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Chapter eighteen

Katarina

I t’s been forty-eight hours since I last saw Liam Steele.

Not that I’m counting.

You’d think I’d feel clearer.

Instead, I feel like I’m waiting for something to detonate.

My phone lights up and my pulse spikes.

Every time.

Because I know exactly who he is. What he’s done to me. How he made me come so hard I literally saw stars.

And the worst part… he has no freaking clue.

It’s Wednesday morning, and the air in my house is quiet, calm. Deceptive. I sip my coffee and try to convince myself that today will be uneventful. Just another morning pretending this charade with the man who ruined me for every other guy on the planet isn’t eating me alive from the inside out.

The man who had me begging for more.

The man who had me pressed against a wall and sucked marks into my throat like he was marking territory he didn’t know he’d already claimed.

I check the clock again. I’ve got twenty minutes to shower, get dressed, and pull myself together enough to not look like a woman who’s been reliving the best sex of her life on repeat.

I crank the shower hot enough to feel borderline illegal.

Steam clouds the glass, and I just stand there, letting the water hit me while I remember everything my body won’t let me forget.

His hands. Those same hands along my jaw— the ones that gripped my hips while he pounded into me. And he can’t connect the dots.

But I remember everything. How thick he felt stretching me. How he made me come twice before he even got his cock inside me.

And now I have to pretend we’re strangers playing house for the cameras when all I want is to grab him by that perfect jaw and remind him exactly how I taste.

Stop. What the hell are you thinking Katarina?

I rub my hand over my forehead letting the hot water bead down the top of my head.I agreed to fake-date a man I’ve already let ruin me once. And there’s no universe where Griffin’s going to be okay with any of this. Not the lie. Not the cameras. Definitely not him .

I nudge the water colder—just enough to shock some sense into me. I have to keep it together, or everything I’ve worked for unravels. just a 60-second flash freeze to chase off the guilt. By the time I step out, I feel less wrecked.

Not fine.

But functional enough to fake it.

Towel-wrapped, hair dripping, I start to breathe again.

Until the doorbell rings.

And rings again, sharper this time.

“Seriously?” I mutter, grabbing my robe off the hook and cinching it tight around my waist. I don’t even have underwear on. Just bare skin and a towel that’s one wrong move from hitting the floor.

I pad barefoot down the hall, pulse ticking faster with each step. I’m not expecting anyone. Definitely not dressed for surprises.

But when I open the door and find six-foot-four inches of lean muscle, tousled dark hair, and smirking confidence holding a bouquet of flowers—my stomach free-falls and my brain flat lines.

Liam.

Standing on my doorstep like he belongs here.

T-shirt clinging to his chest like it was sewn there, jeans low enough to show the sharp cut of his abs. His smile’s crooked—cocky but unsure.

“Hi,” he says, offering the flowers like a peace treaty. “Thought you might like these.”

I want to laugh. Or cry. Or grab him by that shirt and drag him inside so I can show everything I’m not able to say with words

Instead, I just stare.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, heart thudding somewhere around my ears.

“I came to drive you to work,” he says easily. Like we’ve been doing this for years.

Like showing up unannounced with flowers and a five-o’clock shadow I want to feel scratching between my thighs—that’s something fake boyfriends do.

“Figured we should start selling the story before someone else writes it for us.” He shrugs.

Selling the story.

If only he knew the story I could tell. How he called me sweetheart while making me beg, and whispered filthy commands in my ear while he fucked me senseless.

Geezus, I need to stop

I step aside. “Come in, before my neighbor calls the cops on you for loitering with hydrangeas.”

He walks past me, slow and calm.

“Didn’t expect flowers,” I murmur, dropping them on the counter.

“They’re not necessary,” he says. “They’re smart.”

I shoot him a look.

He gives a lazy shrug, muscles bunching beneath that worn black tee—shoulders I’ve gripped while he drove into me, ones that are getting harder and harder to ignore.

“Romance sells.”

And just like that, my thighs remember what my brain’s trying to pretend didn’t happen.

“Even without cameras?”

“Especially then.” He pauses. “Assume someone’s always watching.”

He has no idea how closely I’ve been watching him.

That stops me cold. And suddenly I remember what this is.

Not real.

Not safe.

Just an illusion we’re selling to buy back our reputations.

His image needs polishing. Mine... I’m trying to keep my past from blowing holes in my future. Because if anyone finds out I’m not just the team’s nutritionist, but the girl behind the mask—the one he fucked like a fever dream—this whole PR charade and my career turns to dust.

I’m not about to be written off as some puck bunny screwing her way up the roster— not when I’ve bled for this career, not when one rumor could destroy everything I’ve built.

I swallow hard, then turn.

“Give me ten minutes,” I mutter, already walking down the hall.

He doesn’t answer—but I can feel his stare burning through the thin fabric of my robe like a brand.

I towel-scrunch my hair and pull it into a low, damp bun. Sports bra. Navy scrubs. Mascara. I swipe it on fast, even though my lashes can’t save me from unraveling.

By the time I step back into the kitchen, he’s still standing there.

Thumbs hooked in his pockets. Looking like he owns the room—and knows exactly what that does to me.

“Ready?” he asks, voice low.

I nod, grabbing my bag and keys. My pulse is still climbing, but I pretend it’s not because I know exactly how those hands feel gripping my ass.

We step outside. His car’s parked at the curb, sleek and dark like a trap. I slide in, then freeze when he leans across me.

“Seatbelt,” he murmurs.

His arm brushes mine. Warm. Solid. The same arm that pinned me to a bed while he made me come apart.

I look at him. He’s already looking.

Our eyes lock. A fraction too long.

Then he clicks the belt into place and leans back like he didn’t just knock the air out of my lungs.

The engine roars to life.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to keep this up.

The silence between us hums with everything we’re not saying. Everything he doesn’t remember.

He focuses on the road, jaw tight, hands gripping the wheel. His scent—clean, woodsy—fills the car and hijacks every rational thought I try to string together.

It’s the same scent that was all over my skin that night. The same hands that are now innocently driving us to work.

“You always drive this uptight?” I ask.

His jaw ticks. “Nope.”

The air between us is thick with secrets only I know.

My memory’s flooded with everything my body won’t forget—what it’s like to be beneath him. His mouth dragging over my skin, between my thighs, making me beg until my voice broke.

And now I’m sitting in his car, accepting flowers, pretending this is just a gig. Like I didn’t let him own me in every way a man can.

Pretending this is just a PR stunt. An illusion.

My thighs clench. My breath hitches, because I’m lying.

To him. To myself. To my goddamn reflection.

And the worst part?

He doesn’t even know who I am.

What the hell is wrong with me?

He pulls into the team’s private lot, parks, but doesn’t get out. I unbuckle my seatbelt. His hand catches mine.

Warm.

Solid.

Our eyes lock, and for a second I think he might remember. Might recognize something.

“I’ll see you inside,” he says, voice brushing over my skin.

Liam leans in, lifts my hand to his mouth, and kisses the back of it. His lips warm. Slow. The same mouth that tasted every inch of me.

I yank my hand back and step out, needing air like I’ve just surfaced from underwater. But before I can close the door—

His phone buzzes. He glances at it. Freezes.

I see his entire body go stiff. His mouth tightens. His thumb hovers over the screen, jaw locked. He shoves the phone into his pocket without a word. But I can feel the shift. Like pressure in the air before a storm.

“Everything okay?”

He looks at me. Nods once. “Perfect.”

A lie. But I let it go.

I turn and walk toward the doors, heat crawling up my neck.

And I can feel him watching.

Watching like he knows something.

Like someone just lit a fuse.