Page 13 of The Dating Coach (Hearts on Ice #4)

The molecular model exploded across Liam's bedroom floor in a shower of plastic atoms and bonds, victim to my overreaction when he'd reached over to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. I stared at the destruction, my hand still raised defensively, my body vibrating with panic I couldn't explain.

"Shit," I breathed, dropping to my knees to gather the pieces. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I—"

"Gemma." Liam's voice was careful, controlled. He didn't move to help, didn't come closer, and I hated that he felt he needed to give me space. "It's okay. They're just models."

"It's not okay," I snapped, then immediately felt worse. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I just..." I sat back on my heels, plastic carbon atoms clutched in my fists. "You tucked my hair back. It's such a stupid thing to freak out about."

"It's not stupid if it upset you," he said simply. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I laughed, but it came out cracked. "What's to talk about? My high school chemistry teacher used to do that. Tuck my hair back while he explained concepts. Said it helped him see my face better, gauge if I was understanding. It seemed innocent until it wasn't."

Liam's expression darkened. "Gemma—"

"I don't want to talk about Mr. Brennan," I said firmly, dumping the molecular pieces on his desk. "I want to focus on reaction mechanisms and pretend I'm not completely fucked up about innocent touches."

"You're not fucked up," he said, and the fierce protectiveness in his voice almost undid me. "Someone betrayed your trust. Having a trauma response doesn't make you broken."

"Doesn't it?" I returned to my spot on his bed, careful to maintain distance between us. "You can't even move my hair without me acting like you're about to attack me. That seems pretty broken to me."

We sat in silence for a moment, the late afternoon sun slanting through his windows, highlighting the architectural drawings that represented his own hidden dreams.

"Tell me about your dating homework. Did you actually approach anyone this week?"

His face did something complicated – part guilt, part defiance. "I did, actually. Three conversations, as assigned."

The stab of jealousy caught me off guard. "Oh? And how did that go?"

"Well, let's see." He counted on his fingers. "Girl number one was from my economics class. Turns out she only wanted to talk to me to get to Henry. Spent twenty minutes hearing about how 'mysterious' he is."

"Henry?" I couldn't hide my disbelief. "Our Henry? The one who alphabetizes his socks?"

"Apparently that's mysterious to economics majors." He moved to the second finger. "Girl number two was at the coffee shop. Nice conversation about environmental policy until her boyfriend showed up. Turns out she thought I was trying to recruit her for a campus sustainability initiative."

"And the third?" I asked, trying to sound casual.

"Library. Philosophy major. We had a genuinely good conversation about existential philosophy and the meaning of life." Something flickered in his eyes. "She asked for my number."

"Oh." The word came out smaller than intended. "That's... good. Progress. Did you give it to her?"

"What do you think?" he asked, studying my face with an intensity that made me squirm.

"I think you're asking me instead of answering, which is avoidance behavior." I grabbed my chemistry textbook, needing something to do with my hands. "But yes, you probably should have given it to her. That's the point of these exercises."

"Is it?" He leaned forward. "The point? Because I'm starting to lose track of what we're doing here."

"We're studying organic chemistry," I said firmly, flipping to the chapter on substitution reactions. "Which we should get back to."

"Right. Chemistry." But the way he said it made clear we both knew we weren't talking about the academic kind anymore.

We managed to focus for all of ten minutes before the universe decided to test my emotional capacity. Mia burst through the door without knocking, tears streaming down her face, cell phone clutched in her shaking hand.

“Gemma,” she gasped. “Someone from our parents’ neighborhood saw me on my way back from school. They recognized me. They’re going to tell Mom and Dad where I am.”

Every protective instinct flared to life. I was across the room in seconds, pulling her into my arms. "Who? When? What exactly did they say?"

“Mrs. Patterson’s daughter, Chelsea,” Mia sobbed. “She crossed my path on my way home from school and said she knew my parents were looking for me. She said it was her ‘Christian duty’ to tell them where their ‘wayward daughter’ was hiding.”

"Chelsea," I murmured, remembering the sanctimonious girl who'd made Mia's life hell in middle school.

"What if they come here?" Mia's voice pitched higher with panic. "What if they try to take me back? I can't go back, Gemma. I can't do the conversion therapy. I'd rather run away—"

"Hey, no." I gripped her shoulders, made her look at me. "You're not going back. Ever. I don't care if I have to fight them in court or take you myself. You're staying here where you're safe."

"I can have Frank pick you up from school for a while," Liam offered quietly. He'd moved closer but was careful not to crowd us. "Different car, different schedule. Make it harder for anyone to track your routine."

"You'd do that?" Mia looked at him with such hope it broke my heart.

"Of course. Frank loves any excuse to skip his morning class." Liam's attempt at levity worked – Mia managed a watery smile. "Plus, his car is so ridiculous no one would expect you to be in it. It's like witness protection via absurdity."

"The Cryptid-mobile," Mia said, referring to Frank's disaster of a vehicle covered in Bigfoot and UFO stickers. "That could work."

"See? Problem taken care of." I smoothed her hair back, the gesture so automatic I didn't realize the parallel until I caught Liam watching us. "How about we all have dinner together? That Italian place downtown?"

"Can we afford somewhere that nice?" Mia asked, ever practical even in crisis.

"We can afford to celebrate you being safe and having people who care about you," I said firmly. "Besides, I aced my last practice test. That deserves pasta."

"You did?" Liam's face lit up with genuine pride. "Gemma, that's amazing! When did you—"

"Yesterday." I felt heat rise in my cheeks at his enthusiasm. "It's just a practice test."

"Just a test that you failed two months ago," he countered. "This is huge. We're definitely celebrating."

And that's how I ended up at the restaurant, squeezed into a booth between Liam and the wall, watching my sister gradually relax as Frank regaled her with increasingly absurd theories about their breadsticks being a mind-control device.

Karen had tagged along, claiming she was craving Mexican tonight but Italian would work just as well.

Henry was there as well, having been dragged from his study cave by the promise of free food.

"I'm just saying," Frank insisted, waving a breadstick for emphasis, "no normal bread product should be this addictive. There's clearly something supernatural at work."

"Or garlic butter," Karen suggested dryly. "I hear that's pretty addictive too."

"That's what they want you to think," Frank said ominously.

Under the table, Liam's knee pressed against mine. Such a small point of contact, but I felt it through my entire body. When I glanced at him, he was focused on his menu, but there was a slight smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"Stop that," I murmured, low enough only he could hear.

"Stop what?" All innocence.

"You know what."

"I really don't." But his knee pressed a little firmer, and my traitorous body wanted to press back.

"So Gemma," Henry said, breaking whatever was happening under the table. "Liam says you're pre-med. What's your focus going to be?"

"Oncology," I said, grateful for the distraction. "Specifically researching new treatments for leukemias."

"Damn," Frank said. "That's heavy. Important, but heavy."

"Someone has to do it," I said, then felt pretentious. "I mean, I just... I watched cancer take someone I loved when I was young. I want to be part of finding better answers."

"That's incredible," Liam said softly. The admiration in his voice made something flutter in my chest.

"What about you?" I deflected to Henry. "What's the plan after graduation?"

"Law school, probably," Henry said without enthusiasm. "Following the family tradition. Third generation of legal minds, can't break the streak now."

"But?" I prompted, recognizing the tone of someone else living for others' expectations.

"But I'd rather teach," he admitted. "Elementary school. Maybe second or third grade. I love kids, love watching them figure things out. But try explaining to my father why I'd give up a potential six-figure salary to deal with seven-year-olds and budget cuts."

"The seven-year-olds would be lucky to have you," Mia said firmly. "Anyone who can explain hockey plays to me could definitely teach math to second graders."

Henry beamed at her. "Thanks, kid."

"Not a kid," Mia protested. "I'm almost eighteen."

"When?" I asked, the date suddenly hitting me. "Oh God, it's this month."

"Yes," Mia confirmed. "Not that it matters. Not like we can have a party or anything."

"Why not?" Frank demanded. "Turning eighteen is huge! You can vote, buy lottery tickets, get arrested as an adult—"

"Great selling points," Karen said dryly.

"We could do something small," Liam suggested. "At the house. Just us."

"You don't have to—" Mia started.

"We want to," Liam said firmly. "Right, guys?"

"Absolutely," Henry agreed. "I make a mean birthday cake. From a box, but still."

"And I can decorate," Frank added. "I still have streamers from the last three parties we threw."

Watching my sister's face light up as they planned her birthday, seeing how naturally she fit with these people who'd become our accidental family, I felt that dangerous warmth in my chest expand. When Liam's hand found mine under the table, squeezing gently, I didn't pull away.

"Thank you," I whispered.

"Always," he whispered back, and the word felt like a promise.

The rest of dinner passed in a blur of laughter and terrible jokes.

But underneath it all, I was hyperaware of Liam beside me – the way he automatically ordered Mia's drink refill when he noticed it was empty, how he deflected Frank's probing questions about our "study sessions," the careful way he made sure I was included in every conversation even when hockey dominated the topic.

As we walked back to campus—Mia linking arms with Frank and Henry, Karen walking alongside them debating the merits of chocolate versus vanilla cake—Liam fell into step beside me.

"She's going to be okay," he said quietly. "We won't let anything happen to her."

"We," I repeated. "You keep saying we."

"Problem with that?"

I thought about how naturally he'd stepped into this role, how much I'd come to rely on his steady presence. "No," I admitted. "No problem."

He stopped walking, waited until I met his eyes. "Good."

I stood there on the sidewalk, looking up at him in the lamplight, feeling like I was balanced on the edge of something irreversible. Behind us, Mia laughed at something Frank said.

He kissed me. Right there on the sidewalk, under the stars and streetlights, with our friends probably watching. It was soft and sure and felt like coming home.

From behind us came exaggerated gagging noises. "Get a room!" Frank yelled. "There are children present!"

"I'm almost eighteen!" Mia protested.

"Still a child!" Frank insisted. "Henry, cover her innocent eyes!"

We broke apart, laughing, and rejoined our ridiculous found family. But Liam kept hold of my hand as we walked, and I let him.