Wicked Heart (20 page)

I nod. “My mom passed along her love for cooking to Ethan and me. From the age of ten, we each had to cook one family meal a week. Of course, the first thing I learned to make was mac and
cheese.”

He looks up from the fry pan. “Of course. Not normal cheese, though, right?”

I scoff. “As if. My first attempt included Castello White and buffalo mozzarella. It was heaven, even if I do say so myself.”

“I love mac and cheese. Promise you’ll make it for me one night?”

I want to remind him that making each other dinner is stepping over all sorts of lines, but his face is so hopeful, I knock it back to a simple “Maybe.”

He throws some pasta into the boiling pot along with a decent pinch of salt. “Angel can’t cook at all. She loves gourmet food, but has no idea how it’s made. I guess
that’s what happens when you grow up in a house with a nanny, a chef, and a housekeeper.”

At Angel’s name, I tense up. With everything falling back into such a comfortable routine with Liam, it’s easy to forget we now live in completely different worlds.

If he notices, it doesn’t show. He nods toward the cheese on the bench. “Want to grate some of that for me? Grater’s in the drawer, bowl is in the cabinet behind me.”

I hop up and do as I’m asked. When I’ve grated a decent amount, I place it next to him and glance over his shoulder into the simmering pan. “The sauce looks amazing.”

He stirs it once more before scooping up a little with the wooden spoon and blowing on it. “Here. Taste.” He holds his hand under it and moves it toward my mouth. Without even
thinking about the intimacy of the action, I close my mouth around the spoon. I immediately freeze, and when I look up, Liam’s staring.

I lick my lips and swallow, feeling more than a little self-conscious. “Delicious.”

His gaze travels up to my eyes and then back down to my mouth. “Uh-huh. Is there . . . uh . . . enough salt?”

“Yep. Perfect.” After a couple more seconds of pinning me in place with his gaze, he turns back to the sauce. I sigh in relief and head back to the safety zone on the other side of
the island. My entire body is buzzing. I wonder if he affects all women the same way. Does Angel feel like this? Like he’s a bolt of lightning in human form, charging the air around him?

I sip my beer, and we lapse into silence as he finishes the dish. When he places a steaming bowl in front of me, topped with a generous serving of Parmesan, my mouth waters like crazy.

“Thank you.”

“As usual with you, Elissa Holt,” he says with a mischievous smile, “the pleasure is all mine. Bon appetit.”

He sits next to me as we eat. It’s both comfortable and tense, and I’m realizing that’s kind of normal for us.

“So,” I say. “You seeing your mom and dad while you’re in town?”

He shakes his head. “I bought them a round-the-world trip ages ago, and didn’t realize it coincided with my stay. They’re traveling for the next two months. Hopefully
I’ll get to see them before I head back to L.A. If the show lasts that long.”

I finish my last bite and wipe my mouth with a napkin. “Oh, it’ll last. Don’t worry. Parmesan and truffle onstage every night? Audiences will eat it up.”

He laughs, then takes our empty bowls over to the sink. “Well, that’s encouraging.” He grabs two more beers out of the fridge and passes me one. When we head back over to the
couch, I wince as I sit.

He looks at me with concern. “Hip still sore?”

“Only a little. My bruise, however, could win awards. It’s kind of cool, in a gross, blood-filled way.”

He lays his arm along the back of the couch. “Can I see?”

“My bruise?”

He nods. “Purely for medical purposes. Sometimes a severe contusion can cause vascular issues. Better let me run my expert eyes over it, just to be sure.”

I blink. “Are you serious?”

“As a heart attack. Come here.”

He puts his beer down on the coffee table as I push up out of the couch. When I stand in front of him, he lifts up my T-shirt and examines the dark purple crescent that peeks over the edge of my
low-rise jeans.

He looks up at me, and just having him this close makes me dizzy. “Can I see the rest?” His voice is dark, and way too sexy.

“Do you really need to?” I know my limits, and every one of them is fast approaching.

“I’d like to. Just to check it. I still feel responsible for you getting hurt.”

I bite the inside of my cheek as I release the button on my jeans and pull down the zipper. Everything feels very heavy. Liam is watching my hands, and I focus on his lashes as he blinks
slowly.

I push the side of my jeans down, revealing the full extent of the bruise, along with the strap of my black thong.

Liam exhales and just stares for a few seconds. I see his Adam’s apple bob twice before he speaks. “Well, yeah. Medically speaking, that’s one hell of a bruise.”

The skin is dark purple with angry yellow highlights over my hip bone. He grazes his fingers over it, and I have to close my eyes and clench my teeth to stop myself from making a very aroused
sound.

“It’s warm. Does the joint hurt?”

Nothing hurts right now
. “No. Just my thigh muscle.”

“Uh-huh.” I open my eyes. He moves his thumb down to the top of my thigh. “Here?”

He presses gently, and I suck in a breath. “Yes.” The pain isn’t severe, but coupled with how light-headed he’s making me, I have to put my hands on his shoulders to keep
my balance.

He grips my hips to help steady me. “Sorry. You okay?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

Except I’m not fine. He’s looking up at me with a sense of need that threatens to ruin me, and his hands are warm and firm, and I want to feel more of them. I want him to push my
jeans down and rip off my panties, and put that magic mouth of his right where I’m aching most. I want him to realize he made a mistake by leaving me, and dump his amazing fiancée, and
break his fans’ hearts just to satisfy my selfish craving. And I hate myself for wanting all of those things because any one of them would hurt a lot of people, and part of me is absolutely
okay with that.

“Liss.” He’s gazing at me, eyes blazing, jaw tight. I become aware of his hands, gripping and releasing my hips in an erratic rhythm. Everywhere he’s touching me sparks
and warms. “You can’t look at me like that and expect me to respect our friends pact. You really can’t.”

My breath catches. “How am I looking at you?”

“Like you want to straddle my face.” My fingers dig into his shoulders, and he hisses. “You need to stop, or I swear to God, I’m about three seconds away from making it
happen.” He squeezes his eyes shut. “I vowed I’d keep my cool around you, but every time you’re close, that becomes more and more impossible.”

Without thinking, I stroke the hair away from his face. “Liam . . .”

He sighs and leans into my touch. “You can’t say my name like that.” He drops his head. “Seriously. I’m hanging on by a thread here.” My stomach flips when he
pulls me forward between his legs so that his forehead is resting on my stomach. His warm breath makes me shiver, and when he wraps his arms around me, I can’t stop myself from hugging him
back.

“I’ve missed you, Liss. It hurt not seeing you for all of those years, but this? You being right here and me not being able to have you? Hurts so much more.”

He pushes his hands under my T-shirt and grips my back, fingers splayed. Like he’s sure I’ll disappear if he’s not touching my skin.

I try to enjoy the moment, but I get a flash of what would happen if Angel walked through the door right now. How she would feel seeing me, jeans hanging open, Liam clutching me and breathing
heavily against my skin.

It would devastate her.

As much as I acknowledge my own selfishness, I also know I could never hurt her like that.

I put my hands on his shoulders and push him back. “Liam—”

“I know.” He falls against the couch and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I know I have to resist, but whenever you’re near I just . . . can’t think
straight.”

I exhale and refasten my jeans. “I’m to blame, too. Clearly, there’s still an attraction between us, and hugging isn’t the best way to deal with that.”

“It’s not the hugging,” he says. “It’s just being together. It’s always been this way. Look.”

He leans forward and takes my hand. I’m about to tell him to stop when he slowly pushes his fingers between mine. Skin slides against skin, soft and sensitive.

Ohhhhh, God.

Such a simple, innocent gesture, but I feel it everywhere.

“See? I can’t even hold your hand.” He gently pulls his fingers back, then pushes them in again. My eyelids flutter as I try to keep breathing.

He keeps staring into my eyes, and I have no choice but to stare back. He continues to caress my fingers, but doesn’t touch me anywhere else. He doesn’t have to. I feel it so
strongly in every part of my body, he might as well be grazing my breasts, or my thighs, or have his hand in my pants.

Judging from how dilated his pupils are, he’s just as turned on as I am.

“See? This is the problem.” His voice is low and husky. “I’ve spent years trying to block out how you look. And sound. And feel. And before this show, I’d gotten
pretty good at it. But now, here you are, in front of me every day, and it blows my mind that a single touch from you still has the power to ruin me. And whenever it happens, I forget about the
choices I’ve made, and the circus my life’s become, and I
want you
. Consequences be damned.”

“Liam, you’re engaged. To an amazing woman.”

“I know.” He looks down at our hands for a few seconds, then shakes his head. “Believe me, I know.” He brushes his thumb across the back of my hand. “And dragging
you into the shitstorm of my life wouldn’t be fair, to you or to Angel. I knew what I’d be sacrificing when I made a commitment to her, and I refuse to be one of those assholes who
thinks he can have it all, because I know very well I can’t.”

So there it is. He didn’t come out and say,
“No matter how much I feel for you, I’m still going to marry Angel,
” but that’s what I heard.

After a few more seconds, he slowly pulls his fingers free from mine and lets out a ragged breath. “So, yeah. I can’t touch you. I have to think of you as my friend, and nothing
more.”

I put my hands on my hips and exhale. “Maybe being alone together is a bad idea.”

“No, we can do this. Please.” He goes to take my hand again, but catches himself. “I need you—as my stage manager, if nothing else. But, if you could also find a way to
stop being so insanely attractive, I’d appreciate it.”

I almost laugh. “Uh-huh. I’ll get right on that.”

His expression turns serious. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Act like I’m saying that out of obligation or pity. I’m not.”

“Well, Liam, come on. Look who you’re engaged to and then look at me. There’s no comparison.”

He stands and looks down at me, and his athletic shorts aren’t doing a thing to disguise how aroused he is right now. “You’re right. And if you had any clue of what you do to
me—what you’ve always done to me—you’d know that.”

I can’t help but glance down. “Well, I guess even if I doubted you, I can’t doubt him.”

He looks down, then rubs his forehead and sighs. “Okay, so, standing up wasn’t a great idea. Just ignore it. It’ll go away eventually.”

“Uh-huh.”

He sits on the couch, and I sit next to him.

“Okay, then,” I say, in my most authoritative voice. “Here’s how it’s going to work: We’re going to run lines and discuss the show when necessary. There will
be no touching. No reminiscing. No unprofessional behavior of any kind. If either of us fails to adhere to these rules, this arrangement is terminated and I’ll find someone else to run your
lines. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” He stares at me for a few seconds, then grabs his beer and takes a long drink. When he turns back to me, he’s frowning. “I’m tempted to tell you how
incredibly hot I found that entire rant, but that would be highly unprofessional, so I’ll keep it to myself.”

A nervous laugh bursts out of me. “Liam?”

“Yeah?”

“Just for the record, I’ve missed you, too.”
Way more than you’ll ever know.

He gives me a warm smile. “Thank you, Liss.”

I open my script, and don’t bother reminding him I’ve requested he call me Elissa. Liss is the girl who still goes weak at the knees for him, and right now, I need to be slick,
professional Elissa more than ever.

For the next hour and a half we run lines. No personal anecdotes. No lingering gazes. Just business.

When he seems satisfied and comfortable, I bid him a quick good night and head to the subway station. I’d congratulate myself on my self-control if I didn’t still feel a little high
from having had his hands on me.

The rest of the second week of rehearsals flies by. Days are spent blocking the show. Nights are spent running lines with Liam.

For the most part, we’re successful in keeping things professional. Every now and then, I catch myself staring and turn away before he can see. At other times, he tries to draw me into
conversation at the end of the night, but I’m careful to shut him down. I get in, run the lines, and get out. Quick and unemotional. It’s the only way things between us can work.

In the rehearsal room, it’s harder to stay detached.

Even though I thought I’d gotten used to seeing Liam and Angel’s regular displays of affection over the years, now that I know he still has feelings for me, every time he touches or
kisses her, I feel a stab of jealousy. I try not to let it affect my friendship with Angel, but it’s tough. I find myself making excuses to not talk to her during lunch, and whenever I need
to discuss show-related matters, I send Josh to do my dirty work.

I feel bad, because none of this is her fault, but the human heart has a flawed logic all its own, and no amount of reasoning will convince it to stop making people like me behave like
assholes.

For her part, Angel seems oblivious. She continues to be friendly, easygoing, and hardworking, and for some reason, that makes things worse. If she was a total bitch, I wouldn’t feel so
bad about my negative feelings for her. But she isn’t, so I do.