The Ending I Want(55)

Leaning in, he softly kisses me on the lips. “I kinda dig you, too, Boston.”

I don’t know why, but the sentiment really touches me. More than it should. More than I should allow it to.

I blink my eyes open. His are on mine.

My heart bumps around my chest.

He kisses me again and then whispers over my lips, “Now, get your hot arse in my hot car, so I can get her out on the open road.”

He releases me with a chuckle. Then, he walks over and opens the passenger door for me.

“Boys and their toys.” I smile as I climb inside, setting my heart back in place.

Wow. The car is just as nice on the inside as the outside. It’s rich leather and glossy everything. I’m afraid to touch anything in case I leave a mark.

For a two-seater, it’s surprisingly roomy. It even fits Liam’s big body as he climbs in.

I put my seat belt on. “I’m so going to enjoy this ride,” I tell him.

He stops with his seat belt in his hand and looks at me. “I promise that this ride will be as good as the ones I give you every night in my bed.” A grin spreads over his gorgeous face, making me laugh again.

I really like how much I laugh around Liam.

Another thing I like too much.

“Is the car new?” I ask. It looks brand-new.

“I bought her a few years ago. A present to myself when I turned thirty. I don’t get to drive her as much as I’d like though.”

“Ah, she’s your midlife-crisis car,” I deadpan.

His lips press together, battling a smile. “Laugh it up. You’ll be thirty one day, and when that day comes, I’ll remind you of this conversation.”

Everything inside me pauses.

No, Liam, I won’t.

But, of course, that isn’t what I say.

I really shouldn’t say anything. I should just laugh it off and change the direction of the conversation. But the concern that he’s talking like he’ll know me beyond these two weeks has me saying, “You think you’ll know me when I’m thirty?”

He lets out that smile on his lips. It reaches all the way to his eyes. “If you’re lucky.”

If I’m lucky.

I really wish I were.

Recently, I’ve found myself wishing for a lot of things. Things I have no right to wish for.

But the heart can be a selfish and foolish thing.

And mine is certainly both.

I can feel the conflict inside me between this man in front of me and what I know is right, what I deserve…and it isn’t him. I know that.

So, I paste on a smile, and I force a laugh, giving a shake of my head, to show that everything is just right when it couldn’t be further from it.

Liam puts the key in the ignition and then presses a button on the console beside him. The car purrs to life.

He looks at me. “Hotel first and then my grandpa’s place,” he confirms.

“Perfect,” I say even though things aren’t.

Except for him. He’s perfect.

Liam stops by the hotel, and I run inside with the weekend bag.

As I’m wearing last night’s clothes since they were all I had with me at Liam’s, I do a quick change and opt to wear a pale pink knee-length summer dress, the color matching my hair. I want to make an effort to look nice since I’ll be meeting his grandpa. My makeup and hair are already done because I showered at Liam’s before we left.

I slip on my silver ballet pumps and put the ankle boots I wore last night in the overnight bag to take with me. Then, I fill the bag up with essentials—clothes, underwear, and toiletries. Before leaving, I grab the photo of my family off the nightstand and put it in the bag.

Then, I head back out to Liam.

“Sorted?” he asks as I climb into the car, the bag safely in the trunk.

“Yep.”

He pulls out into traffic, and soon, we’re on the highway, heading toward Oxford, with music playing on the radio and a companionable silence between us.

“Boston…can I ask you something?”

The tone in his voice has me feeling like it might not be a question that I’ll want to answer.

My head against the headrest, I turn my face to look at him.

He looks so strong, so beautiful, driving his car.

Those feelings I have for him twist inside me.

I swallow against them. “Sure.” My voice comes out scratchy, so I clear my throat.

He flickers a glance at me before looking back to the road ahead.

There’s a pause before he says, “I know you said you don’t talk about your family—”

“I don’t. And I meant that.” My words are hard. I hate the way my voice sounds.

He doesn’t deserve my harshness. He’s been nothing but good to me.

I turn my face away, feeling ashamed. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean to snap.”

His hand touches my hand, surprising me, bringing my eyes back to him.

“Don’t be. I didn’t mean to pry. I was just wondering about how they met. You said they met in Oxford…and curiosity just got the better of me. I’m the one who’s sorry, babe.”

His apology makes me feel worse.

And it makes me want to tell him. Talk to him.

I’ve never felt the urge to talk about my family out loud since they died. In my head, I think about them all the time. I talk to them all the time.