Page 4 of The Blacksmith's Heart
“You know,” I start, setting the mug aside, “for someone so grumpy, you’re surprisingly good at this whole ‘host’ thing.”
“Don’t read into it,” he grunts, leaning against a wooden beam. “I’m just trying to keep you from tripping over your own feet and breaking something.”
“Sure,” I drawl, dragging out the word. “And the cozy yoga corner was purely practical, right?”
He shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something he quickly hides by looking away.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he says. “I just didn’t want you taking over my living room.”
“Uh-huh.” I stretch into a downward dog, feeling his gaze linger. “Well, thanks anyway. It’s nice.”
“Don’t mention it.” His voice is low, almost a growl, and I can feel the weight of his stare on me as I move through my poses. It’s unnerving, but not in a bad way. It’s the kind of attention that makes your skin heat and your heart race, even though he hasn’t touched me.
Yet.
Unpacking feels like an exercise in futility, considering I don’t have much left. The fire didn’t just take my studio; it took my home. My clothes, my books, my carefully curated collection of crystals and candles—it’s all gone.
I sigh, pulling out the last few items from my bag and tucking them into the small dresser Liam cleared out for me. That’s when I see it, crumpled in the back corner of the drawer: an old piece of notebook paper, yellowed with age.
My breath catches as I unfold it, the familiar handwriting sending me straight back to middle school.
“If neither of us is married by 30, we’ll marry each other. Deal? Check yes or no.”
My twelve-year-old self had checked “yes” and slipped it into Liam Grayson’s locker. I never expected him to keep it. But now, holding it in my hands, the memory hits me like a freight train.
I laugh softly, the sound tinged with disbelief. What are the odds?
Curiosity gets the better of me, and I take the note to the living room, where Liam is sprawled on the couch with Rocky at his feet. He’s flipping throughMountain Livingmagazine, his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Hey,” I say, holding up the note. “Remember this?”
His eyes lift, and for a moment, he just stares at me. Then his gaze drops to the paper, and something flickers across his face—something vulnerable and unguarded.
“I haven’t seen that in years,” he says, his voice rough.
I sit on the armrest of the couch, holding the note out to him. “I can’t believe you kept it.”
He takes the paper from me, his fingers brushing mine. The touch is brief, but it’s enough to send a jolt of electricity through me. He unfolds the note, his eyes scanning the words before he lets out a low chuckle.
“I was an idiot,” he says, shaking his head. “What the hell did I know about marriage at twelve?”
“More than you do now, apparently,” I tease, grinning when his eyes narrow.
“You think so, huh?”
“Definitely.” I lean closer, my voice dropping to a mock whisper. “Because if this is your idea of wooing a woman, you’ve got a lot to learn.”
His lips curve into something that’s almost a smile. Almost. “Maybe I’m just rusty.”
“Rusty?” I raise an eyebrow. “Liam, I’m pretty sure you’ve never even been in the game.”
His expression darkens, but there’s a heat in his eyes that wasn’t there a moment ago. “Careful, Angel.”
“Or what?” I challenge, my voice soft but daring.
For a moment, we just stare at each other, the air between us crackling with tension. His jaw tightens, and I can see the effort it takes for him to pull back, to look away.
“Go to bed, Callie,” he says finally, his voice low and strained. “Before you say something you’ll regret.”
