Page 170 of Trouble from Abroad
“Gunn!” I yell before charging in.
“Miss Thorne.” He smiles—such a rare occurrence pre-April. “So kind of you to join us on this side of the pond.”
April adds, “We’re so happy you’re here, Mia. Thanks again.”
“I’d never say no to anything Liam asks,” I tell her, then turn to him. “After all you’ve done for me, Gunn? Of course I came running.”
April’s eyes narrow. “What does she mean, ‘all you’ve done for her’?” She attaches herself to his side, two piecesof LEGO snapped perfectly together. “Have you been hiding your nice side again?”
“Shhhh, Mia. I have a reputation to uphold.” He lifts April’s chin with a single finger and kisses her, light but lingering, and it’s so damn sweet, I nearly gag. Luckily, my daily intake of sugar is high enough for me to endure this moment.
I swoon dramatically, though. The sound tumbles out of my throat even though my lips are pressed.
Slipping into full PA mode, I announce, “Sorry, April. Liam made me sign a bunch of NDAs working for him.”
His smile tilts crooked, half smug, half proud.
“But hey, not for this,” I say, switching to a perkier tune and locking eyes with April. Her focus zeroes in on me, ready for me to spill the juiciest gossip. “I don’t think anyone knows this, but your fiancé paid off all my student debt on my first day of work,” I say. I shake my head at the absurdity of the memory. “I couldn’t believe it. Went to work the next day terrified of what he’d ask for in return.”
Liam’s face drains of color. “Mia Thorne, you’ve never told me that. Whatever gave you that impression?”
“The patriarchy, Gunn,” I answer flatly.
“Mia, I’d never?—”
I cut him off with a scoff. “Oh, I know. Well, I learned it.” He’s still white and unblinking. “Relax.” I wave him off and whack his chest. “You were never anything but a gentleman. Well… maybe ‘gentleman’ is too strong of a word for you, Gunn. You tested my mental health far too many times with your tantrums and perpetual bad mood.”
I wait for him to contest my very accurate description, but he just raises his glass of water in agreement.
“But one thing’s for sure. You always treated me with the utmost respect.”
He exhales in relief, smug smile making a comeback. But I’m not done yet. Giving him hell was my side job. I excelled in both.
“The only obscene thing he ever showed me—repeatedly, I might add”—I glance at him from the corner of my eye and smile, watching his expression twist back into worry—“were the ridiculous bonuses he kept paying me.”
Liam huffs an unimpressed laugh, but April beams, ready to frame my words and hang them in their kitchen.
I hesitate. “You know,” I add quietly, “I nearly quit that day. I couldn’t comprehend why he’d do that. Growing up, I learned fast that ‘help’ was never free. People always wanted something in return. And when you’re a girl from a run-down caravan park on the edge of town, with no mom and a dad stretched thin working three jobs, you learn to be cautious. Suspicious. But Liam? He wiped that debt away without blinking. No warning. No strings. Just ‘poof’—debt gone.”
“You’re a good kid. I did it because I could,” Liam says, low but firm, as if it’s as simple as that. Well, I guess it is for a billionaire.
And that’s why I love the big guy. He’s a complex one. He’s got layers. He's annoying, conceited, and can be such an arrogant man sometimes. But he’s also kind, generous, and mindful of others. He’s powerful and wealthy enough to bulldoze his way through life, but never through someone else. And somehow, I get away with giving him hell.
I smile at him—genuinely this time.
I’m about to grab a piece of whatever’s on April’s platter when movement catches my eye. Preston’s halfway down the stairs, one hand gripping the railing, like he’s still debating whether to join the party or melt into the shadows.
He’s dressed all proper: crisp shirt, sharp blazer; I doubt there’s an outfit that doesn’t suit him. So far, for me, the towel is still the winner.
How long has he been standing there?
“Oh,” I add sweetly, because I’m suddenly evil and can’t resist. “I’ve been very blessed to only have worked for bosses who showed me nothing but respect and professionalism.”
I flick back just enough to catch Preston’s expression—the personification of a deer in headlights. He takes another step down. Except his foot misses the stair entirely.
There’s no graceful stumble, no quick recovery. He goes down… hard. His limbs flail, one arm smacking the wall, the other clawing at the bannister like he’s reaching for a lifeline. Something crashes—a picture frame maybe—But Preston’s too busy hitting every stair on the way down to notice. His blazer flares out behind him; less superhero cape, more tragic parachute failing to deploy.
“Oh, my God,” April gasps, rushing to his side. Is she sniffing him? What the…
