39
PEYTON
Monday, the drive to work is identical to every other morning. Same winding lake road, same scalding coffee I’m nursing in my travel thermos, and the usual hum of the heater filling the silence.
But I’m different.
We are.
Liam is holding my hand, our fingers laced over the center console. And that simple contact rewires the entire commute. His thumb traces a slow circle on the inside of my wrist. A lazy, absent motion, as if he’s not even aware he’s doing it. But I’m aware. I’m aware of the warmth of his palm, the way his grip tightens when we round a curve and then loosens again, never letting go.
Everything is the same. And nothing is.
At the office, my morning starts as any other. I settle into my desk chair, boot up my laptop, and pull up the regional dashboard I’ve been building for the pilot stores. The numbers populate in neat columns. I’m deep into a comparison of gear sales when my office door swings open without a knock.
Liam leans against the frame, hands in his pockets, looking criminally good in his dark suit.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey yourself.”
He crosses the room in three strides, cups my face, and kisses me. It’s brief—a press of warm lips, the faintest brush of his tongue against my lower lip—and then he’s pulling back, straightening his tie, and walking out without another word.
I sit, blinking at my spreadsheet, my mouth tingling.
My concentration is shot. Every footstep in the hallway makes me glance at the door, my pulse tripping in anticipation. I can’t decide if I want to scold him for distracting me at work or drag him into the supply closet.
But as he invites me on a coffee break mid-morning, I’m leaning toward the supply closet option. That mood dampens as we round the corner and run into his father. The Rockwood patriarch is pouring himself a cup from the kitchenette pot, his silver hair and tailored suit immaculate. When he spots us, his gray eyes—identical to Liam’s, only colder—sweep over us with an edge of disapproval.
I straighten my spine but resist the urge to drop Liam’s hand, and hold on tighter instead.
“Liam, Peyton.” Charles nods at each of us in turn. His expression is neutral, giving nothing away. “Everything alright after Saturday?”
“Yeah, Dad.” Liam’s voice is easygoing, but his grip on my hand turns firmer.
Charles studies us for a beat. “You’ll need to smooth a few ruffled feathers,” he says to Liam. “Your mother invited people. Bailing on the celebration like that left some explaining to do.”
Liam’s jaw tightens. “I understand.”
Charles shifts his gaze to me. The assessment is direct—not hostile, but clinical. As if he’s recalculating a variable in a model he’d already balanced.
“And you,” he says. “To be a Rockwood, you need a thicker skin. A few guests and a cake can’t scare you.”
I meet his stare, swallowing down a wave of irritation, defiance, and a flash of hurt that I tamp down before it shows.
“My wife won’t do anything she’s uncomfortable with.” Liam’s tone is polite but firm. “And a heads-up would’ve been nice, Dad.”
The two men face each other. Same height, same jawline, same stubborn set to their shoulders.
Charles holds his son’s stare. Then the corner of his mouth twitches. “No surprise parties for you two,” he says. “Noted.”
He nods once—to Liam, then to me—and walks away.
I exhale.
Liam squeezes my hand. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I watch Charles’s retreating back disappear around the corner. “He didn’t yell.”