Billionaires Dollar Series

I swallow. “You sure did.”

“I think this fake boyfriend stuff is for me,” he says. “I’ve never bought flowers for a woman before and enjoyed it this much.”

I blink down at the beautiful but deceptive roses, all part of the ruse. “They’re gorgeous.”

“A rose for my rose,” he says, and then laughs again at the statement. “Your ex looked struck.”

I force down the foolish hopes that had risen when his mouth had touched mine, because of course he’d known Jason was around. “Thank you for that little piece of showmanship.”

“You’re very welcome,” he says. “Now, come on. We’ve got places to be.”

“We do?” I heft my bag onto my shoulder and shift the flowers into my other arm. “I thought Cole’s event wasn’t until tomorrow.”

“It’s not, but I figured we’d go dress shopping.”

My eyebrows must have risen to my hairline, because Liam actually reaches up and runs a hand over the back of his neck. He looks like when he was eleven and confessed he’d been the one to leave the door to my hamster cage open.

“Dress shopping?”

“Like we’re the characters from Pretty Woman?”

He grins. “In essence, I suppose.”

“Wow.”

“But I want you to know that I don’t see you as a prostitute.”

“The praise, the flattery-it’s too much.” I give him a light shove, and even the brief contact sends a shiver through me. Get a grip, Webb. “You don’t think I have dresses to wear?”

His eyes narrow, like he’s planning his next words carefully. It’s the same expression I’ve seen him wear around Albert Walker. “I’m sure you have a lot of lovely options,” he says. “But as you’d not attend this event if it wasn’t to help me, I think it’s fair that I help with the necessary equipment.”

“Necessary equipment? God, Liam, you really know how to flatter a girl.”

“It’s one of my many talents.”Please check at N/ôvel(D)rama.Org.

“You might be the least modest person I know.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Achievement comes in all forms.”

I shake my head at him, looking past him to the stores that line the central Seattle street.

He’s not wrong, strictly speaking. My cocktail dresses amount to exactly one, and I’d already worn it to our previous dinner with Albert.

“Let me get this straight,” I say. “You really want to come shopping for dresses with me?”

There’s a sigh from the man on my left, and when I glance over, Liam is responding to an email on his phone.

I frown. “Do you do this with all the girls?”

“No,” he says, pausing to finish whatever he’s doing. As soon as the phone is gone, he gives me the charming smile I recognize is his trademark. “And I’m really just here to pull out the credit card.”

“Your solution to all of life’s problems?”

“It just might be,” he says. “Now, let’s go wherever you want to go.”

“I’m guessing this is a one-store maximum?”

“That would be preferable,” he says.

Perhaps the person I was a few years ago would bristle against this. Be offended, even. Or perhaps I would have thrown myself into it with reckless abandon.

But now, with my daily job as far away from fashion and dresses and softness as possible, well…

“I know just the place,” I say.

“Excellent.” Liam’s eyes drift to my lips, and then lower still, to the hand still gripping my flowers. He frowns. “What have you done to yourself?”

He takes my hand in his, turning it over to inspect the bright red burn on the side of my palm. It’s still smarting.

“What did you do?”

“Hot pan.”

“Let me rephrase-what did the hot pan do to you?”

“It attacked me,” I say. “Vicious little thing, but don’t worry. I gave as good as I got.”

His lips twitch. “Your profession is dangerous.”

“Every profession has its dangers. I like the fact that mine is limited to burns, and not, you know, a financial collapse.”

Now Liam’s smile is full-blown. His fingers rest around the burn, as if he can pinch it shut. “Occupational hazard,” he says. “Do you need to put something on this?”

“I already have.” My body is warring between wanting to pull my hand back, and wanting to curve my fingers around his. This bright burn isn’t the only blemish I have, my fingers dotted with scars from similar accidents.

They’re a chef’s hands, and they’re my tools, but they could never be called dainty.

His fingers shift over to my pinky instead. “Remember when you broke this?”

“I can’t believe you’re brave enough to bring that up.”

He grins. “We’re never too old to have this argument.”

“I told you we should have climbed my route,” I say, but my voice is soft, even as I imitate my nine-year-old self.

“And I told you,” Liam echoes, “that you should have followed my path exactly.”

We both look at my crooked pinky. The memories of days in the sunlight, of misty rains and muddy shoes, when all we did was explore.