Chapter 7

SEVEN

Liam

Izzy stumbles into the kitchen Saturday morning looking groggy and sleep rumpled. Her hair is wild, piled on top of her head and sticking out in a million directions, there’s a slight crease down the side of her face, and a little makeup is smudged underneath her eyes.

She shouldn’t look gorgeous this way, but she does. Beautiful as ever. I also really like the look of her in my clothes even though they’re clearly too big.

“Good morning,” I say as I flip over a sizzling slice of bacon. “How did you sleep?”

She climbs onto a barstool across the island from me and yawns. “Like the dead. Your couch is amazing. What time is it? My phone died last night, so I’m completely clueless this morning.”

“Just past ten.”

“I’m sorry I slept so late. Have you been up for hours?”

I laugh. Because I’ve already worked out, had a protein smoothie and a shower, and unboxed and mounted the TV in the living room. All while I tried not to think about Izzy asleep in my office. “Yes. But I would never expect you to keep my hours.”

“Who could?” she grumbles. “You’re like some kind of A.I. hybrid who functions with no sleep.”

“Thank you. I think.” I leave the bacon long enough to turn around and pour her a mug of coffee. “Still take a little coffee with your cream?” I ask, topping off the mug with half-and-half.

“You remember,” she says, looking pleased.

More than you know .

Though I could hand the mug across the island, I walk around, dropping a hand on her shoulder while I set it in front of her.

She glances up and meets my gaze. Fresh-faced, she looks like the Izzy from my youth, her brown eyes the same color as the sprinkling of freckles dusting her cheeks.

“Thanks,” she says. She licks her lips, drawing my eyes there, but then she says, “Um, your bacon is burning.”

I jolt, bolting back around the counter, and pull the pan from the heat. It’s not quite burnt, but it’s close.

Izzy smirks as she takes a sip of her coffee. “Good save. Also, I like it crispy.”

“Then I planned this,” I say, and she laughs.

I add the bacon to the eggs, grits, and toast I’ve already plated. Izzy used to love a big breakfast, but this suddenly feels like a gamble. People change, habits change. She might be more of a green smoothie kind of woman now. Though, based on the way she scarfed down a burger last night, I’d guess no.

“Wow,” she says, staring down at the plates in my hands.

I can’t see her face to gauge her reaction, and the single-word response gives me nothing. So naturally, I overthink.

“I should have asked, but you used to love to eat breakfast, so I thought I would make something. Then I got kind of carried away. You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to eat. I can?—”

She grabs one of the plates, her fingers brushing against mine, and sets it in front of her. “I love breakfast. I also love that you remember I love breakfast. And how I take my coffee.” Her smile turns shy, and her cheeks turn a rosy shade of pink. “This looks amazing, Liam.”

Something in my heart flips over. “Good. I’m glad.”

I set my plate down at the empty spot beside her, then move back around the island to grab us forks and napkins. “Hey, I have a phone charger next to my bed,” I say. “I should have thought to offer you one last night. Do you want me to plug your phone in?”

She shakes her head. “Let’s eat first. I can live without it for a little while. It’s kind of refreshing.”

A little while turns into several hours. We do plug her phone in, but it stays in the bedroom along with mine as we decide to watch a Christmas movie before heading out into what’s sure to be a throng of shoppers.

It feels so domestic, so comfortable, so right having Izzy here, eating breakfast beside me, helping me wash dishes, and now, lounging on my couch, tucking her toes under my thigh to keep her feet warm while we watch a movie.

Things are easy between us, but the weight of the conversation we aren’t having is getting heavier. So is the tension I know I’m not imagining.

Last night, I wanted to kiss Izzy on the stage at karaoke. And again in the parking lot after dinner.

I wanted to kiss her, and she knows I wanted to kiss her.

What’s my play here? How, exactly, do you broach the subject of romantic interest with someone whom you’ve been friends with nearly your whole life?

On the one hand, I don’t want to wait another second. I’m not interested in something light or casual—knowing Izzy the way I do, I can safely say I want it all.

Which brings me to the other hand. It’s not like I can tell her I’d like to dive into a forever kind of relationship right now. Or can I?

The thought of laying it out there, not playing games, being fully honest about my intentions sounds so refreshing. One thing I’ve always struggled with in dating is the sense that it’s some kind of game—one where I can never figure out the changing rules. I don’t want that with Izzy, and somehow, I just know she’s not the game-playing type.

The possibilities circling through my brain keep me from giving my full attention to the movie, but I end up figuring out the twist almost immediately. We’re watching something Izzy picked out, a Christmas romance about a woman who received a heart transplant the year before and now keeps running into a guy—who I know is the ghost of her heart donor.

“What are you thinking about over there?” Izzy asks, nudging my leg with her toe. She pauses the movie, and I look over to find her studying me, her expression curious.

I run a hand through my hair. “Me? Nothing. Just watching.”

She purses her lips to the side. “You’ve figured out the movie, haven’t you?”

I smirk. “Maybe.”

Izzy laughs. “I knew it! This whole time, I’ve been watching you watch, and I could practically see the wheels turning. I knew you’d figured it out. I guess I should thank you for not spoiling the ending for me. It’s a whole new era of Liam,” she teases.

“You can thank Camden. He’s the one who sat me down and very gently explained that I was ruining movies for everyone else.”

Izzy’s expression softens. “You’re different when you talk about him.”

“Yeah? Different how?”

“I’m not sure how to name it.” She tucks a pillow against her chest. “There’s just a gentleness to your words.”

“Good,” I say. “Then he rubbed off on me.”

“We both got lucky in the stepparent department, didn’t we?”

It’s not a connection I’ve made before, but Izzy is right. Merritt is just as great as Camden is. “Yeah, I guess we did. I don’t know where I’d be now without Camden.”

“Nah. Give yourself some credit,” Izzy says. “I’m sure you’d have turned out just fine.”

I lean my head back against the couch cushions, then turn to face her. “While I appreciate your faith in me, I’m being serious when I say his influence really shaped me. He got me interested in hockey, which was great. And he tempered my focus and intensity. I think you and I can both agree that I was a little bit of an awkward, nerdy, socially stunted kid.”

“But those are good things about you! I like your focus and your intensity!” Izzy wiggles her toes under my thigh and hits a ticklish spot that has me squirming.

I grab her foot, then don’t want to let go, so I hold it loosely in my lap. “I’m not knocking myself or being self-deprecating. He didn’t change me, just tempered me a little. And I’m totally comfortable in my own skin. I’m just not above rolling my eyes at my childhood self.”

“Okay. As long as you aren’t knocking yourself.”

“I’m not. Promise.”

“Good. And I get it,” she says. “Merritt was like that for me, too. I mean, I have my mom, but I’ll be honest—once Mom started having kids with Adam, she was so overwhelmed with babies, I felt like I belonged more with Merritt and Dad.”

I wrap my hands around Izzy’s left foot and slowly start massaging her arches. “We have a good family,” I say as she lets out a little sigh and leans her head back.

“We do,” she says, eyes closed. “But I still think the fumigation tent is suspicious.”

“I do have a lot of questions,” I say. “Like, why are fumigation guys working on a Friday night? And who called for an inspection in the first place? And why did Benedict say it wasn’t his idea? Wouldn’t he be involved in approving something like this?” I switch from Izzy’s left foot to the other, and she shifts on the couch, stretching her leg forward so I have better access.

I try not to think about how easy this feels, how natural it is to be with her, touching her.

“Exactly. It feels like a setup,” she says. “I just can’t figure out why. It’s not like they’re rolling around in free time. Not with Davy and Danny being so wild.”

“Are they still wild?” I ask. “They haven’t grown out of it at all?” It’s been a minute since I’ve seen Sadie and Benedict’s twins.

“They’ve only gotten smarter,” Izzy says. “More conniving. They’re adorable. Just … a lot.” She stretches, lifting her arms over her head, then tugs her feet back. “I think I’m ready to stop watching Christmas and start living it. Want to head out? Except you need to tell me the ending of the movie first so I don’t feel bad about skipping it.”

“Come on, Iz,” I say as I turn off the TV. “This one’s a softball. The clues are everywhere.”

She sighs. “He’s the guy, right? He gave her his heart, and now he’s dead?”

“Pretty sure, yes,” I say, and Izzy groans.

“Nooo. I thought this was a romance! Where’s the happy ending? Boo!”

“There could still be a happy ending.”

“With a ghost?”

“Probably with the volunteer guy at the shelter. Didn’t you notice how he looks at her?”

The same way I’m always looking at you . I don’t say the words, but I swear, Izzy picks up on my meaning.

“You think he likes her?” she asks, and suddenly we’re having two conversations at once, the real message in the subtext.

I step a little closer. “I know he does. There’s a happy ending coming. They’re just finding their way to each other right now.”

Izzy’s lips curve into a smile, and my heart starts to thump in my chest. “It’s moving a little slowly, don’t you think?”

“Would you want them to rush into it or make smart choices ensuring a long and happy future?”

“I think,” she says slowly, swaying just a little bit closer to me, “they could move a little faster without compromising the structural integrity of the relationship.”

I burst out laughing. “Did you really just say ‘structural integrity of the relationship’?”

“What of it?” Izzy says, hands on her hips. “It’s a perfectly fine metaphor. I’d personally like a relationship with structural integrity—and a firm foundation.”

“Preferably with no fumigation tents?”

Izzy’s smile shifts and her expression softens. She reaches out and squeezes my hand, not letting go immediately. “Only if it means getting stuck with you.”