Infinite Possibilities (The Secret Life of Amy Bensen #2)(27)

He pulls me closer, our hands and the dagger between us, our knees touching.“Why were you standing here holding the dagger?”

“Why’d you bring the dagger over here while I was sleeping?”

His mood shifts subtly, the lines of his face hardening, his lashes lowering before they lift. “A walk down memory lane,” he confesses. “Alex collected daggers from all over the world. I bought it for him while I was in Egypt and never got a chance to give it to him. I keep it close, like I do his memory.”

My heart squeezes for him, my hand flattening on his bare chest, the warmth of his body seeping into my palm the way he has seeped into my soul, my heart. “You were living that regret this morning.”

“I was reminding myself that regret is a disservice to those we loved and who loved us. It leaves no room for celebrating their lives and the memories we have with them.” He leans in, pressing his cheek to mine, his hand tightening over mine and the dagger. “And last night is quite the memory.”

I lean into him, and now I let my lashes lower, seduced by this growing bond between us that defies the time and space we’ve had between us, and even the reason it had existed. Deep down, I’ve never questioned us. This is real. We are real.

The doorbell rings and Liam groans, pressing his forehead to mine. “That will be the breakfast I ordered that is very poorly timed.” He brushes hair over my shoulder. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen. We’ll eat and then I’ll give you a tour of your new home.”

He turns and walks away, leaving me staring after him. For several seconds I stand there, processing what he’s said and what it means to me and us. He wants me here. I want to be here but it isn’t that simple for me, no matter how much I wish it was.

I launch myself into action, rushing down the steps to the foyer and then crossing through the living room with barely a glance at the gorgeous view out of the window. Rushing into the kitchen, past the island, I find Liam setting plates on the table. “This isn’t my home,” I blurt.

He stills for a moment, a fork in his hand, before setting it down very precisely on the table and leaning his palms on the wooden surface. “I want it to be. I hope you want it to be.”

“My family’s dead. Someone killed the PI. Me being with you or anyone else is like painting a bull's-eye on their forehead. I won’t do that to you.”

He studies me, that penetrating blue gaze of his unnerving me and telling me nothing of his reaction. Finally, he moves, pulling out the chair at the end of the table. “Come sit and let’s eat.”

“You can’t dismiss my concern. It’s real.”

“And we’ll deal with it. After you eat.” His tone is that familiar absoluteness I’ve come to know from overbearing, dominant, sexy Liam Stone that tells me I won’t win this battle. I, in fact, probably need my strength to fight it.

Sighing in resignation, my shoulders slump and I walk to the chair and sit down, finding my plate piled with a stack of pancakes that smell sweet and almost spicy. My stomach rumbles in a strange mix of hunger and queasiness I didn’t know was possible. How can anyone be famished and sick at the same time?

“I hope you like gingerbread,” Liam comments, all of that intensity of moments before sliding away. “Evans’ Cafe next door does breakfast all day and since they only do these in November and December, I admit to overindulging.”

“They smell wonderful but I find it hard to believe you overindulge in anything.”

That sensual mouth of his curves ever so slightly. “I have a few weaknesses. Gingerbread Pancakes. Architecture.” His voice deepens. “And you, Amy.”

Me. I am his weakness. I don’t let myself think of how true that might be, how dangerous I could be to him, and quickly indulge in a real treat for me. The truth. “Mine would be macaroni and cheese, ancient history, and you, Liam.”

His eyes blaze blue-green with a hint of amber lifted from the sunlight and water behind him. He is magnificently male in that moment, absolutely, devastatingly, a work of art. He motions to the pancakes. “Try the gingerbread. I want to see what you think.”

Remarkably relaxed considering I charged in here for a confrontation, I dig in. “Hmm. Yes. Wonderful. I see why you like them.”

Obviously pleased, he takes a bite. “Evans is one of two restaurants next door. There are also several high-end clothing stores, and a hair salon, as well as several medical offices, most of which have been there since I first met Alex.”

“How old where you when you moved in with him?”

“My mother died when I was fifteen.”

“And your father--”

“Long gone.” His tone is short in a way that says he’s done with the topic and he reaches for a glass of orange juice I think must be as bitter as the topic clearly is, from the sugary pancakes, but he gulps it down just fine. The same way he has every sour note life has thrown him and not for the first time I envy him that control.

An odd sensation churns in my belly, and I’m not sure if it’s about food, or how poorly I’ve handled my life. “Any chance you have something carbonated?”

He stands up and walks to the fridge and returns with Ginger Ale and a glass of ice. “My mother’s cure for all stomachaches. I had Evans bring you a bottle.”

I tilt the can to fill my glass. “They had Ginger Ale in stock?”