Page 5 of Sinfully Yours

I reach for him, still breathless, still reeling. "Liam?—"

"This was a mistake."

His voice is hoarse. Final.

And before I can say another word—before I can even process what just happened—he turns and walks away.

Leaving me standing there, heart racing, mind spinning, wondering what the hell just happened.

2

LIAM

The morning after Dean's wedding, I wake up to the kind of headache that has nothing to do with whiskey.

The room is dark except for the slant of sunlight cutting across my bedroom floor, slicing through the city skyline beyond the windows. The sheets are twisted around my waist, the crisp, expensive kind—Egyptian cotton or some other luxury I don't remember choosing. The loft is quiet, save for the distant call of traffic below, but my pulse is still pounding like I've spent the night running.

In a way, I have.

I drag a hand over my face, exhaling slowly, trying to shake off the ghost of last night—the vineyard, the heat, the way my best friend's sister tasted like champagne and strawberries.

"Just perfect," I mutter to myself, rubbing my eyes.

I stare at the ceiling, willing my brain to rewind, to put some distance between me and the biggest mistake I've made in years.

But all it does is replay the same thing in high definition—her lips parting beneath mine, the little hitch in her breath when I pulled her closer, the way she fit against me like she belonged there.

I groan and sit up, shoving the heels of my hands into my eyes like I can scrub her out of my memory.

It was a mistake. I told her that, told myself that.

But if it was such a mistake, why am I still thinking about it?

The answer to that is something I don't have the bandwidth to deal with, not when I have a full day ahead of me and a best friend who would fucking kill me if he knew I spent last night with my tongue down his little sister's throat.

Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I stretch, rolling the tension from my shoulders. The air is cool against my bare skin, and the city below is already wide awake, horns blaring, the smells of coffee and asphalt creeping through the open window.

My loft is clean, minimalist. Exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, sleek furniture in neutral tones. The kind of place people expect me to live in—a man who builds luxury real estate for a living, a man who made his first million before thirty.

But for all the high-end design, the space still feels empty.

The kitchen is spotless, every surface gleaming under the morning light. The coffee maker kicks on automatically when I step inside, filling the air with the rich, dark scent of something strong enough to keep me from making another monumental life choice.

I need to move on and act like nothing happened. I need to pretend that kissing Ava didn't unravel something inside me that I wasn't ready to name.

Moving to the kitchen counter, I pour myself a cup of coffee, black. My phone buzzes on the marble surface—back-to-back emails, meeting reminders, a message from my assistant, Oliver, reminding me that I have a conference call in an hour about the new luxury development I'm overseeing in downtown Willow Creek.

Good. Work. I can focus on that.

I take a slow sip of coffee, watching the city move outside my window, but even as I run through today's schedule in my head, my thoughts circle back to Ava—in that dress, looking at me like she wanted me just as much as I wanted her.

I swear under my breath and push off the counter, shoving my phone into my pocket. It's fine. I can shake this off. I have to. She's my best friend's sister. If I start something I can't finish—as history suggests I will—I might as well pick out my own gravesite because if I don't, Dean sure as hell will. And knowing him, he'll make me dig it myself.

Instead, I decide to focus on work—or try to, at least.

After finishing my coffee, I shower, letting the hot water roll over my shoulders, scalding away the ghost of last night—the feel of Ava's body pressed against mine, the way she tasted like champagne and trouble. I stay under the spray longer than necessary, bracing my hands against the cool marble as if sheer force of will could scrub her out of my system.

By the time I step out, towel slung low on my hips, the ache in my chest is still there. Frustration, regret, something deeper I refuse to name. I ignore it, pull on a crisp white dress shirt and dark slacks, and slide my Rolex onto my wrist. The routine is automatic. Controlled. Necessary.

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