Page 17 of Our Radiant Embers

He arched a disdainful brow. “Not all of us grow up with an army of chefs and servants.”

Right, I might have walked straight into that one. Thing was, he wasn’t entirely wrong—I could probably figure out how to turn on a stove, but cooking a proper meal? Yeah, no. Not happening.

“It smells delicious,” I said lightly and let a smile follow.

He watched me through narrowed eyes, the suspicious tilt of his mouth persisting. Tough crowd. When it became apparent he wouldn’t answer, I nodded at the door next to the fridge.

“So. This way to your office, I take it?”

He blinked, then his features relaxed with amusement. “That’s the pantry.”

Oops.

“All right. Which way, then?” I asked.

“This is my office.” The corners of Liam’s mouth twitched. “The only alternative is my bedroom. Which—maybe not.”

It jerked my mind right back to his question from yesterday. ‘Aww, are you telling me I’m not the best you’ve ever had?’ Like he didn’t at least suspect that I had little else to compare him to—no, he’d just had to rub it in.

“Thanks, I’d rather steer clear,” I told him. “Who knows what I might catch in the vicinity of your bed.”

He scoffed. “Funny how I’m not the one cheating on my fiancée.”

Yeah, that might have hit a little harder if Cassandra hadn’t finished our phone call by telling me not to do anything she wouldn’t do. Her tone had implied it was a short list, and anything else was fair game.

“Remember how I told you that she isn’t?” I shot him a dismissive smile. “Anyway, you didn’t seem to have any reservations when you were fucking my mouth.”

His focus dropped to my lips, the moment so brief I might have imagined it. Then he gave a what-can-you-do shrug. “Funny what alcohol can make us do.”

“Ah, the classic ‘blame it on the booze’ defence. Such a convenient scapegoat for lacking self-control.” I might have just shot myself in the foot, so I continued quickly. “What’s next—‘the dog ate our project proposal’?”

He assessed me with all the arrogance of someone who knew that it would take very little to have me fall to my knees for him. Or maybe I was projecting, God. He made my blood boil, but I wanted him, too—the way he’d brought me off, teeth against my throat, our muffled groans in the darkness, his fingers in my hair. The fact that he was a hint taller than me, leanly muscled, no longer the lanky boy he’d been in school. His air of confidence that was subtler than mine, less practised and rather a result of having worked his way up the social ladder.

I forced my attention away and remembered that I’d planned to be nice today. Awesome job, me.

“Our project proposal is just fine.” He sounded infuriatingly unaffected. “Sorry if that comes as a disappointment.”

No, he wasn’t.

I inhaled and shook off my emotions like a layer of dust. “That’s quite all right. In fact, I come armed with a compromise.”

“A compromise.” He said it like one would react to a gift basket filled with snakes.

“Your lack of faith saddens me.”

“Harringtons aren’t known for compromising.”

We were not—he had me there. But there were three types of people: those who’d bend over backwards to please everyone, those who ignited into self-driven dynamos once convinced that something made sense, and those who dug their heels in more the harder you pushed. Liam fell into the last category. Playing hardball would get me nowhere.

I could be smart about this.

“No, we’re not,” I said. “But for better or worse, you and I are in this together. Might as well start acting like it.”

With a theatrically pained groan, Liam rubbed a hand over his neck.

“What?” I asked.

“Just trying to recover from the whiplash.”

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