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He released me immediately and I stumbled back. Guarding myself from my father, my pain. I’m not entirely certain. I reframed my question. “Are Liam and Bailey in any danger because of me?”
His “No” was emphatic and immediate.
My shoulders drooped in relief.
“You still can’t tell him, Laura.”
“Why not?”
Days later, a niggling continues in the base of my skull. Something that feels off. With the single-minded determination that got me through college and med school with a perfect GPA, I swear to figure it out because, as my father reminded me the other night, “It’s not your fault.”
It’s not, but protecting Bailey and Liam is.
Liam. I close my eyes, and his face immediately appears behind my eyelids. I writhe on the chaise recalling the passion that clouded his bright green eyes. The way his hands felt against the skin of my body. The way his lips closed over the tips of my breasts.
I moan aloud and then yelp when I hear, “I hope you’re thinking about me.”
My eyes fly open and there he is. Hands in the pockets of casual pants, his black T-shirt molded to his chest. Knowing my cousins are out for the day, I lift a hand and ask, “How did you get inside the house?”
His eyes trail from my toes up my body, lingering at the juncture of my thighs, the dip in my waist, my breasts before meeting my gaze. “Hmm?”
“How did you get in?”
A lazy smile twitches his lips. “I haven’t ... been inside yet.”
I press my lips together to keep my own from smiling. “No?”
“We were interrupted,” he reminds me, wagging his brows.
I laugh before sitting up and gesturing for Liam to take a seat. “So we were. I was just thinking about that.”
“I’ve been thinking as well.” His finger trails across the top of my foot.
I feel the throb of his touch everywhere. I want him to stop. I want him to slow down. I want him to strip before driving into me so I forget where he begins and I end. Clearing my throat, I remind him, “You wanted to consider Bailey’s feelings.”
His hand slides up the inside of my calf. “I have.”
“Oh?” Did that squeak come from me? It must have because Liam stops trailing his fingers at my knee. He leans forward, resting his chin on top of my joints.
“Yes. She and I sat down this morning. I told her I liked you very much.”
Anxiety swirls in my stomach. “To which she said?”
“‘What took you so long, Daddy?’”
I throw my head back and laugh because it’s quintessential Bailey. When I’m done, he continues, “I told her Laura would always love her for her, but that I wanted to see if you liked me for me.”
“Oh.” This time, the word comes out breathless.
Then I jump. His other hand slides up the back of my thigh until his hand is gripping my ass—much like it was when I was straddling him the other night. Casually, as if he expects I’ll take all the time in the world to answer him, he asks, “So, do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Like me?”
Deciding actions speak a lot clearer than words do, I shift. Liam slides back until I’m kneeling on the lounger. Gripping his T-shirt in my hands, I pull him forward and ask, “How about for our second date, I give you a tour of the house?”
“How about you give me a tour of your room and we can see the house later?”