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Chapter twenty-one

Liam

I ’m late. 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.

When I slide into the driver’s seat, she’s studying me with those sharp gray eyes. “Still unexpected. Is it the makeup that’s throwing you off?”

I start the engine, focusing on anything except how she smells—something light and clean that’s driving me crazy. Same scent that’s been stuck in my head since that day in the equipment room. “I wasn’t expecting much, I guess.”

“Wow.” She sits back in her seat. “You’re a real charmer.”

“If I tell you you’re pretty, will that help?”

She’s quiet for a beat, then gives me a smile that’s different from before. Softer. “It won’t affect me either way, but no girl’s going to turn down being told she looks nice.”

I pull out of her driveway, hyperaware of everything—her hands folded in her lap, the way she fidgets with her jeans, how she keeps glancing at me when she thinks I’m not looking.

“So,” I say, needing to fill the silence before it kills me, “we’re going bowling.”

“Bowling?” She turns to stare at me. “Seriously?”

“You got a problem with that?”

Her eyebrows shoot up, and she laughs. “It’s not exactly what I expected after that whole PR meeting, but sure. Let’s do it.”

“You might be surprised. It’s cathartic.”

“Cathartic?” She sounds like I just told her I collect stamps for fun. “How is bowling cathartic?”

I glance at her, then back at the road. “Makes me slow down. I’m always going—training, games, travel. Bowling forces me to focus on something simple.”

She nods slowly. “And you get some kind of deep emotional release when you throw the ball down the lane?”

“Maybe. You’d be surprised how much throwing a heavy ball at pins helps with stress.”

“Okay, now I’m intrigued. Let’s see if you’re a secret bowling prodigy or just full of shit.”

“Could go either way,” I say, winking at her.

The bowling alley is exactly what I need—low-key, no frills, no chance of running into anyone from the team. We grab our shoes, and I hand over payment before she can argue.

“So,” I say, handing her a pair of size sevens, “how much do you suck at bowling?”

She gives me a sideways look. “Are you trying to intimidate me?”

“Just asking. You don’t strike me as someone who bowls often.”

“I’ve bowled plenty, and I’m pretty good. Don’t get your hopes up if you want an easy win.”

“Well, now I’m worried. This is supposed to be fun, not a bloodbath.”

“You’re the one who made it sound like a competition.”

I grin, lacing up my shoes. “True. But I’m not here to crush your dreams. I’m here to have fun.”

Famous last words.

We put our names in the system—Liam and Kat—and I step up for my first throw. The ball feels familiar in my hands, solid and dependable. I release it with a decent spin, watching it roll down the lane and knock down five pins.

Not terrible. Not great.

“Not bad,” Katarina says. “You might not be as awful as I thought.”

“You’ll be eating those words soon.”

She steps up acting all serious, picks up her ball, and I watch her form. The way she bends forward gives me a perfect view of what that top’s barely containing, and suddenly I’m thinking about a lot more than her bowling technique.

Her ball rolls smooth and straight, taking down seven pins.

“Well, look at that,” I say, genuinely impressed. “You’re not as bad as I thought either.”

“You were expecting me to fail miserably, weren’t you?”

“Honestly? Yeah. But I’m glad I was wrong. It’s more fun when there’s competition.”

We fall into this rhythm—teasing, competing, actually having fun. It’s not the awkward small talk I expected. It feels natural. Easy. Like we’ve done this before, even though we haven’t.

By the final frame, we’re tied. One shot each.

“If I win,” I say, picking up my ball, “you’re buying dinner.”

“Deal.”

I line up my shot, focus on my form, and release. The ball rolls straight and true, taking down all ten pins.

Strike.

“Boom. That’s how it’s done.” I turn back to her, grinning.

Her mouth drops open in mock shock. “Okay, I see you. But I’m not giving up.”

“Anything easy isn’t fun,” I reply, stepping back to let her finish.

She lines up, takes a deep breath, and throws. Strike. Then another. Then another.

A fucking turkey.

She turns around, hips swaying as she walks back to me with the smuggest smile I’ve ever seen. There’s something in the way she moves—confident, like she just proved a point I didn’t know we were making.

“Holy shit,” I breathe out, unable to keep the admiration out of my voice. “Where the hell did that come from?”

She shrugs, but her eyes are sparkling with satisfaction. “Told you I was good.”

“Good?” I let out a low whistle. “That was fucking beautiful. You just schooled me.”

“Did I hurt your fragile male ego?” she teases, stepping closer.

“My ego’s fine. Actually...” I lean against the ball return, grinning at her. “That was kind of hot.”

The words slip out before I can stop them, and for a second, her confident mask falters. Just a flicker, but I catch it.

“Well,” I say, “guess dinner’s on me.”

“Guess so.” She shrugs, but she’s fighting a grin. “You were right though—this was way more fun than I thought.” She leans in to grab her purse from the bench, and that damn strapless top shifts—pulls tight across her chest, skin glowing under the shitty fluorescent lights.

I don’t even try to look away.

Her perfume hits me again—warm, citrusy, threaded with something sweet like trouble.

She straightens and catches me staring.

Doesn’t call me on it.

Doesn’t look away.

Just stands there, a breath too close, like we’re both daring the other to move first.

She tilts her head slightly, eyes locked on mine, lips parted like she’s about to say something she’ll regret.

Or maybe do something worse.

The space between us shrinks—one step, half a breath—and suddenly the air’s too tight. The sound of crashing pins fades. The rest of the world doesn’t exist.

She looks at my mouth.

My cock kicks—heat crawls down my spine, low and slow, until it settles where it shouldn’t. She’s not touching me, but I feel her everywhere.

Her voice drops to a whisper, barely audible over the thump of my heart.

“You always this competitive?”

“Only when the stakes are high,” I rasp.

“And what exactly are the stakes right now?”

I don’t answer. Can’t.

Because if I open my mouth, I’m either gonna say something reckless—

or pull her in and fuck this whole arrangement sideways.

Her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. Deliberate.

Jesus.

She exhales—slow and shaky, like she felt it too.

I take a step back. I have to. One more second in that space and we’re done for.

Griffin’s threats still echoing in my head, but they’re getting quieter every time she looks at me like that.

“Ready to go?” she asks, voice too even.

“Yeah,” I say. But my body’s still wired. My brain’s still playing out every damn what-if.

We stand there for a moment, both smiling like idiots. No cameras, no pressure, no Griffin breathing down my neck. Just two people who actually enjoyed each other’s company.

For the first time in weeks, something feels real.

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It was.”

As we walk to return our shoes, still joking around, I catch myself thinking this might be the most dangerous part of our whole arrangement.

We head out to the car, still throwing jabs and laughing, but my pulse hasn’t let up.

Her laugh’s still ringing in my ears. Her scent’s all over my shirt. And my self-control? Hanging by a thread and fraying fast.

She looked at me like she wanted me to break the rules—like she wouldn’t stop me if I pulled her back into that alley and kissed her until we forgot what the fuck we were pretending.

And now I’ve gotta sit across from her at dinner and act like I didn’t just picture her riding me in the back seat before the appetizers even hit the table.