Chapter 31: The Art Of... Seduction?
Liam moved through his house with purpose, the quiet hum of the air conditioner the only sound as he began his ritual.
The living room was already tidy—he kept it that way out of habit—but he ran a damp cloth over the coffee table anyway, wiping away invisible dust.
He straightened the throw pillows on the couch, adjusted the angle of a lamp, and made sure the coasters were within easy reach. The kitchen counters got a quick wipe-down, the sink polished to a gleam, and he set out two glasses on the counter—crystal, not his everyday ones.
The shower came next. Hot water cascaded over his sore muscles, the steam fogging the mirror as he scrubbed away the residue of the day. He took his time, letting the heat seep into his shoulders, washing his hair twice because why not especially after that haircut. When he stepped out, towel wrapped around his waist, he caught his reflection in the now-cleared mirror.
His hair was damp, slightly shorter than usual—he had gotten a trim an hour or so ago, purely coincidental.
"Would she notice?" The thought flickered and died. "She’s not coming here and thinking I got a haircut because of her, that’s absurd," Liam muttered under his breath.
He dried off, ran a comb through his hair, and stood in front of his wardrobe. The debate was brief: casual or effort? A white button-up shirt hung neatly beside a plain gray tee. He reached for the white shirt, then hesitated.
"If I dress up, she’ll think I’m trying to impress her. If I dress too casual, she’ll think I didn’t care."
He settled on a middle ground: the white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, paired with black shorts that fell just above the knee. Simple, clean, intentional. He left the shirt untucked, a hint of his chest visible at the open neck.
He glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes. He went to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and surveyed the options: lemonade, iced tea, a six-pack of craft beer, and a bottle of chilled white wine he’d been saving. He set them on the counter, along with a pitcher of water with cucumber slices. If she wants a drink, she’ll have choices.
"I’ll be a good host." He had to considering he was the one now trying to win her over.
The doorbell rang at exactly the agreed time which was a surprise, not everyone was this punctual.
Liam took a breath, crossed the living room, and opened the door.
Vanessa stood there, and for a moment, his brain stalled. She was wearing a crop top—a tight, ribbed thing in pale cream that stopped just below her breasts, leaving a generous strip of midriff bare.
The fabric strained across her chest, the curve of her breasts pressing against it, the outline of her nipples faintly visible through the thin material. Below that, she wore low-rise jeans—blue, faded, hugging her hips like they were painted on. The waistband sat dangerously low, showcasing the subtle v-shape of her pelvis, the button straining over her flat stomach. Her hair was down, soft waves brushing her shoulders, and she held a bottle of red wine by the neck, her fingers wrapped around it casually.
She smiled, her eyes flicking over him in a slow survey. "Liam. I was starting to wonder if you’d call. But this came sooner than I expected. Forgive my dressing, I was out and didn’t have time to change."
He smiled back, keeping his hands at his sides. "Vanessa. It is fine, I’m just glad you could make it. Come in."
She stepped past him, and he caught the faint scent of her perfume—something floral with a hint of musk. As she moved, the jeans pulled tight across her ass, the denim cupping each cheek with intimate precision. He watched her backside for a bitt too long before catching himself.
"Don’t stare. Don’t be that guy."
He closed the door behind her, the click loud in the sudden quiet.
She turned, holding up the wine. "I brought this on the way. Hope you’re in the mood for red."
"I appreciate it," he said, taking the bottle. Their fingers brushed briefly—her touch warm, deliberate. "But I should tell you, I haven’t accepted your offer yet. I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea."
Liam thought she brought it to celebrate.
She tilted her head, a slow, teasing smile spreading across her lips. "Who says I brought it for that? Maybe I just wanted to share a drink with a nice man who cleaned his house and got a haircut just for me."
Liam’s throat tightened. She noticed, of course she did. He kept his face neutral. "I didn’t—"
"Relax," she cut in, her voice smooth as honey. "I’m just messing with you. But you do look good, Liam. I’m not blind."
She let the words hang, her gaze dropping to his open collar for a fraction of a second before meeting his eyes again. He took a step toward the kitchen, the wine bottle cool in his hand. "Can I get you something to drink? I have beer, iced tea, lemonade—"
"Wine’s fine," she said, following him. "But I’ll let you pour. I want to see how you handle a bottle."
Now Liam could shut this down but he remembered, he was now the one trying to win her over as Mrs. Harriet definitely had him beat when it came to money, at least for now.
There was a challenge in her tone, playful but sharp. He set the wine on the counter, found a corkscrew, and worked the cork free with a practiced twist. She watched him, leaning against the kitchen island, arms crossed under her breasts, pushing them up slightly. The crop top rode up a little, exposing more skin just above her navel.
He poured two glasses, handed her one. Their fingers touched again, and this time she held his gaze, her thumb brushing across his knuckle before she took the glass.
"Thank you," she said, bringing the rim to her lips. She took a sip, her eyes never leaving his. "This is good. You have good taste."
"It’s your wine," he thought, but he only smiled and raised his own glass.
"To unexpected evenings."
She clinked her glass against his, the sound sharp and intimate. "I’ll drink to that."
They stood there in the kitchen, the space between them charged, her body angled toward him, the low-cut top and tight jeans doing exactly what they were designed to do. Liam kept his hands steady, his voice calm, but the image of her walking in—that exposed midriff, the curve of her breasts straining fabric, the way her jeans hugged every contour—was burned into his mind.
He took a sip of wine, letting the warmth settle in his chest.
"Be a good host. Nothing more. Not tonight."
But she was already making that very difficult.
