Wicked Heart (Starcrossed #3)(35)

Or at least, that’s how it started.

“Hey, Liss. Sitting here, thinking about you. Thought I’d give you a quick call. I have my first screen test today. I’m nervous as hell. Please tell me it gets easier. Hope you’re well.”

“Liss! I got a national ad for Coke! It’s not Shakespeare but it’s a start. Now I can finally buy real food and pay my rent on time. Winning!” There’s a pause and a change of tone. “If you were here, I’d take you out to celebrate. Hope you’re well.”

See? Casual. Easy. Nice. I always replied.

But one day, the tone of Liam’s messages started to change.

“Hey, Liss. I kind of want you to pick up one day so we can have a proper conversation, but I know it would make me want to jump on the first plane home. I miss you. And New York. L.A. is driving me crazy, and Hollywood is . . . challenging.” He pauses. “The one thing that keeps me going is knowing we’ll be together again one day. I have no doubt about that. Leave me a message when you get a chance. I miss your voice. Well, I miss all of you, but hearing your voice makes me miss you a little less. Hope you’re well. Bye.”

From that day, my messages also got more plaintive. I kept the content the same—life at The Grove, my brother and his tragic love life, shows I was working on, and so on. But I also let him know I missed him. And putting that into words made the distance between us even more painful.

Then, a couple of months ago, I received this:

“Hey, my beautiful Liss. My bliss. See what I did there?” His voice is low and makes me tingle. “I’ve had a few beers, but I’m not drunk. I’m just . . . missing you. I keep hoping being away from you will get easier, but it doesn’t. If anything, it’s getting harder. I can’t stop thinking about our final night together. How good it felt when I put my hands on you. Even better when you put your hands on me. Do you remember? I can’t get it out of my mind. The feel of you. The sounds you made. God, just thinking about it does very horny things to me.”

I hear a low groan and squeeze my eyes shut. “I love listening to your messages. Your voice. I love hearing you say my name. I replay that part over and over again. Pathetic, right?” He lets out a low chuckle. “Yeah. Pathetic. Anyway, some big things are happening here right now, but I don’t want to jinx it and tell you before it’s all set in stone. Hopefully I’ll have good news next time we speak.”

There’s a beat, but I can hear him breathing. “Okay, well . . . that’s all I wanted to say, I guess. Oh, and one more thing. I’m in love with you. I have been for a long time. No big deal.” He pauses again and sighs. “Shit. I promised myself I wouldn’t say that until I saw you in person, but I guess I’m impatient, and dammit . . . I want you to know. I’m not stupid. I’m sure there are men falling over themselves to date you at The Grove, and the thought of anyone but me making love to you drives me insane. I don’t want you to date other men. I want you to date me. Unfortunately, geography has other ideas, so I guess I’m screwed.”

I hear him take a sip of his drink and swallow. “Okay, well, now that I’ve spilled my guts way more than I intended, I’d better go. I don’t want you to think I’m trying to claim something I can’t have by saying the L word. I really don’t. And I certainly don’t expect you to say it back. In fact, please don’t. Saying those words just because someone else does is hollow. If and when you say it to me, I want to look into your eyes and know that you mean it. Because I mean it. You don’t even understand how much. Hope you’re well. And missing me. Love you. Bye.”





Every time I hear him say that, it makes me just as giddy as the first time. Of course, I called him straight back to tell him I felt the same, but when the message tone sounded, I couldn’t go through with saying it to a machine. Instead, I asked him to call me back ASAP so we could talk properly. He didn’t. In fact, my next three messages asking him to call also went unanswered.

Now, I have no idea where I stand. Is he embarrassed about saying he loved me? Or did he realize it was the booze and nostalgia talking rather than him?

Either way, I feel like I’m in limbo. And until I speak to him—the reallive him—I don’t see that changing.

I take a deep breath as my finger hovers over his number. Screw it. I’m going to keep calling until he answers. One way or another, we’re going to have a conversation today.

Adrenaline surges through me as I make the decision. I stand, sling my bag over my shoulder, and start walking. I try to expel nervous energy as I hit his number.

I tap my thigh as the call connects and starts to ring, once . . . twice . . . three times. After the sixth ring, it goes to voice mail. I hang up and redial.

Three more times it connects to voice mail, but on the fourth try, he answers.

“Liss? What’s going on? Are you okay?”

The relief I feel at the sound of his voice is so intense, my knees go weak. “Liam. Hey. Hi. I’m fine. I just needed to talk to you. The real you. And . . . wow. I am.”

I hear him exhale. “I . . . God, Liss. It’s good to hear your voice.”

“You, too. Your voice, I mean. I . . . uh . . . I can’t believe I’m speaking to you.” I’m so nervous, my saliva has dried up. “How are you?”