Wicked Heart (Starcrossed #3)(51)

I can feel him watching me as I take in the open space and million-dollar views. It’s weird how awkward I feel in this environment. It’s hard to process this version of him. The millionaire. The movie star. Yet in a lot of ways, he still feels exactly like he used to, just with more money and nicer stuff.

“I don’t think I’d know what to do with myself in a place this pretty,” I say. “I’m used to noisy radiators, mismatched dishes, and nonexistent water pressure. I’ll bet this palace has none of those things.”

“Not true,” he says, and pulls open one of the kitchen cabinets. “Observe.”

There are four plates in the cupboard, and two of them have cartoon characters on them.

I smile. “You eat off Captain America plates?”

“Not anymore. But these guys are hangovers from my old place. Back then, I only had two plates, and two glasses that used to be jam jars.”

“I remember those. You served me milk in one the night we met.”

He smiles and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, and because I was trying to impress you, I gave you the one without the chip in it. Plus I would never have forgiven myself if you’d cut your lips.”

I remember how he kept staring at my lips that night. It’s similar to how he’s staring at them now.

He blinks, then takes a breath and closes the cabinet. “Anyway, can I get you something to drink?” He walks over to the gleaming fridge. “I promise, I have proper glasses these days.”

“Please tell me you have alcohol.”

“One thing I definitely have is alcohol.” He opens the door to reveal shelf upon shelf of fresh food, as well as a plethora of wine and boutique beer. And cheese. Lots and lots of cheese.

“Did you stock up for me?” I ask, and point to the cheese. “Or do you usually have a fridgeful of potential mouthgasms?”

He smiles. “The cheese cabinet at a deli would be like a porn shop to you, right?”

“Pretty much.”

He grabs a wheel of something covered in wax and expensive-looking and slides it across the island to me. “As much as I’d like to say I stocked up for you, I didn’t. The irony of being so rich you can afford anything is that people insist on giving you free stuff. When you’re broke, people wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire, but rich and famous? ‘Here: Take everything!’ ”

I grab the cheese and bring it up to my nose. “Oh my God. Italian. Aged. Smells amazing.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Would you like to be alone with it?”

I put the cheese on the counter and stroke it, lovingly. “No. As much as I want him, he isn’t mine. I’ll just pine for him from afar.” Funny how that seems to be a recurring theme in my life.

Liam grabs a carry bag from the cupboard. “Unacceptable. True love should never be denied.” He places the cheese inside, then holds it out to me. “I hope you two are very happy together.”

I put my hand over my heart. “Wow, this is a defining moment in our relationship. Only a true friend would give me cheese.”

When I take the bag from him, our fingers brush. In that second, all the buoyancy in the air turns to lead. We lock eyes, and for a few hideous moments, I think I’m going to launch myself at him.

He breaks eye contact and clears his throat. “So, beer?”

“God, yes.”

He heads back to the fridge to retrieve two beers, then pops the caps before holding one out to me. “Try this. It’s my favorite.”

I take a mouthful and swallow. “Wow. Expensive beer actually tastes like it’s been fermented with money. That’s delicious.”

“Glad you like it.” He walks over to the couch and invites me to take a seat next to him. I drop my bag on the floor and sink into the soft leather.

Oh, God. I’m never getting up. This is amazing. It’s like being hugged by a leather jacket.

I sit back and close my eyes. It’s possible I moan.

When I feel heat on my face, I turn to see Liam staring at me, eyes hooded and dark. “Comfortable?”

“Very.” I shouldn’t like his eyes on me as much as I do. It’s wrong. And stupid.

“Good. I want you to feel at home here.”

I’m tempted to say I feel at home wherever he is, but even for me, that’s too cheesy. Still, that doesn’t make it not true.

“Was it strange?” I ask. “Getting used to all this?”

He looks around. “This apartment?”

“This life. The money. Fame.”

He looks down at his beer. “What makes you think I’m used to any of it? Every paparazzo on the West Coast will tell you how well I don’t deal with it. Hell, you saw it firsthand the other night. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being treated like a commodity instead of a person.”

“I guess to Hollywood, it makes sense to treat you like a commodity. I mean, think about it like this—if Hollywood is an Italian restaurant, then you’re Parmigiano Reggiano and Angel is black truffle.”

“Wait, why does Angel get to be one of the most expensive foods ever, and I’m stinky cheese?”

I smack his arm. “Who the hell are you calling stinky, buddy? I’m talking about one of the most delicious and exclusive cheeses in the world.”