“Well,” I say, searching for something to say. “They’re certainly . . . extravagant.”
Liam swears under his breath.
I raise my eyebrow at him. “What?”
“Nothing. I should go.”
He goes to leave, but I grab his hand. “Liam—”
He looks down, and gently removes his fingers from mine. “Liss, I have no right to tell you what to do, and I definitely have no right to tell you who to date. The part of me that’s desperately trying to be your friend wants you to find someone and be happy.”
“And the other part?”
He stares down at me, and his expression reminds me of a bank of thunderheads right before a storm. “The other part feels like destroying things when I think about you and another man, which is insane, considering our circumstances.”
“Yes. It is.” I don’t mean for it to come out as harsh as it does, but I can’t deny that Liam’s jealousy regarding my nonexistent love life irritates me.
It must irritate him, too, because he rubs his eyes and lets out a frustrated sigh. “So many times over the years I’ve typed your name into Google, only to chicken out before I hit ‘enter,’ because I knew I couldn’t handle finding out you were engaged or married. And then I’d hate myself, because if I truly cared about you, which I do, I should want you to find someone who’ll appreciate what an amazing person you are. If I wasn’t such a selfish asshole, I’d wish for men to fall all over themselves to be with you. I’d want them to flatter you and buy you presents, and dedicate themselves to making you happy. But every time I have those thoughts . . . every single time, the deepest parts of me know without a doubt that the only man on this planet who could ever make you truly, deeply happy . . . is me. Crazy, right?”
I stare at him, and clench my jaw to stop myself from admitting how infuriatingly right he is. “Yeah. Crazy.”
He swallows, and glances at the giant flower arrangement. “So, yeah. I’d like to tell you to stay away from Kent, because I don’t think he’s anywhere near good enough for you, but who the hell am I to talk? He just spent a thousand dollars on flowers for you, and I bought . . . well, this.” He passes me the small bag he’s been holding since he walked in.
“What is it?” I ask as I look inside. “A T-shirt?”
He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, and I swear, I can see color flare on the tops of his ears. “It’s nothing, really. But it reminded me of you, so I had to get it.”
I pull out the T-shirt and hold it up. It’s bright yellow and reads, SWEET DREAMS ARE MADE OF CHEESE. WHO AM I TO DISS A BRIE?
A rush of warmth hits me. “You bought me a T-shirt about . . . cheese?” For some reason, it makes me want to cry.
I sit there for a few seconds, trying to gather myself together, and when I look up, Liam is frowning. “You hate it.”
I hold it to my chest. “Not even a little. It’s the most perfect T-shirt in the history of the world. I love it.” I swallow hard, because damn him for making a ten-dollar joke shirt seem like the sweetest gift I’ve ever received.
“You’re welcome,” he says, before giving me one of those soft, intimate smiles that I know he doesn’t give to anyone else. “Okay. I’d better get out of your hair. You should call Anthony. To thank him, or . . . whatever.” It’s clear that contemplating me doing “whatever” with Anthony makes him want to barf.
As he grabs the door handle, I stand. “Liam.” He turns back to me. “For the record, there’s no comparison between you and Anthony, no matter how much money he spends. Your present is perfect. For me, anyway. The only thing Anthony has over you is that he’s single.”
He nods and looks at his feet. “Yeah. Kind of an important trait in a potential relationship, I guess. So, you’re going to date him?”
“No.”
He studies me for a second. “Why not?”
I shrug and try not to look like the lovesick idiot I am. “He’s not my type.”
He gives me a bittersweet smile that tells me he sees right through me, then opens the door and disappears down the hallway.
FOURTEEN
CALL FOR HELP
It’s the Sunday night before our third week of rehearsal, and I’ve just settled in for a quiet night stuffing my face with cheese when my phone goes off. A quick look at the screen shows a pretty brunette with the caption—Cassie Taylor, Brother Wrangler and Ethan Tamer. As I answer it, an excited voice squeals, “You’re on TV!”
I pull the phone away from my ear. No wonder my brother’s fiancée is a great actress. Her vocal projection could shatter glass.
“Hi to you, too, Miss Taylor.”
“No, but seriously,” Cassie says, and lowers her decibels a little. “Look at you on my TV. You look amazing.”
“I’m in the background.”