Page 19 of Landing Liam

“People like Liam are good at hiding who they really are,” Odie counters, his voice crackling through the line. “He’s spent most of his adult life in the limelight. If anyone knows how to keep secrets—”

“I don’t know,” I interrupt, collapsing onto the edge of the bed. The thin mattress creaks under my weight, and I start gnawing on my lower lip, my favorite nervous habit. “He showed up to the bar with his sister, his brother and his pregnant sister-in-law. I mean, who does that? That’s not exactly the playboy behavior you’d expect.”

“So, he likes his siblings,” Odie argues. “That doesn’t mean he’s not doping.”

“It just doesn’t add up,” I say, rubbing my temple as the image of Liam’s broad, muscular frame flashes through my mind. My traitorous thoughts wander to the feel of his chest when I collided with him on the dance floor. Solid. Warm. Strong. “He’s already in peak physical shape. Why would he need to enhance anything? He’s so… strong and muscled. It doesn’t make sense.”

There’s a pause on the other end of the line before Odie bursts out laughing. “Did you just say ‘strong and muscled’?”

My cheeks flame, even though he can’t see me. “I—I meant he looks strong and muscled! Objectively. For research purposes.”

“Sure,” Odie drawls, his tone dripping with amusement. “What aren’t you telling me, Mags?”

I’m about to retort when a sharp knock on the door makes me freeze. My heart skips a beat as I glance toward it.

“Hold on,” I say before pushing off the bed and crossing the room. My bare feet make soft sounds on the carpet as I approach the door and pull it open.

Standing there, looking infuriatingly calm and even more infuriatingly attractive, is none other than Liam Thompson. His broad shoulders fill the doorway, and his gaze is locked on me with an intensity that makes my pulse trip over itself.

“Gotta go,” I say hastily into the phone, not even waiting for Odie’s response before ending the call. My hand grips the phone tightly as I gape at Liam, my brain scrambling for something—anything—to say.

“Well,” he says, leaning casually against the doorframe with that signature lopsided grin. “Fancy seeing you here, Maggie No Last Name.”

“Are you stalking me now?” I tease with just enough edge in my tone to keep things playful. “Because showing up at my hotel? Kind of creepy.”

Liam’s low chuckle rumbles through the small hallway, and he holds up my bag—the one I’d embarrassingly left behind at The Glorious Pig. “Not stalking. Just being a good citizen, returning a tourist’s long-lost bag.”

“I’m not a tourist,” I say, crossing my arms. “Let’s get that straight.”

“Huh.” He tilts his head, those dark eyes glinting with amusement. “So, you’re not here for fun. That means you’re here for work. But then why,” his smirk widens, “are you coming to the competition tomorrow? Are you a snowboarder?”

I roll my eyes. “If I were, do you think I’d be driving around in a car with no heat? Pretty sure your profession pays enough to cover basic luxuries.”

“That depends,” he says, flashing a set of devilish eyebrows. “On how good you are.”

I resist the urge to gag. “You really can turn literally anything into a line, can’t you?”

“Let’s play a game,” he proposes, ignoring my jab entirely.

“I don’t like games,” I grumble, already regretting opening the door.

“But you’ll like the prize at the end of this one,” he promises, stepping closer. His grin is cocky, and the way his voice dips at the end makes my pulse flicker.

“If the prize is you, I’ll pass.”

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest, mock-wounded. “I am an excellent prize.”

“I’m sure there are at least a thousand women who could verify that.”

“You sound jealous, Maggie.” His eyes narrow just slightly, the challenge flickering between us like static electricity.

“I’m not.” I lie through my teeth. I am definitely jealous. It’s been far too long since I’ve had any male companionship worth thinking about, and Liam’s molten chocolate eyes and infuriating grin aren’t helping my resolve.

“The prize,” he says, holding up my bag like it’s a trophy, “is this lovely, slightly worn, questionably functional bag.”

“It’s old,” I defend, “not questionably functional.”

“Sure.” He waves me off with a dramatic eye roll. “Here’s the deal: I’ll ask you three questions. You answer honestly, and the bag is yours.”