20. Shiloh

Chapter twenty

Shiloh

My whole life is still in boxes, my wardrobe haphazardly shoved into one of said boxes… and I have to find something nice to wear.

Shit.

After a solid hour of looking for clothes, I slip into my long-sleeved white mini-dress, a chic little number that's the crown jewel of my modest wardrobe. It hugs my curves in all the right places, flaring just above the knee.

My reflection in the mirror nods back at me—innocence wrapped in cotton rather than the sultry siren I had hoped to channel tonight. The pink lipstick glides over my lips, leaving behind a faint blush rather than a bold statement.

"Could've used something with a bit more... oomph," I mutter to myself, scrutinizing the girl staring back at me.

But there's no time for regrets; I’m due for my date (or at least, I think that’s what it is?) with Liam.

With a deep breath, I grab my purse and head out the door. Eight o'clock on the dot, I'm in the back of a cab, fidgeting with the hem of my dress as the city flies by. The address Liam gave me is saved on my phone, the glowing numbers a lifeline to my churning stomach.

When the taxi pulls up to Le Noblesse, I'm convinced there's been some mistake. This place, with its valet parking and patrons dressed like they've stepped off a fashion runway, can't be where Liam intends to have dinner with his secretary.

Right?

"Here goes nothing," I mumble, handing over the fare before stepping onto the sidewalk.

"Shiloh." His voice is a warm caress that sends a jolt through me.

I turn, and there he is—Liam—in a suit that looks tailored by the gods themselves. Grey, understated but exuding power, it fits him like a glove.

"Hi," I manage, my throat suddenly tight. He's standing too close, or maybe not close enough—I can't decide which. My heart's doing this funny thing where it feels like it's dancing to a rhythm only it can hear.

He reaches for my arm, his touch sending a ripple of something dangerous through me. "I was hoping you'd be early," he says, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a way that makes my stomach flip.

"Am I?" My voice barely sounds like my own, breathy and uncertain.

"Perfectly on time." His thumb brushes against the bare skin of my arm, and I fight the urge to lean into his touch. "And you look beautiful."

I can feel heat crawl up my neck, and it's not just from the summer evening air.

"Are you really taking me out to dinner?" The question comes out more bashful than I intend, but the fluttering in my chest demands confirmation.

"That's exactly what I'm doing," he confirms with a confidence that makes my knees wobble.

We step into Le Noblesse together, the scent of five-star food rolling over us both. The hostess greets us immediately. With Liam at my side, her eyes flick between us—curious, maybe even a touch envious—as she leads us to our table.

The table is a window seat, overlooking the harbor. The moon casts its glow over the water, turning the waves into liquid silver. It's breathtaking, the kind of view you see in movies where everything is impossibly perfect, and romance hangs heavy in the air.

"Wow," I whisper, unable to help myself. The reflection of the moonlight dances across Liam's features, softening the harsh lines of his vicious attorney exterior.

"Wait until you try the food," he says, pulling out a chair for me.

I sit, still caught up in the view, in the moment, in the man who seems to have stepped straight out of every forbidden fantasy I've ever dared to entertain.

"Thank you," I say, more to the universe than to Liam. For the dress that makes me feel beautiful, for the nervous excitement buzzing under my skin, for this night that promises...well, I'm not quite sure what it promises yet.

But I'm here for it—all of it.

"Should have asked if you liked fish," Liam muses, his voice pulling me out of my moonlit reverie.

"Fish?" I blink, then remember where we are. "Yes, absolutely." My family's idea of seafood might be the occasional canned tuna, but I'm not about to admit that now.

"Excellent." He signals the waitress with the ease of someone used to commanding attention without demanding it. She glides over, her presence unobtrusive yet efficient.

"May I start the two of you off with a bottle of white wine?" she asks, her tone neutral as she meets Liam's gaze.

"Please," he nods. "And we'll have the house special—all four courses."

The waitress scribbles on her pad and disappears into the restaurant's choreographed ballet of service.

"House special?" I ask, trying to sound more intrigued than intimidated by what that could mean for my limited palate.

"Trust me," Liam says, fixing me with a look that suggests he knows exactly how out of depth I am. "You'll love it."

"Okay." I rest my hands in my lap, fingers twisting nervously. Then the thought surfaces, unbidden. "I'm not sure I can split the bill here," I say, the joke feeble even to my own ears.

Liam's eyebrow arches, amusement mingling with something darker, something that sends an unfamiliar thrill through me.

"Don't joke about that," he warns, his voice so low it feels like it's wrapped around me. "If you even think about spending another cent tonight, I'll have to punish you."

My heart stutters and heat floods my cheeks, a silent wave of realization crashing into me.

Punish.

The word hangs between us, heavy with implication and the strange, electric tension that keeps sparking every time our eyes meet. My mind races, envisioning scenarios that have no place at this table, in this restaurant, with my boss.

"Understood," I manage to say, the word barely a squeak.

My brain scrambles to shift gears, from forbidden thoughts to the safety of small talk, but it's like my senses are tuned exclusively to him—the timbre of his voice, the scent of his cologne mingling with the rich aromas of the kitchen, the undeniable pull of his presence.

And, of course, there’s the irresistible memory of getting on my knees in his office last night.

The clinking of glass on wood breaks my reverie, and I look up to see the waitress setting down two glasses and a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc with a practiced flourish. My stomach knots with nerves and excitement, but the appetizer that follows—a steaming bowl of soup—looks comforting and familiar in its rustic elegance.

"Thank you," I murmur, accepting the soup gratefully. It smells like heaven, a fragrant blend of the sea and herbs, and I inhale deeply, letting the aroma steady me.

"Tell me about yourself, Shiloh." Liam's voice is gentle now, coaxing me out of my shell as the waitress pours the pale wine into our glasses.

I take a tentative spoonful of the soup, savoring the rich flavors, before I answer. "Well, I grew up in a house that was always full of noise and chaos," I start, finding an odd comfort in the memories of home. "I have four siblings—Link, Reagan, Libby, and Parker. We're a raucous bunch, decidedly suburban middle-class."

"Do you get along?" Liam prompts, his gaze steady on mine.

"They don't quite get me," I confess, a small smile playing on my lips despite the admission. "They've always made fun of me for being bookish, for having my nose perpetually stuck in a novel. But that's just who I am—a dreamer, I guess."

"Nothing wrong with dreaming," Liam says, his eyes softening.

The conversation lulls as the second course arrives, and I'm momentarily distracted by the vibrant colors on the plate—some kind of salad with goat cheese.

The goat cheese is a golden brown, nestled atop a baguette on the side like a promise of indulgence. I have to admit I expected indulgence tonight—just not this kind.

"Looks delicious," I comment, reaching for my fork.

"It's one of their best dishes," Liam replies. He watches me for a moment before he speaks again, his voice thoughtful. "You have a wonderful mind, Shiloh. Do you plan to be a secretary forever? It seems like your intelligence might be wasted at Aegis."

I pause with the fork halfway to my mouth, caught off guard by his candidness. Despite the compliment, a part of me bristles at the idea that being a secretary is somehow less than. But I know he means well, and it's a question I've been asking myself lately.

"Actually," I start, setting down the fork and meeting his gaze with newfound determination, "I'm planning to apply to Trinity College next year."

"Trinity?" His eyebrow quirks in interest. "In Dublin?"

"Yes." A warm rush fills my chest as I think about it. My best friend moved there to study archaeology. I want to be close to her and pursue a degree in literature. It's been a dream of mine for as long as I can remember."

"What a funny coincidence," Liam says, with a tilt of his head that somehow seems both deliberate and natural. "I was born in Dublin, you know. My mother was a professor at Trinity before I was born."

"Really?" I can't keep the surprise out of my voice. He's never talked about Ireland or his family before. "I didn't realize your dad ever lived there. I don’t think he mentioned it in class, and Chris didn’t either."

Liam's expression shifts, just for a second, like he's somewhere far away.

Then it's gone, and he’s back, the composed billionaire boss once again. "He doesn’t really talk about it. I suppose he’s ashamed of how he treated my mother."

There's a weight to his words, a hint of something darker that I don't understand but desperately want to. Before I can inquire further, our meals arrive, carried over by a waiter who moves as if he's been trained to glide.

"The main course," he announces, setting down plates of perfectly cooked meat and fish that seem too beautiful to eat.

The filet mignon is medium-rare, just how I imagine Liam would order it—precise, refined, with no room for error. Beside it, the trout is delicate, its skin golden and crisp atop a drizzle of lemon-butter sauce. Sides of creamy potato gratin and vibrant sautéed vegetables complete the tableau.

"Thank you," I manage, my throat tight with questions I'm not sure I should ask. Questions about Liam's family, his past, and the kind of man he is beneath that polished surface.

"Enjoy," he says, picking up his fork. His eyes flicker to mine, a silent invitation to let the conversation continue where it left off.

But for now, I focus on the meal in front of me, trying to memorize the flavors and textures. It's a welcome distraction, giving me time to gather my thoughts and sort through the emotions simmering just below the surface.

The food is exquisite, each bite a symphony of taste that demands attention. Yet even as I savor it, part of me is still burning to know more about the enigmatic man across from me.

The man who was born in Dublin, whose mother taught at the very college I dream of attending, and whose father harbors regrets that have followed them across the ocean.

"Jackie mentioned you see your mom every week," I say, trying to sound casual.

I spear a roasted beet from the warm goat cheese salad and pop it in my mouth, waiting for him to respond.

Liam nods, swallowing a bite of his filet mignon before he answers.

"Yes, on Wednesdays. She's an artist, has been part of the Boston scene for decades." He looks proud when he talks about her, a softening around the edges of his usually stern demeanor.

"An artist?" I echo, intrigued. "What does she create?"

"Everything. Sculptures, paintings, mixed media. She's incredibly talented." There's a warmth in his voice that I haven't heard before.

I want to ask more—about his visits, about what they talk about, about whether she knows how fiercely her son can negotiate in a boardroom—but I hesitate, unsure if I'm crossing a line.

Instead, something else slips out.

"I'm sorry, by the way." My voice is barely above the clink of cutlery and the murmur of conversation around us. "For calling you a hypocrite over the Turner case. I know you're just doing your job, and deep down, you're a good person."

Liam's hand finds mine, stilling my fidgety fingers.

"I'm not a good man, Shiloh," he says, his voice dropping to a confessional hush. "To survive in my line of work, I've had to discard my morals more times than I care to admit." His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, a touch so at odds with his words.

Then he leans in, eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that roots me to the spot. "But you know what they say about bad men—they're a lot more fun in bed."

My mouth goes dry, and I can't find the words—or perhaps I don't trust myself to speak them. The heat from Liam's hand seeps into mine, igniting a trail of warmth that snakes up my arm.

"Can I clear your plates?" The waitress’s voice cuts through the thickening air between us, and I nearly jump, startled back into the reality of Le Noblesse's dining room.

"Please," Liam replies smoothly, releasing my hand as if we weren't just sharing a moment that felt like the prelude to something forbidden.

The plates are whisked away, and in their place, the waitress sets down a single serving of dessert. The caramelized apples glisten under the warm glow of the overhead chandelier, and the scent of baked fruit mingles with the rich aroma of vanilla bean ice cream slowly melting into a pool of golden caramel sauce.

"Shall we?" Liam asks, mischief dancing in his eyes. He scoops a generous portion of the ice cream, apple, and flaky pastry onto a spoon and holds it out to me.

My heart thuds unevenly as I lean forward, parting my lips to accept the offering. The instant the sweet flavors hit my tongue, a soft moan escapes me.

I open my eyes to find Liam's gaze has shifted, darkened—a deep well of desire that seems to pull me in. He doesn't break eye contact as he feeds me another spoonful, and this time, the moan is stifled by the rich taste of the dessert mingling with the thrill of his attention.

"We're taking the rest of this to-go," Liam declares suddenly, his voice low and decisive.

I try to blink away the haze of arousal clouding my thoughts. "Liam, we can't—I mean, shouldn't we just finish it here?"

But he's already signaling the waitress, his other hand reaching for his wallet.

"No, Shiloh," he says firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "I want you naked in my bed if you’re going to make sounds like that."

My cheeks flare with heat, and I'm grateful for the dim lighting. The idea sends a rush of excitement through my veins, but it's paired with a trepidation I can't quite shake.

This is Liam, my boss—the man whose world is a universe away from mine, whose desires seem to be rewriting all the rules I've lived by.

"Okay," I breathe out, the word barely a sound.

But it's enough for him.

Enough for both of us.

The waitress returns with a sleek black bag containing our unfinished Tarte Tatin, and Liam stands, effortlessly slipping into his role as the man in charge as he helps me from my chair. His touch lingers just a moment too long on the small of my back, sending a shiver of anticipation down my spine.

As we exit Le Noblesse, the cool night air does little to quell the heat coursing through me. We're crossing a line—one that promises to alter everything.

Having careless sex on a business trip was one thing. Liam claiming me in his office last night was another.

But now he’s letting me into his life, into his apartment, into his bed… and maybe into his heart.

And despite every rational thought telling me to tread carefully, I’m ready to give him everything.