12. Shiloh

Chapter twelve

Shiloh

We were lucky enough to find a mechanic who could fix the car tonight, Liam presumably offering an insane amount of money to do the job. But there are still hours until then… which means we’re still stranded. For now.

Ugh.

The motel's neon sign flickers as if it's on its last breath, and I can't help but think it's an omen of our current predicament. We trudge up to the worn-out building, my feet dragging from exhaustion—and maybe a bit of dread. Liam strides ahead, his suit still crisp despite the day's chaos, though his face is anything but composed.

I'm in these ridiculous lounge pants that shout 'tourist', and the scent of gas station nacho cheese clings to me like a bad decision. I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror of the tow truck that gave us a lift; with my hair a mess and wearing clothes fit for a sleepover, I look nothing like the capable assistant I'm supposed to be.

And Liam—well, he looks like a king knocked off his throne, irritation etched into every line of his usually impassive face.

The lobby of the motel is empty except for the clerk, who looks more interested in the dog-eared magazine in front of him than in us. We approach the desk, and I can already see the tension in Liam's shoulders hike up another notch.

“We need two rooms,” Liam snarls, not bothering with pleasantries.

"Sorry, folks," the clerk drawls without looking up, "only got one room left. Everything else is booked solid."

Liam's jaw tightens, the muscles there ticking like a warning sign. He leans in, close enough for me to see the clerk finally raise his eyes, a flicker of recognition—and maybe apprehension—crossing his face.

"Are you quite sure about that?" Liam's voice is low, a controlled rumble of thunder on a clear day. "Perhaps this can persuade you to double-check?"

He pulls out his wallet, and I watch as a crisp bill flutters onto the counter, its value no doubt more than the room’s cost for an entire week. I press my lips together to keep from sighing aloud. Money may be the key that turns most locks, but tonight it seems we've stumbled upon a stubborn bolt.

The clerk barely spares the bill a glance before shaking his head and placing a single key on the counter. "One room, that's the honest truth. Take it or leave it."

For a moment, Liam doesn't move, and I'm holding my breath, waiting for him to unleash a storm. Instead, he snatches the key off the counter with a snarl, the sharp movement betraying his frustration.

"Come on," he mutters under his breath, and I fall into step behind him, trying to match his pace as he stalks down the dimly lit hallway.

My heart thumps erratically against my ribs, each beat echoing the steps we take. The carpet is patterned with anchors and ropes, a kitschy nod to the coastal setting just beyond these walls. But right now, the charm of the place is lost on us, swallowed by the tension that hangs heavy in the air like a storm cloud.

I can feel the weight of his anger, thick and suffocating, filling up the space between us. And as much as I want to bridge that gap, to offer some kind of comfort or solution, I know better than to reach out.

Liam Nolan isn't just my boss—he's a force of nature, unpredictable and often unforgiving. Crossing the line with him, especially now, would be like tempting lightning to strike.

But oh, how I wish I could be the thunder answering back.

He stops abruptly at door number seven, shoving the key into the lock with more force than necessary. The door swings open with a creak that seems too loud in the awkward silence. Stepping inside, I brace myself for whatever makeshift accommodations we're about to face.

The room is small and dimly lit by a single lamp on the nightstand, shadows stretching across the walls like dark fingers. But it's not the size or the lighting that steals the breath from my lungs—it's the realization that there's only one bed.

"Are you kidding me?" Liam's voice cuts through the stillness, sharp as a blade.

He strides over to the bed, scanning the room for anything that could serve as an alternative sleeping arrangement.

"Unbelievable," he grits out, turning to face me, his expression stormy. "This is absolutely unacceptable."

"Look, maybe there's a—" I start, but my words are cut off as he whips around and storms into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him with enough force to make the walls shudder.

I flinch at the sound, feeling it resonate deep in my chest. Moments later, the shower turns on, the rush of water a stark contrast to the charged silence Liam left in his wake.

Alone in the room, surrounded by the hum of the shower and the faint smell of salt lingering in the air, I sink onto the edge of the lone bed. The mattress dips under my weight, the springs creaking softly.

I wrap my arms around myself, fighting the chill creeping up my spine. With every second that ticks by, the reality of our situation becomes clearer: There's no escaping each other tonight. And the thought sends a shiver of something unexpected through me—something that feels dangerously close to anticipation.

I glance around, taking in the quaint charm of the room. Nautical decorations are scattered throughout: a ship-in-a-bottle on the dresser, a faded anchor print hanging crookedly on the wall, and seashell-patterned curtains fluttering softly with the breeze from an open window. It's like stepping into a snapshot of maritime nostalgia.

Outside, the sky blazes with hues of orange and purple as the sun dips below the horizon, casting the small town in the warm glow of post-storm twilight. A family is getting out of their car outside, their laughter carrying through the air. The ocean is just a stone's throw away, its rhythmic waves promising tranquility.

For a moment, I let myself be lulled by the idyllic scene. This isn't a bad place at all; it's just not where we're supposed to be. The fall leaves are beginning to turn, dotting the landscape with specks of red and gold—a beautiful backdrop to an unexpected detour.

The sound of the bathroom door swinging open jolts me back to reality. Liam emerges, his hair slicked back and wet, droplets trailing down his neck. He's shed his suit jacket and tie, now just wearing an undershirt that hugs his torso, revealing the contours of his muscles beneath the thin fabric, and slacks that hang loosely on his hips.

He’s got some kind of Celtic knot tattooed on his left pec, over his heart; I can see it through the shirt, making my breath quicken. His hands are clenched at his sides, knuckles white with tension.

"Still angry?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, but there's no mistaking the raw irritation that simmers in his eyes.

"Angry doesn't even begin to cover it," he replies curtly, pacing the room like a caged animal.

His bare feet make soft sounds on the carpet, the only indication of his agitation. I watch him, noting the way his jaw ticks when he's trying to control his temper. It's fascinating—and terrifying—how one man can embody such controlled fury.

"Look, Liam..." I begin, unsure of what I'm trying to achieve. "It's just one night. We'll figure something out in the morning."

He stops pacing, and for a second, I think I see something flicker in his gaze—something other than anger. But then it's gone, replaced once more by that impenetrable wall of frustration.

"I didn't pack for a sleepover, Shiloh," he snaps suddenly, lashing out with his words. "I didn't expect to be stranded in some—some nautical-themed purgatory with only one damn bed!"

I flinch as if the words are physical blows, each one shrinking me further into myself. The room seems to grow colder with his every syllable, and I can't help but feel responsible for this mess—even though logic screams that it's not my fault.

"Sorry," is all I manage to muster, my voice so small it nearly gets lost in the space between us.

Liam stops his tirade mid-breath and turns on his heel to face me. He strides over with purpose, each step measured and heavy. Crossing his arms over his chest, he towers above me, and I feel even smaller.

"Is that all you have to say?" he demands, his eyes burning into mine, searching for something I'm not sure I possess.

"Sorry," I repeat, my default response, a shield against his towering presence. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to draw strength from somewhere deep inside, but finding little comfort.

"Shiloh, why?" His voice is quieter now, tinged with an unexpected note of confusion as he studies me, his brows knitting together.

"Because you're angry," I whisper, unable to meet his eyes. "I should've been more on top of things… planned better for the trip."

Something in my admission seems to disarm him. The rigid set of his shoulders eases, and when I finally dare to look up, I see that the tempest in his eyes has calmed.

"It's not your fault, Shiloh," he says, and there's a new layer to his voice, something that sounds almost like... gentleness. “Stop apologizing.”

“Sorry, I’ll stop—”

"Stop saying you're sorry," Liam's voice slices through the room, firmer now, an edge of frustration lacing his words.

"Sorry," I mumble again, my heart sinking as I realize my mistake.

The word slips out before I can catch it, a reflex I can't seem to control. My eyes dart up to his, wide and filled with a mixture of fear and apprehension. It's like an involuntary plea for forgiveness, expecting him to lash out with a reprimand for my incessant apologies.

He takes a deliberate step closer, closing the space between us until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand lifts, and suddenly his fingers are there, gently yet firmly gripping my chin, tilting my face up to meet his gaze. My breath catches, trapped in my throat, my pulse racing at the unexpected contact.

"Are you trying to piss me off?" he asks, his voice low and controlled, but with an underlying thread of something that sends a shiver down my spine— not of fear, but of anticipation.

“No,” I reply. “I just… I wanted to…”

"I’m starting to think you wanted this, Shiloh," Liam's voice is dangerously low, a harsh growl, his thumb brushing lightly against my jawline. "Do you want me to punish you?"

I swallow hard, the room suddenly feeling too small, the walls inching closer. The intensity in his eyes holds me captive, and for a moment, I’m lost in the depths of the storm brewing within them.

The intensity of his gaze is overwhelming, and under it, I feel strangely bare, as if he can see through all my defenses.

He's too close, too much, and yet not nearly enough. My mind races, thoughts tumbling over each other in their haste. This isn't just about the room, the bed, or the fact that he's my billionaire boss who should be off-limits. It's about this unexpected, electrifying connection that's pulling me towards him like a force of nature I can't resist.

Like this was all inevitable.

My lips part, but no sound emerges. I'm a mix of everything forbidden and longed for, standing here on the precipice of something that could very well shatter the world as I know it. But in this moment, with his hand on my chin and his eyes boring into mine, I don't care about the consequences.

"Shiloh?" Liam's voice is a low rumble, filled with impatience and something else— a challenge. “Use your words, sweetheart.”

I take a shaky breath, teetering on the edge of reason and caution. And then, without fully understanding the gravity of my words, I lean into the dangerous space between us and whisper the word that seals my fate.

"Yes."