11. Liam

Chapter eleven

Liam

Miles bleed away under the tires, the hum of the engine a steady drone that's long since faded into the backdrop of my consciousness. The silence in the car sits heavy, thick enough to smother the tension that crackles subtly between us. Three hours. Not a word spoken.

Not since I ordered her to get in the car… not since she obeyed.

I steal a glance at Shiloh, her profile etched against the rain-streaked window, eyes skimming over the pages of some paperback she's brought along. Her brow furrows in concentration, or maybe frustration—it's hard to tell with her.

She turns another page, then another, but I can tell she isn't reading anymore. Her fingers linger too long, her gaze too distant. The silence stretches on, oppressive, until it feels like we're both suffocating under the weight of unspoken words and stifled emotions.

Finally, she snaps the book shut, her action resonating like a gunshot in the void.

"Can we put on some music or something?" Her voice is tentative, but there's an underlying current of defiance like she's daring me to keep up this silent treatment.

"Sure," I say curtly, not looking at her. My hands grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles whitening as I focus on the endless stretch of road ahead. Silence was easier; it didn't demand anything of me.

Music implies a choice, a preference—a glimpse into the personal that I'm not sure I want to share with her.

If I share anything with her, I know that will be the beginning of the end.

It’s already so fucking hard to resist her.

"Okay, what do you like?" Shiloh's fingers hover above her phone screen, the glow casting shadows across her face.

"Anything," I mutter, trying to sound indifferent, but my blood is already simmering with irritation. Music is personal, and right now, I don't want to give anything of myself away—not even something as trivial as my taste in songs.

"Nobody listens to everything," she counters, a hint of challenge in her voice that makes me scowl at the darkening horizon.

"Really, I don’t care." The words come out more harshly than I intend, and I can feel her gaze on me, questioning, trying to peel back layers I've cemented shut.

"Fine," she says, a sly edge creeping into her tone. I hear the soft taps as her fingers dance on the screen, and then suddenly, the car is filled with the vibrant sounds of…

… polka?

Seriously?

I wince at the cacophony of trumpets blaring, tubas tooting, and the cheerful cries of vocalists.

I shoot her a look, one eyebrow raised in confusion. This isn't her style—it's not mine either, obviously. And there it is, that smirk, playing on the corners of her lips. She's messing with me, trying to draw out a reaction, any reaction other than the stoic facade I've been holding up since we left.

I let out an involuntary huff, which might pass for a laugh if someone were feeling generous, and shake my head, conceding to this small battle of wills.

"Folk music," I relent, admitting to one of my preferences. "If you have any."

"See? Now we're getting somewhere," she says, almost triumphantly.

Shiloh scrolls through her playlists with practiced ease, her fingers swiping the screen of her phone before she selects one labeled 'Folk the tension that had been coiled tight within her seems to unravel slightly with each song.

Hours slip by, the dreary day outside punctuated by the occasional glow of passing towns. We're caught in the bubble of the car, the world reduced to the hum of the engine and the stories told in song.

"I need to stop," Shiloh's voice cuts through the tranquility, hesitant but urgent.

"Alright." I glance over at her. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, a clear sign of her dilemma.

"And I'd like to change. This outfit is not made for endless hours on the road," she adds, plucking at the fabric of her blouse, which is more suited for boardrooms than backroads.

"Sure thing." I nod. It's a reasonable request, and besides, it gives me an excuse to stretch my legs and shake off the creeping stiffness settling into my muscles.

We continue for a few more miles until I spot a gas station aglow with neon signs advertising restrooms and cheap coffee. I signal and pull off the highway, guiding the car into the parking lot. It feels good to be doing something normal, like stopping for a break, even if it's under circumstances neither of us could have predicted when today began.

"Thanks," she murmurs as she unclips her seatbelt, her relief evident.

"Don't mention it." I try to sound nonchalant, but there's an unfamiliar warmth bubbling up within me—a strange mix of concern for her comfort and an unexpected eagerness for the briefest glimpse of normalcy.

We part ways at the entrance, Shiloh bee-lining for the ladies' room while I grab a basket and start wandering the aisles. The gas station is a sanctuary of junk food and travel essentials. I snag some trail mix, beef jerky, and a couple of water bottles—might as well stock up.

By the time I pay and use the restroom myself, Shiloh's already waiting by the car. But she's not the same corporate-clad assistant from when we started this impromptu road trip.

She's changed into something that screams 'road trip rookie': a t-shirt emblazoned with a cartoonish bulldog—the local high school mascot, no doubt—and oversized gray sweats that look like they'd fit me better than her.

I can't help it; a laugh escapes me before I can think to stifle it. It's a short, surprised sound, but it feels foreign after hours of silence and tension between us.

Shiloh beams at my reaction, and there's something infectious about her smile. It lights up her whole face, makes her eyes sparkle, and suddenly, the cramped confines of the car seem less stifling.

"Nice outfit," I tease, unlocking the doors.

"Thanks." She does a little twirl, clearly not embarrassed in the slightest. "Figured I should embrace the spirit of the road."

"Embracing it with gusto, I see." I chuckle, shaking my head as I slide back behind the wheel. I'm still smiling, and I catch Shiloh looking at me like she's never seen me do it before. Maybe she hasn't.

"Road trip rule number one: Always be comfortable," she declares, buckling up.

"Is that so?" I ask, starting the engine. "And here I thought rule number one was don't drive your boss across state lines."

"Only if you get caught," she quips, and there's a spark of something—challenge, maybe, or just plain mischief—in her tone

The sun dips low on the horizon, casting a hazy orange glow over the road ahead. Hours have passed since Shiloh changed into her impromptu road trip attire, but neither of us has managed to keep up the light-hearted banter.

The map says we’re somewhere in Maryland… and that isn’t nearly close enough. I can feel the crankiness settling in like an unwelcome passenger. My eyes are heavy with the kind of tiredness that makes every blink a battle to reopen.

"Shiloh," I start, my voice rough from disuse, "how much longer do we have?"

She pulls out her phone and opens up the navigation app. I glance over, dreading the answer.

"Another seven hours," she says, and my heart sinks.

"Seven hours." It's not just a statement; it's a lament. I rub my eyes, trying to push away the fatigue. "Alright, I can muscle through it."

"Sure you can, Iron Man," Shiloh murmurs, but her words are laced with a hint of worry.

I'm about to reassure her, maybe crack a joke to lighten the mood, when a loud bang echoes from under the car, cutting through the strained silence like a gunshot. My grip on the steering wheel tightens instinctively as I ease off the gas and guide the car to the side of the road.

"What the hell was that?" Shiloh asks, her voice tense as she looks back at the road behind us.

"Something we definitely didn't need right now," I mutter. My mind races—flat tire? Engine problem? Either way, it's bad news.

And stranded on the side of some highway in Maryland is not where I want to be with Shiloh.

Not when every second around her is a test of self-control I never agreed to take.

"Are we... are we okay?" She turns to me, face etched with concern.

I meet her gaze, wishing I had the answers. "We'll find out."

I push the door open and step out into the cool night air. The distant sounds of nighttime traffic are a soft hum compared to the silence that hangs between Shiloh and me. I circle to the back of the car, my shoes crunching on the gravel shoulder.

"Stay inside," I call over my shoulder as Shiloh unbuckles her seatbelt. "It's safer."

Ignoring me, she joins my side, her arms crossed against the chill. "Like hell, I'm sitting in there while you play hero, Liam."

"Stubborn," I mutter under my breath but don't argue further. Together we survey the damage: the rear tire is completely shredded, its tough rubber torn to ribbons.

"Great," I say, the word dripping with sarcasm. "A blowout."

"Can we fix it?" Shiloh asks, peering over my shoulder with a frown.

“There should be a spare in the trunk,” I mutter—but it isn’t like we can drive another seven hours on a spare, especially not as the sun is setting.

This is bad enough, but being out on a strange highway in the middle of the night if the spare gives out…?

That wouldn’t be ideal. Still, I hold on to hope, rounding the back of the car to look in the trunk.

Only to find there’s not even a spare.

I curse, and Shiloh raises her eyebrows. “All good?” she asks.

“No,” I snap. “We’re fucking stranded… again.”