He nods, his face thoughtful. “That was a good idea. And you’re right. I can shield you from all that.”
I nod, feeling exposed. I don’t like it that he thinks I wanted to come see him just for kicks. But when I open my mouth to say more, nothing comes out.
“This was the smartest thing you could have done,” he says. “I just wish you’d told me. I could have sent a plane.”
“I flew private. It was okay.”
“You flew here?”
I shake my head. “To Scotland first.”
“When did you get in?”
I swallow. “Yesterday.”
Annnnd now he thinks I ran right to him. Perfect.
Liam doesn’t seem fazed, though. Still crouching by Grey on the rug, he turns a little more toward me, all bulk and shoulders, looking at me through his thick, dark lashes. “You hungry?”
I shrug.
He stands and holds his hand out. “C’mon. I’ll get you something.”
“You will?”
He tilts his head, smirking. “You don’t think I’m capable of preparing food?”
“Um…I’m not sure? Can you?”
“Come find out.”
I pick Grey up, and Liam leads us into the hall, then down a few yards, through a set of double-doors. As I step through them, the dark space is lit up, revealing a large, industrial-looking kitchen.
I look from a row of refrigerators to Prince Liam. “Seriously, though, are you allowed in here? You’re the prince, remember?”
He laughs. “You think they bar me from the kitchen?”
“Where’s the help? Remember my dreams of Downton Abbey?”
He folds his thick arms, leaning back against a granite countertop. “I gave them some time off.”
“Really?”
He nods. “It’s something we do in summer. I’ll call them back tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow?”
“So you can indulge in your Downton Abbey fantasy.”
“So you’re going to cut their vacation short?” I shake my head. “No way! Not for me. You tyrant.”
He smiles. “They won’t mind.”
He pulls out a bar stool and turns toward the cabinets, taking out a few things, then turning back toward me as I scoot up onto the stool.
“What do you want, Lucille?”
“Don’t call me that. It’s weird and old-ladyish.”
He grins, defiant. “Do you like macaroni and cheese, Lucille? What about breakfast foods?”
I stick my tongue out, then can’t help smiling shyly. “Mac and cheese is awesome.”
I watch his back move as he fills the pot with water, sits it on the stove top, turns on the flame, and dumps noodles in. Then he sets a top on it.
He turns back to me with a thoughtful expression that slowly darkens. “I’m sorry for what happened. With the pictures.”
My stomach tightens like a wrung out rag. I’m so embarrassed, I can’t look at him. “Thanks.” I trace a fracture in the marble countertop, then stare at my emerald fingernail.
“You’re embarrassed.”
“Yeah.” I force myself to meet his eyes as I say, “It’s embarrassing. How would you like it if someone saw you all banged up, and they knew all about how it happened? And they saw you as a victim?” The word is cloaked in vitriol. Vitriol I feel for Bryce, and myself too, if I’m being honest.
His mouth presses into a line. “I would hate it. No doubt.”
“Well, I would understand.” I sigh.
“I’m going to tell you something, though, Lucy.”
He comes and stands across the bar from me, resting his elbows on the marble, leaning down so a strand of brown-blond hair falls in his face. I watch his shoulders rise, his chest puff out, as he takes a long breath. He holds my eyes as he blows it out. Then, with his eyes cast down, he pulls his shirt off.
He turns toward me and points to his back. “For years this scar—“ I can see one right under his shoulder blade— “has been explained as being from a piece of a horse’s bridle. And it was,” he says, turning around. His face is dark.
My stomach fills with an air bubble that floats up to my throat.
“I went to school on the island first. As a boy.”
His eyes hold mine, confessing without sound.
I whisper, “Someone hit you?”
He turns away again and tugs at the waistline of his jeans. He peels them down a little, and I see another scar. This one is about six inches long and horizontal. Thick as a ribbon. He turns slowly back to me.
“There’s another one, too. Lower.”
My heart feels like it’s seizing.
“From a leather belt.”
“Holy fuck. Who was it?”
His mouth tautens. “It doesn’t matter now.” He lets his breath out. “Only my oldest friends know. But I wanted you to see—” he inhales— “that I can understand, at least a little. With the public element, too. I hate it when everyone knows about me. I feel like they’ve taken something from me.”
“They have,” I whisper. “Dignity. And privacy.”
His tongue darts over his lower lip. Then his shirt is over his head, and he’s turning toward the pot and stirring.
I can see the tension in his back through the thin undershirt. The shape of his forearms as he moves around the stove top. The angular strength of his hands, the long fingers. When he turns back to me, his eyes are blazing.
“He’s the fuckwad, Lucy. People know that. You left him. They know. You worry what it looks like? It looks like he was a monster, and you got away.”
I look down at my lap. It feels surreal that I’m here, talking about this. I push past my awkwardness and fear and try to talk frankly to him. I feel like it’s the least I can do after what he just confided in me.
“I just hate how it’s sensationalized, you know? I think everyone feels like it’s nice to see me taken down a peg. Most people think my life has been pretty charmed. Not that it hasn’t. But…you know what I mean.”
He leans back against the counter, big hands curved around its edge. “I know.”
I nod, again too shy to look him in the face.
I feel him move closer to me. Feel his hand against my cheek as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “You’re not taken down, Lucy,” he says quietly. “Fuck anyone who wants that, anyway. And while you’re here,” he tells me as he straightens up, “I’ll keep you distracted.”
Alarm bells peel in my head, set off by how nice he is. “You don’t have to. If you’re busy. I just stopped by…” My heart trembles. “To talk.”
Liam’s hand trails down my arm. He takes my hand loosely in his. “We can talk.” His fingertips play with mine, and he gives me a sexy smile. “Tell me something.”
“What?” I whisper.
“Anything.”
I look down at his feet, where Grey is rubbing himself against Liam’s ankles. “I think my dude cat is in love with you.”
He smirks. “Happens all the time.” He kneels down and rubs Grey’s head. Grey arches into Liam’s hand.
“My mum had cats,” he tells me.
“Yeah?”
He nods. “Odin and Freyr.”
“Are those Norse gods?”
“Aye.” He smiles.
“The tabloids are right, you know. You smile a lot.”
“That’s what they say?” He fakes a stern look.
“You know it is. They love you.”
“They love wealth and novelty.” He turns back to the stove.