Fiancée for Rent by Elizabeth Grey
Chapter 22
Liam
In an Olympic-style move, I stuck the landing after I tripped over a wayward whiskey bottle. With my arms out, I had teetered a moment on feet I could barely feel, grateful to not have to clean up the shattered glass. I laughed, a hollow, forced, guttural sound from deep in my chest before I managed to walk like a man on a mission through a minefield to grab another beer.
When I ripped open the refrigerator door, I stood transfixed, glaring at the bowl of apples Kylie had left. They'd aged while we were gone, sported darkening spots on their green surfaces. I could identify with the process. I, too, had possibly gained internal bruising over the past few weeks, even if it didn't show. I surely had ignited my emotional aging process with the back and forth of lust and reason, all while old wounds opened, left affections I'd rather not classify to swirl within me.
I grabbed the bowl of apples and tossed them, decorative glass and all, into the trash can. The shatter and bang of the moment fulfilled me briefly. Reaching back into the cold fridge, the chill shot a reminder of the barn in Montana up my arm into my brain. The look of Kylie's pure skin dazzled my thoughts, leaving me to barbarically growl at the empty box that had housed a six-pack just an hour or two ago. I'd lost track of time and day, and as I threw the box and slammed the door, I couldn't make my vision clear enough to see the time. I blinked back tears, unable or unwilling, to drop my walls as I stormed through the house to my liquor cabinet.
As I tore open the wooden door, the squeal of the hinges protested. I shook my head and grabbed the first amber bottle. I stepped into the bedroom, swallowing hard despite the burn of liquid, I managed to stumble into the closet rather than work my way into the main part of the room. Kylie's clothes—the expensive gowns, her movie audition dresses, her LA clothes—hung there, taunting me. One sniff of her alluring perfume, the composition rather complicated, pulled at me like a siren's song.
Reaching for the white number she'd worn during my fake proposal, sandalwood, bergamot, vanilla, maybe other fruits and spices struck me down. Flashes of her blond curls, her creamy skin, her tears found me on the floor, silk crumbled in my fist, hot tears on my face. I took another swig from the bottle to my amazement, clutched in my other hand still.
When the doorbell rang, the buzz skittered over a few raw nerves in my head, made my shoulders rise while I tried to figure out the source of the obnoxious sound. When it struck again, not even a minute later, realization dawned slow and hazy while I cursed whoever dared to bother me in such a state.
Bottle in hand, I draped the white material with what care I could manage over a set of drawers that held two purses on its top. By the time I got to the door, it had fired off several rounds, and I'd probably bruised my biceps for each door jam I'd bounced off of on the way.
As I wrenched open the door, I shouted, "What the fuck?"
Any other words I'd been set to admonish my visitor with died off in my brain as the image of Isabelle materialized, more ghoul than person. Her scent, much more obnoxious than I'd remembered, offended my nose, made the liquid contents of my stomach roll. She'd long ago defended her choice by name brand and price alone, about all the depth she had as a woman for perfume choice.
"Good afternoon to you, too," she cooed, her voice razor-sharp. Shrill. "You had to have gotten started really early to have this kind of mad buzz going by noon. I was driving by and saw the lights in your bedroom on. I wanted to see if you had a moment to chat."
"You can't see my bedroom lights unless you walk around the back of the house," I retorted, still in a daze as to her appearance at all.
"Your point?"
While my mouth had fallen open, no words formed to make any sort of point at all. I'd grown impressed. I'd thought of the first one and took the time to mentally pat myself on the back rather than invest too much thought in the point of her visit.
"Good," she continued after a brief pause. "Can I come in?"
She didn't have all of the words out before she brushed past me and made her way to my bedroom rather than the living room. I followed, unsure if I had another choice, though I tried to search my brain for one.
"Sit down, Liam," she demanded as she took a seat herself on my unmade bed. Her long, thin leg peeked out through a long slit in her dress, reminiscent of the one I'd just held in my hands of Kylie's. I blinked a few times as I obeyed her request. I plopped onto a lounge by the balcony, ready to jump if I needed to—over the ledge and into the pool.
"We need to talk," she stated with a huff after watching me, sitting up herself, a frown having taken her smile.
"About what?" My thoughts had fallen from my mouth with as much grace as I'd dropped into the chair.
"Well, I've been thinking. I don't want to live with regrets, Liam. So, I'm here to tell you that I miss you. More than that, I've come to realize that I still love you. And I figured that if you knew that, you wouldn't be getting married to another woman. I have to believe that you still love me, too, and that if I gave you a choice that you would choose to marry me."
I blinked to let the words roll through my thoughts as I stared, open-mouthed, at her serious face. I'd fanaticized for so long about marrying this woman. In brief flashes of memory, the dreams I'd manufactured struck at me, sending moments of pain through my head and chest. That she sat there, offering herself to me, seemed a dream, too, a drunken figment of my imagination.
"What about Andrew?" I managed, the reason for my crushed dreams.
"I want you, Liam. I have always wanted you. He was a diversion, a way to fill my time when I missed you. What I've come to realize is, if you have me again, then I don't want him."
While something about her words didn't sit right, I took another gulp of liquid and allowed the warmth of it to fill me, numb me, to a point I could call this moment a win, a dream come true. While I'd done nothing more than stare at her, she made her way to where I sat.
"What do you say?" she breathed heavily in my ear as she ran her hands down over my body.
I had fragments of sensation, shots of pleasure, or revulsion, which amounted to an uncomfortable seizure-like physical ailment. She looked up into my eyes. Hers shimmered with a hint of tears as her perfectly manicured nails dug into the muscles of my chest. My muscles tensed, protested as my heartbeat increased to add to the confusion.
She placed a soft kiss, a tease of connection, on my lips before she whispered. The words brushed across my lips, "I know you still love me, Liam. A love like that doesn't just go away. Take me, Liam. I need you."
To her pleas, my body responded. I grew hard as I gave in, reached out, grabbed for her hair, and pulled her face to mine to deepen the kiss. When she groaned, her lips vibrated against mine. She opened her mouth, used her tongue to invade mine. I bit at her lip, an act I knew turned her on. She pushed away from me, stood up, and with one quick flick of her fingers, untied the straps of her dress to let the material flutter to the floor. I took in her body, one I knew too well.
Memories hit me, tightened my stomach, made my heart beat harder, faster. As I sat up straight, she pulled off my shirt. Then she wiggled from her lacy panties to leave herself naked. She'd never been a fan of bras. When she came for my jeans, her hair brushed against my chest. Rather than silky soft like Kylie's, Isabelle had the manufactured, over-processed, rough feel to her over-product-laden waves.
It all hit me then. The difference in scent. In look. In taste. My fingers curled into fists as she tried to yank me up. I didn't want to touch her. I didn't want to taste her. I didn't even want to look at her. With whatever sanity registered, I pushed her away from me. When she regained her balance, naked in heels, her hands went to her hips.
Before she could say anything, I got up, "You can only take a man for granted for so long before you lose him completely."
"But Liam—"
"No," I yelled, causing my eyes to squint from the sheer volume I'd obtained. When she opened her mouth, never one able to take direction, I continued, "No! I want you out. I am marrying Kylie. Not you."
"Liam," she pleaded, taking a step toward me.
"No." I literally screamed.
If my property hadn't afforded me so much privacy, people would have dialed the cops.
"But—"
"No. You get dressed and get out!" I said and fled to the bathroom
With the door closed, locked, I hung onto the doorknob as I slid to the floor. From that vantage point, I listened for the slam of the front door, which would free me of the nightmare named Isabelle.