Loathe to Love You (The STEMinist Novellas #1-3)(26)

“It’s the only possible explanation.” His breath chuffs against my temples, a fine, pleasant itch.

“For my pathological inability to maintain thermal homeostasis?”

“For how little they appreciate you.” He’s suddenly holding me a little tighter. A little closer. “Also, for how rare you like your steak.”

“I . . . Medium rare.” My voice shakes. I tell myself that it’s because of the cold and not the fact that he remembers the things I told him about my family.

“Please. Basically raw.”

“Humph.” No point in arguing with him, not when he’s right. Not when his hand is running up and down my arm—a warming, calming gesture, even through the blankets. “Do you think he’ll be able to fix the fuse tonight?”

“I hope so. If not, I’ll run to the store and get you a heater.”

“You would do that?”

He shrugs. There are about ten layers between us (Liam vastly underestimated the number of Snuggies I can put on at once), but he feels so warm and solid. A few months ago, I thought him cold, in every possible way. Back when I used to believe that I hated him. “It feels like less work than driving you to the ER for frostbite treatment.” His cheek curves against my brow.

“You’re not as heartless as you think, Liam.”

“I’m not as heartless as you think.”

I laugh and lean back to take a look at him, because it feels like he might be smiling, a whole wide grin, and that’s a rare and wondrous phenomenon that I want to savor. He’s not, though. He’s staring at me, too, studying me in that weighty, serious way he sometimes does. First my eyes, and then my lips, and what is this, this moment of heavy, full silence that has my heart racing and my skin tingling?

“Mara.” His throat moves as he swallows. “I—”

Loud knocking makes us startle.

“The electrician.”

“Oh. Yeah.” My voice is both shrill and breathless.

“I’ll get the door, okay?”

Please, don’t. Stay. “Okay.”

“Do you think you can avoid hypothermia if I let go of you?”

“Yes. Probably.” No. “Maybe?”

He rolls his eyes in that put-upon way that reminds me so much of Helena. But his smile, the one I was looking for earlier—here it is. Finally. “Very well, then.” Without letting go, he stands and carries me all the way to the entrance.

I hide my face in his neck, humming with warmth and something else, unfamiliar and unidentifiable.





Eleven


Two weeks ago

I get the phone call on a Wednesday night, before dinner but after I’ve returned from work.

I am remarkably composed throughout: I oh and ah in all the right places; I ask pertinent, important questions; I even remember to thank the caller for sharing the news with me. But after we both hang up, I completely lose it.

I don’t call Sadie. I don’t text Hannah in the hope that she has reception in the belly of whatever Nordic sperm whale is her current residence. I run upstairs, almost tripping on carpets and furniture that’s been in the Harding family for five generations, and once I’m in front of Liam’s office I throw the door open without knocking.

Which, in hindsight, is not my most polite moment. And neither is the next, when I run to Liam (who’s talking on the phone by the window), throw my arms around his waist with utter disregard for whatever he’s doing, and yell:

“I got it! Liam—I got the job!”

He doesn’t skip a beat. “The team leader position?”

“Yes.”

His grin is blinding. Then he tells, “I’ll call you back,” to whoever is on the line, totally ignores the fact that their reply is “Sir, this is a time-sensitive issue—” and tosses the phone on the nearest chair.

Then he hugs me back. He lifts me up like he’s too happy for me to even consider stopping himself, like this phone call I just had that changed my life changed his, too, like he’s been wanting this as much and as intensely as I have. And when he spins me around the room, one single, perfect whirl of pure happiness, that’s when I realize it.

How incredibly, utterly gone for this man I am.

It’s been there for weeks. Months. Whispering in my ear, creeping at me, hitting me in the face like a train on an iron track. It has grown too formidable and luminous for me to ignore, but that’s okay.

I don’t want to ignore it.

Liam sets me on my feet. His hands linger over me before he takes a step back—one hand trailing down my arm, the other pushing a lock of hair past my temple, behind my ear. When he lets go, I want to follow him. I want to beg him not to.

“Mara, you are fantastic. Brilliant.”

I feel fantastic. I feel brilliant, when I’m with you. And I want you to feel the same. “I clearly deserve to choose what to watch on TV tonight.”

“You choose what to watch on TV every night.”

“But tonight I actually deserve it.”

He laughs, shaking his head, holding my eyes. Time stretches. Heavy, sweet tension thickens between us. I want to kiss him. I want to kiss him so, so much. Should I ask him? Would he push me away? Or would he push right back, press me against his desk, turn me around and hold me down with a hand splayed between my shoulder blades and whisper to me Finally, and Be still, and Let’s celebrate, and—