Love Handles (Oakland Hills #1)(87)

He thought he could feel her trembling. Her skin was red hot under his palm. She was blinking too much and he could hear each shallow breath pass her lips.

He knew the instant she decided: pity showed in her eyes, and he dropped his hand.

“It would be selfish of us, given the risk, how different we are . . . ” She reached out to him. “I’m sorry—”

He spun away from her, not wanting her to see the pain that must be pathetically obvious on his face.

She was sorry.

He blinked, frowning, looking around his office—the only place, apparently, she really wanted him. It was an old, familiar pain, to be loved only in context, under condition, with services rendered, awards received, a performance-based compensation. For the first time he wondered if Ed had left him out of his will as a favor. To give him a choice.

Well, he’d made his choice. Too bad for him.

He swallowed, trying to suppress the violence in his chest.

“Liam?” she asked, touching his shoulder.

He jerked away. “Do you need a walk to BART?” His voice was rough.

“No—I’ve—got my car.”

“So, you don’t need me.”

“Liam?”

“I think it’s time you learned you can handle things by yourself.” He walked over to his desk, pulled open the drawers, looked for anything he might want to keep. Unlike a month ago, he couldn’t see a thing he cared about.

She dropped her face into her hands. “See? This is exactly what I’m talking about. Sex complicates everything.”

“You are so right.” He felt disgustingly complicated. He slammed the top desk drawer shut, pulled out the middle one, blindly shoved his hand through spare buttons and toggles and swatch cards, photos of line boards, tearsheets from Lucky and WWD, the first sell-through numbers for the Fite the Man shorts he’d designed. “I think we can both do without any more complications.” He banged the drawer shut, decided not to even bother with the rest of them, and looked around for his jacket and running shoes.

“What are you doing? If you’re threatening to leave again—”

“Not at all.” He met her angry gaze with his own. “I’m informing you of my decision.”

“But the meeting—”

“Is Thursday. I’m sure you’ll do a great job.”

“You don’t mean that. You know I need you—”

“You don’t.” He pulled his lips back into a grimace. “And even if you did, too bad. You can’t have me.”

Her mouth dropped open. The mouth he’d never taste again. “You’re quitting because I can’t date you? Don’t you think that’s a bit childish? Or worse?”

“Worse than childish?” He raised his eyebrow at her. “That’s pretty bad coming from a preschool teacher.” He sneered. “Excuse me. An ex-preschool teacher. I’m sure you’ll never settle for that life again.”

“I might have to, if you walk out of here now.”

“So I should stay just for you?”

“For the company. The one you love.”

Love. Same word, different thing. “I do love this place,” he said. “Problem is, it doesn’t love me back.”

“Well, it needs you. Every day I get emails from Richard about some new horrible red ink that’s going to swallow us up, and the sales guys complain the accounts aren’t getting paid, and the returns are eating away our profits, that we’re lucky if Marshall’s takes our September deliveries for a three-percent markup—”

“What does any of this have to do with me?”

“You shouldn’t take out your anger on Fite. Hate me, fine, but if you leave me alone right now, it’s the entire company that’s going to suffer—”

“If you really believe that, why don’t you go home to L.A.? Hire someone qualified?”

That got her. Eyes bright, she took a step back, staring at him. “Maybe I will,” she said through her teeth.

“Great. Awesome. Maybe I’ll apply for a job then, after you’re gone.” And with his running shoes under his arm and his jacket over his shoulder, he left Bev and his office and Fite and walked out into the cold San Francisco summer night.



“Where’s Liam?” Rachel asked late Tuesday morning. She had a box cutter in one hand and Chinese takeout in the other. “His office is all locked up.”

In the two days since Liam had walked out, Bev had convinced herself she’d done the right thing. She would never have control of the company with that kind of extortion coming from her top employee. Date me or I’m leaving. Sleep with me or I quit. Where would it end? Give me a blow job in the marker room or I won’t ship the second spring delivery to Kohl’s?

He said wanted to date like “normal” people—but they were the two most powerful, visible figures of a fragile organization that revolved around them. She was already having enough trouble winning people’s respect—even her own family doubted her. Sleeping with the handsome, alpha VP would subtly, perhaps permanently, undermine her authority. She’d become the boss’s girlfriend, not the boss.

And, of course, the relationship itself would be doomed from the start. Fighting, screwing, arguing, kissing, hurting—all that drama wasn’t healthy. They’d burn out in a couple months—the breakup painfully visible to everyone in the building. They would be like unhappy parents driving the family into divorce.