Page 43 of Second Chance with the Enemy CEO
“Okay. I..., I love you.”
“Love you too,” I say, though it feels hollow.
“Liam…”
“Goodnight, Mom.”
I hang up before the words can linger any longer.
I sit there in silence, letting the weight of everything sink in. Why? Why did she have to bring that up again? Why? Why did she have to also drag me back to places I have spent years trying to move on from?
It is as if the person close to me is not doing that enough.
Money-hungry orphan girl.
I rub my hands over my face as I lean back. The pressure in my chest is building, tight and uncomfortable. I grab my glass and drain the rest of the whiskey in one long gulp, the burn doing little to ease the tension. For a moment, I sit there, staring at the empty glass, debating whether to pour another.
After a moment of indecision, I push myself up from the couch, my legs heavy with the weight of the day. Crossing to the bar, I grab the whiskey bottle and pour a generous amount into my glass, not bothering to measure. The amber liquid swirls as I lift it to my lips, its sharp burn grounding me.
Glass in hand, I walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows. The view across the yard is almost peaceful, the darkness punctuated by the warm, inviting glow of the guesthouse lights.
I just stand there, staring, when I see movement. Hazel. Her silhouette moves through the room, her figure drawing my attention like a magnet. My eyes follow every motion, the way she grabs her bag and throws or sets it down somewhere.
Her shadow stills as she steps closer to the window, and for a brief second, I wonder if she can see me watching.
I stay rooted, the glass cool against my palm, unable to tear my gaze away. My breath catches, and I hold perfectly still as though moving might break whatever fragile thread of connection exists at this moment.
She does not move at first, then she tilts her head slightly and turns abruptly, disappearing deeper into the room. I release a breath I did not realize I was holding, though the tightness in my chest remains.
A moment later, she steps outside carrying a large bag slung over one shoulder, its weight making her stagger slightly as she struggles to adjust her grip. In her other hand, she clutches her tripod, its legs clinking softly with each step.
I watch as she fumbles, the bag slipping further down her arm. She stops at the edge of the porch, clearly trying to figure out how to manage everything without dropping it all.
Against my better judgment, I grab my keys and head for the door.
By the time I cross the yard, she has made it halfway to the clearing behind the guesthouse, her movements slow and strained.
“Need a hand?” I called out.
She startles, spinning around so quickly that the bag nearly slides off her shoulder. “What…, Liam? What? Sneaking up on people now?”
“Was not sneaking. You are just jumpy.” I say, leaning against the railing.
“What do you want?” Her tone is equal parts of surprise and suspicion, her eyes narrowing as I step closer.
“You’re about to drop that,” I point out, nodding toward the bag.
“So?”
“I’ve come to lend a helping hand.”
Her eyes narrow suspiciously. "I doubt that."
"Seriously," I say, holding up two fingers in a mock salute. "Scout’s honor."
She snorts, unimpressed. "You’ve never been a scout."
"Details," I reply with a shrug, suppressing a grin, "it’s the thought that counts. Do you want my help or not?"
