I could see myself fitting into his world.
I still haven’t given him an answer, but the “yes” is sitting on the tip of my tongue.
Footsteps jog down the stairs, and Liam appears at the bottom of the landing.
I look up and stumble a step backward. He is wearing fitted dark jeans and a faded letterman football jacket.
He smiles at me with an easy, boyish grin. “Ready to go?”
“No,” I say. “Just… no.”
Liam’s face falls, his brow furrowing in confusion. “What? What did I do wrong?”
“The jacket.” I gesture at the offending garment. “Take it off.”
His frown deepens. “Why?”
“Too many jock vibes.”
The confusion melts into a slow, smug smirk. “Did you have a thing for football players in high school?”
“No.” I cross my arms. “I had a thing for band kids and drama nerds.”
He tilts his head, studying me with amused interest. “And now?”
“My adult self has developed terrible taste.” I glare at the jacket.
Liam laughs, the sound vibrating in my core.
I scowl at him. “Don’t laugh. This is a serious issue. How would you feel if I came down in a short cheerleader skirt with pigtails and pom-poms?”
The laughter dies in his throat. He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Point taken.”
He walks over to me, shrugging the jacket off in one fluid motion. “Here.”
“What are you doing?”
“Wear it,” he says, draping the heavy wool and leather over my shoulders. “It’ll make us seem legit.”
He’s standing so close we’re almost toe to toe. He takes my hands, guiding them through the sleeves. I never thought being dressed by someone could be so sexy, so soul-wrecking.
I take a step back, pretending I’m still a woman with functioning limbs and not a puddle on the floor, and hold up my arms, sleeves dangling past my fingertips.
“Don’t I look ridiculous?”
“No,” he says, voice strained. “Definitely not.”
He turns on his heel and walks into the foyer, where he grabs his leather jacket from the rack and shrugs it on.
I suppress a strangled protest in my throat.
He pauses with one arm through a sleeve. “It’s cold outside. I have to wear a coat.”
“Why can’t you put on an unsexy grandpa jacket?” I ask, mock-pouting. “Something beige?”
“I don’t own one.”
“I’ll get you one for Christmas,” I say.