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Hope you liked the flowers. –L

A flutter. Low and hot. Damn him.

I stare at the message.

I don’t delete it, but I don’t answer either.

Griffin’s wrong about a lot of things—but he’s right about one.

I do have a soft spot for strays.

And Liam Steele?

He’s the most dangerous one I’ve ever wanted to keep.

Chapter twenty-one

Liam

I’mlate.Again.

Story of my fucking life—the moment I need to be somewhere on time, the universe decides to screw with me. I grab a clean shirt from the pile on my dresser, run my hands through my hair, and catch myself in the mirror.

Just a quick check. Not trying to impress anyone.

Bullshit. I’m absolutely trying to impress her.

I told Katarina we had to act like everyone’s watching, and here I am, second-guessing whether this shirt makes me look like I actually give a damn. Which I do. More than I should. My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Six-fifteen. Shit.

I grab my keys and bolt for the car, Griffin’s warning text from yesterday still burning a hole in my brain. Keep your fucking distance from my sister. Like I needed another reason to want this woman I can’t have.

When I pull up to her place, I sit in the driveway for thirty seconds, trying to get my head straight. It's bowling. Maybe dinner. Not rocket science. Just two people pretending to date for the cameras that aren't even here—a practice run.

So why does my pulse feel like I just stepped onto the ice for Game Seven?

I knock on her door, and when it opens, every coherent thought I’ve ever had abandons ship.

She’s all legs and curves — should be illegal. Katarina’s poured into that strapless top, bare shoulders and back, tits riding the edge like they’re one deep breath from spilling out. It’s a goddamn hazard.

Her hair’s pulled back, loose strands framing her face like something out of a dream. And those jeans—painted on, clinging to her thighs like they’re begging for forgiveness.

One step closer and I’m gonna forget what this whole thing’s supposed to be.

“You okay there?” she asks, one eyebrow raised, lips twitching like she’s fighting a smile.

“Yeah. Fine.” I sound like a teenager asking someone to prom. “You look great. Really good.”

She laughs, and the sound does something to me I don’t want to think about. “Thanks, I think?”

“No, I mean it.” My voice drops lower. “You look amazing.”

Amazing enough that I want to see if that strapless top feels as good coming off as it looks on.

I open the passenger door for her, and she gives me that look again—surprised, like she’s trying to figure out what game I’m playing.

“Well this is gentlemanly of you.”

“I’m not a complete caveman,” I mutter, closing the door before she can respond.