d never had sex. Just some heavy making out lead-up, but I’d never crossed that line. Of course, that wasn’t something you confessed to your male best friend after what was supposed to be a joke, particularly if you’d sometimes wondered what sex with him would be like…
I swallowed past my dry throat, forcing my tongue into motion when it stuck to the roof of my mouth. “Okay, maybe I would’ve chosen it over eating. It’s hard to run right after you eat anyway.” I worked to keep my voice light and quippy, but I still couldn’t bring myself to look at him. Not yet. My emotions were too all over the place, and I’d embarrassed myself plenty for the day already.
“Good point.” The cab fell silent again, and Liam bumped up the radio a couple notches.
I inhaled a deep breath and then sat back. “You know what does always impress me about action heroes?”
“How they look shirtless?”
Good. We were back to normal teasing. And like normal, I didn’t bother telling him that seeing him shirtless had pretty much ruined all other men for me. Hey, thanks for that, by the way. Now I look at the actors most women swoon over and think, Meh. I’ve seen better.
How am I ever supposed to settle for a normal, nice guy?
Totally unfair of me to think that way, especially since it wasn’t like I was a knockout. Whoever dated me got small boobs and out-of-control hair, not to mention sentences blurted out at the wrong time—oh yeah, I’d ruined the mood on more than one occasion with my big mouth. Other times, my plans to finally have sex had been foiled by my overthinking and second-guessing.
“Chels?”
“What?” It took me a second to realize I’d begun a conversation in order to stop thinking about the “right kind of sex” and get things back to light and easy. Aka, stop thinking about Liam shirtless. “I mean, yeah. No. What I was trying to say is that it impresses me how after the hero gets painted into a corner, he magically knows what he needs to do to take out, like, ten guys. He just leaps into action, and within a matter of minutes, it’s all over with. Sometimes when I go to make a sandwich, I’m not even sure what to start with, and it takes me longer than a few minutes.”
Amusement danced across Liam’s features.
The seat belt cut high on my neck, and I tugged it to the side and dragged my finger along the edge. “You’d totally know how to take out all the bad guys, wouldn’t you?”
“For sure,” he said. “I’m with you on the sandwich, though. There’re way too many options.”
I grinned, and the tingly happiness that flooded me pushed my worries to the back of my mind.
Liam pulled into a parking spot in front of his apartment complex, grabbed my bag of books, and then met me in front of the hood of his truck. We climbed the stairs to the third floor, and he opened his apartment door and held it for me.
“By the way,” he said as he set my books on the stand next to the couch—I liked how he realized there was no point in taking them into my bedroom, since I’d need to sort them out here and stack them in the order I planned on reading them. “I’m glad you’re not very good at following through on the silent treatment.”
“My rambling skills are at your service anytime.” I added an over-the-top curtsy, and his grin spread across his face. I was glad he found me so amusing.
The way my heart skipped a beat even though I kept telling it to not read too much into statements like that…?
I was a little less glad about that.
Chapter Six
Liam
The cat stood perched on the kitchen counter Monday morning, glaring at me like I looked at every guy who’d ever shown interest in Chelsea. Suspicion mixed with distrust, along with a threat to use claws. Not that I had claws, but… Yeah, I was overthinking this.
Yesterday afternoon while Chelsea and I had watched TV after a lazy morning, the cat had grown a bit bolder. We’d gone right from giving each other space to him climbing between Chelsea and me, making it clear he was claiming his territory, to a standoff in the kitchen. So much for the peace offering of ham I’d tossed him a moment ago.
“She was mine first, you know,” I said, because someone needed to take the cat’s attitude down a notch or two.
He turned, showing me his asshole, and then sat facing away from me.
“Oh, it’s like that, is it?”
He didn’t acknowledge my statement, but his ears twitched. Yep. Definitely not a cat person.
I finished making the scrambled eggs with ham and cheese and poured two glasses of orange juice. When I called out to see if Chelsea was ready for breakfast yet, she came down the hall.
She stopped to wish George a good morning, sticking her face in his. He bumped his forehead against hers as she scratched her fingers down his spine and cooed at him about what a good boy he was. Then I swear the fur ball shot me a smug look over his shoulder that seemed to say, She’s mine now, bitch.
Chelsea lifted her head, and I took in her super-straight, shiny red hair and the dressy white top and black slacks she had on. As she rounded the counter, her heels clacked against the floor. They were black and pointy and added at least four inches to her height. Another corporate-monkey joke was on the tip of my tongue, but it didn’t fit. She looked more like one of those women in movies who made it clear right away she was a ball crusher, and the masochistic side of me wanted her to take a try at mine.
