He shakes his head. “No, it goes hand in hand with the no-touching thing. It just disgusts me.”
Before I can stop myself, I ask, “Why?”
Liam shrugs. “No reason. I’ve just always been that way.”
Opening the box, I take out the powered sugar one and bite into it. Sugary goodness explodes over my tongue, removing the bitter taste from the attack. I didn’t lie when I said I’m a stress eater. I ate an entire pizza and a dozen donuts after breaking up with my last boyfriend. Food comforts me.
After swallowing, I ask, “Then what happened to all the coffees I made for you?”
Liam sits down on the same couch as me, and turning his body toward mine, he rests his arm on the back, his hand settling inches from my head. “I drank them all.”
With the donut halfway to my mouth, I pause to ask, “Because you didn’t want to offend me?”
“No. Because I liked it.”
He’s never grumpy with me.
He doesn’t mind touching me.
He drinks the coffee I make.
He brought me to his home and has gone out of his way to take care of me.
Slowly the realization starts to sink in.
I think Liam likes me.
His eyes go to the donut in my hand, then back to my face, and it has me asking, “Will you try a bite? I promise it’s good.”
He lets out a chuckle, then lifting his hand, he takes hold of my wrist and brings the donut to his mouth. He bites into the spot I just bit into, then lets go of me.
My cheeks flush, and my stomach does cartwheels.
Wiping his thumb over his lips, he says, “A bit too sweet.”
Uh-huh.
Getting up, he asks, “Want some coffee?”
“Please.” Sinking my teeth into the donut, my eyes follow Liam to the kitchen. I watch as he prepares two coffees, and by the time he carries the cups to the living room, I’m on my second donut.
Liam looks a little green when he says, “Christ, that one looks like it will give you diabetes.”
My mouth curves up a little. “I can live with death by donuts.” Taking the cup from him, I wash the bite down, then say, “Thank you.”
“Stop thanking me.” He sits down in the same position as before he got up, then his eyes rest on me, his irises as blue as the ocean on a summer's day.
Not wanting to intrude or cry on his shoulder more than I already have, I say, “Would you mind taking me home after the coffee?”
Liam stares at me for a moment, then replies, “On one condition.”
My brows furrow. “What?”
“I’ll stay there with you.” When I begin to frown, he gestures to my head. “Concussion. The doctor said not to leave you alone for a couple of days. You’re stuck with me for the weekend.”
Holy…
I blink at him.
Out of obligation because I work for you or because you care?
“We can stay here. If you don’t mind,” I mumble before taking a massive bite of the chocolate glazed donut.
“Will’s bringing your bag tomorrow,” Liam mentions.
I wash the bite down with another sip of the coffee. “Tha–” A pointed look from Liam has the words dying on my lips. Instead, I just nod.
I glance out the windows at the ocean of lights stretching into the night. Without warning, a debilitating sense of shame and trauma hits. Pressing the back of my hand to my mouth, I close my eyes to breathe through it.
I wasn’t raped.
The bruises will heal.
Mom’s safe.
I’m safe.
It’s over.
I repeat the words until Liam takes the donut and coffee from my hands. He moves the box to the coffee table, along with the cup, then shifts closer and wraps his arms around me.
“Is there anything I can do to help you through this?” he asks, his tone gentle.
Carefully resting my cheek against his chest, I whisper, “You’re already doing so much.” I close my eyes, focusing on how safe he makes me feel, and I realize I don’t care if he’s the head of some mafia. I don’t care if he’s a bad man.
I just care that I’m safe with him.
Liam relaxes against the couch, positioning me to lean against him, not removing his arms from around me. “What do you want to talk about.”
“Tell me about yourself,” I say without having to think.
“Like you, I’m born and bred in Chicago. Will’s my best friend. I’m thirty-nine, and I don’t like donuts.”
My lips curve up, and I pull back to give him an incredulous look. “You don’t look like you’re pushing forty.”
A smile spreads over his face, making him look even younger. “Is that a compliment?”
“Yep.” Leaning my shoulder against the back of the couch, I say, “You look like Charlie Hunnam.”
“Is that good or bad?”
“Definitely good.”
When he chuckles, the sound is rich and music to my ears. Our eyes lock for a moment before I lower mine to his chest only to look at bloodstains.