Page 22 of Taken With Trouble

I’m in a towel.Onlya towel. The back of my neck burns, but I pretend it doesn’t bother me.

“I was getting there.”

“Here.” He tosses a pile of material at me. “I took the liberty of finding you something.”

I hold up a top that looks more like an undergarment. Then it hits me. “How did you know it was me in here and not the owner?”

His eyes slide down my body again, and I’m incredibly aware of exactly hownakedI am under this towel. His eyes pop back up to mine, but they appear darker than they were mere moments ago. “Do you really want me to answer that?”

I pick up a figurine off the dresser and aim it at him.

“Relax.” He sighs. “The stairs were wet, and it wreaked of pond scum the second I opened the door.”

“You better be telling the truth.”

He steps closer to me, close enough to grab the figurine from my hand. “Do I look like I’d ever lie to you?”

“Yes.”

“I happen to think secrets make life more fun.” He slips the figurine from my fingers, replacing it with his hand. I try to pull away, but he tightens his grip. “And I’m very interested in your secrets, Serena.”

Heat crawls up my skin, and I shiver.

I swallow. “I already told you; I don’t have secrets.”

“The eyes tell no lies, darling.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, letting his finger skim down my neck and over my collarbone. “And your eyes say much more than you want them to.”

That’s what I’m afraid of. He can never know my secrets.

He brushes past me and into the bathroom, leaving the door wide open. He doesn’t want to lose me again.

I feel very much the opposite.

I slam the bedroom door, lock it, then rush into the closet. It takes too long to find a pair of clothes that fit without showing too much midriff or cleavage. Liam wasn’t being a pig. That’s the only option available. The woman who lives here must be a five-foot-two twenty-something-year-old. I finally settle on exposing my stomach instead of cleavage. I’ve got great abs, and I’m not afraid to show them. I would just rather not.

I pull on a pair of bike shorts that stretch enough to cover my backside. I check my bag to ensure everything is safe before I can slip out of the window without Liam, but… that’s weird.

I yank the jewelry box out. This is wrong. I must have been too distracted last night to notice, but this isn’t Scarlett’s box. Everything looks the same, except for the crystals in the middle of the lid. They are supposed to be clear, but in the afternoon light, they are more of a musty yellow.

Liam.

“You are the worst!” I throw open the door and stomp into the bathroom. He’s pulling on a shirt but doesn’t hurry to finish. He slowly drags it over one inch of tanned skin at a time.

“What did I do this time?” He sighs before shaking out his hair.

“Where did you find those clothes?” I scowl at his perfectly fitting Bermuda shorts and white polo.

His eyes trail down my body. “I could ask you the same thing. A fourteen-year-old girl?”

“The closet,” I grumble.

“The boutique,” he grumbles right back.

Of course. Looks like I’ll be making a pit stop down there.

“What’s this?” I hold up the box.

He lifts a single brow and crosses his arms over his chest. “Did you get a concussion in that fall? Let me look at your eyes.”