Page 11 of Landing Liam

The barista’s face lights up, and she practically bats her eyelashes at him. “No worries, Liam.”

She barely glances at the broken cup before reaching for a new one. As she fills it, her fingers linger a little too long when he hands her a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

“This’ll cover the cost of the cup,” he says.

“You don’t have to,” she giggles sugary and sharp, her fingers brushing his in a way that makes my stomach churn.

“I do,” he insists, his tone firm but polite.

I stand there, feeling invisible and completely out of my depth. Liam Thompson is larger than life—charming, magnetic, the kind of guy who lights up a room just by walking into it. And me? I just spilled coffee all over him, and now I’m standing here, tongue-tied and awkward, while the barista flirts like it’s a sport.

“Here you go,” Liam says, handing me the fresh cup of coffee and pulling me back to reality.

“Thanks,” I mumble, my cheeks still warm as I take it from him.

“No problem,” he says with another one of those disarming smiles. “Just watch where you’re going next time.”

I nod, swallowing hard as he heads toward the door. My brain finally kicks into gear, but by then, he’s already gone. And I’m left standing there, clutching my coffee and wondering how the hell I’m supposed to uncover the truth about a man who renders me completely speechless.

Chapter Five

Liam

I’m already late for my training session with Zach, but some clumsy girl spilled an entire cup of coffee on me at the café, leaving me no choice but to stop by the house for a change of clothes. Mom and Dad roped me into a family dinner with my siblings later, so this detour is eating into an already tight schedule.

As I pull up, I spot a familiar yellow jeep parked out front. Uncle Matt’s here. Of course he is. Dad’s younger brother has a knack for showing up unannounced and turning a quick stop into a full-blown event. If I’m lucky, I can sneak in and out before he notices.

The house looks the same as it always does: a cozy two-story log cabin-style with a wraparound porch, faded but sturdy from years of harsh winters and long summers. Mom’s flower boxes hang under the front windows, even though nothing’s blooming this time of year. The scent of pine from the massive tree in the front yard blends with the cold air, and a faint glow from the living room window suggests Dad’s already stoked a fire in the hearth.

I open the front door carefully, hoping to slip inside unnoticed, but the sound of raised voices immediately dashes that hope.

“Heave!” Uncle Matt’s voice booms from the staircase.

“Heave?” Dad groans in response. “It’s a cabinet, not an elephant.”

“Well, you’re not exactly a spring chicken anymore,” Uncle Matt shoots back.

“You’re only three years younger than I am, genius,” Dad snaps.

I round the corner to see them halfway up the stairs, both gripping an oversized cabinet that looks entirely too heavy for either of them. Typical Thompson brothers—bickering instead of strategizing.

“Hey!” Uncle Matt hollers the second he spots me. “There’s a strong young man who can help us get this thing upstairs faster than your dad’s geriatric pace.”

“I’m late for training,” I say, raising my hands defensively as I try to maneuver past them. “You’re on your own.”

“Liam, get back here,” Dad calls, but I’m already halfway up the stairs.

The familiar smell of home—cedarwood from the banister, hints of cinnamon and cloves from the candle Mom always keeps burning in the kitchen—greets me as I make my way to my old room. It’s hardly changed in all these years. The walls are still the same deep blue, scuffed from too many posters I tacked up as a kid. My snowboard trophies line the shelves, alongside framed pictures of me and my siblings growing up. There’s even a patch of duct tape on the corner of the desk, a reminder of the time my younger sister Emmy knocked over a lamp during an argument about whose turn it was to do dishes.

I pull a fresh shirt and jacket from my old closet, grateful Mom insists on doing all my laundry since I’ve moved back home. As I head out of the room, the brothers are still at it.

“If Jenny didn’t insist on keeping every piece of furniture she can get her hands on…” Dad huffs.

“Say what you want, but this is vintage,” Uncle Matt argues. “And it’s going to look amazing in the guest room. Right, Liam?”

“Not my fight,” I say with a grin, grabbing my car keys. “Good luck, though.”

Uncle Matt shakes his head, muttering something about ungrateful nephews, while Dad just chuckles. It’s chaos, but it’s home.