Sure Bet (Out of Left Field #1)

10. Brooke

Chapter 10

Brooke

L iam Porter listens to porn. It was all I could think of at work, even when I should have been focused on the most important presentation of my career.

Liam Porter listens to my porn.

Obscene.

Not as obscene as the compression shorts he wore around the house. Maybe sports weren’t so bad.

And god, how I wanted to ask him about the book. It became my obsession. Why was he reading it? Another form of torture to tease me with? Or his attempt to woo me into kissing him to prove a point?

But dammit. Liam’s efforts were endearing. Handsome and charming enough to rely on his smolder, he didn’t require much exertion to get what he wanted from people. I hadn’t expected him to do more than linger like a tumbleweed and think that would be enough to drive me wild.

He directly threatened my ability to maintain control of the situation. Avoiding him seemed best.

I spent the weekend with Zaza, up to my elbows in lube, sheltering in my bedroom. I escaped my embarrassment, my stupidity, and those goddamn shorts.

Good lord, those shorts.

It might have been years since Liam played baseball, but he maintained his solid form. Muscular arms flexed underneath impeccably fitted shirts with every gesture. And Christ almighty, when he wore a tight, moisture-wicking shirt for a run yesterday, I saw his nipples through the fabric.

Shamefully, I imagined licking them. That secret would die with me, and my death might come sooner than anticipated because of those shorts .

They teased thick, firm thighs—the left one with a tattoo peeking outside the hem with dark lines and subtle shading. Based on the width alone, it had to be a huge piece. From the snug fit of Liam’s activewear, he might have another considerable piece on his body.

I am a monster.

All I thought about was objectifying my best friend’s brother—my longtime sparring partner, who also happened to be my roommate and a man with impressive confidence. An ego so grandiose that he believed he would get me to kiss him.

Please.

When did he get a tattoo? Did he have more? I hated that my eyes searched his visible skin at every opportunity, but I hadn’t allowed myself many of those. Better to play it safe and maintain distance.

I wanted to win.

I could have lived my life as it was until a week ago, with a companionable and comfortable relationship. It was fine—mostly good, no complaints. But it also lacked intensity, craving, or passion. Hearts didn’t race, and stomachs didn’t flutter. A week ago? I believed it was okay not to expect any of that.

And it was fucked up, so fucked up, that the most stirring excitement came mid-bite of a brownie in a cafe when my best friend announced her brother would be moving in.

My heart pounded relentlessly when around Liam, and it kind of made me want to throw up, but I felt something , and that was new.

Watching him practically twist his ankle in a mad dash sprint to hide in his bedroom after tattling on himself and his auditory porn habits? I hadn’t laughed that hard in a long time.

And why not? When did I become so uptight that I gave up on the belief I could have fun? That I could be fun?

Liam wasn’t my endgame, and I was plenty aware that this was all a game, anyway. But maybe I could take something from it before kicking his ass to the curb.

Last week, I was confronted with my inadequacies, that I was someone to settle for. I wanted to be different, but that meant behaving differently. No more fading into the background like wallpaper. I would paint my life with victory.

No more settling, no more fine, and no more invisibility. I would blaze a path of confidence instead of running away. I would make demands instead of accepting quiet defeat. I would celebrate my wins and welcome fun.

I could do it. I would do it. Today, Monday morning no less, seemed a fine time to start.

The esteemed and exceptional Dr. Mallory Coleman stood before my workstation, admiring Zaza’s moist hydraulics.

“Tell me, Brooke, what inspired your choice of a hybrid base when most of your peers are utilizing tracks?”

My mouth went dry, and the electrifying color of my evolution dulled to a familiar and faded plaster.

“Versatility,” I croaked. “More work, but more uses once she’s in an active rescue effort.”

Tongue-tied, the words stuck no matter how hard I tried to articulate them. I practiced my answers all weekend in preparation for my presentation next week, but in the presence of my academic hero and under the interested gaze of my peers, I choked.

Paul snickered from his workstation, pompous and condescending as ever. Screw him and his dirty feet. Another person treating me like a doormat. Liam wasn’t the only asshole who warranted my pushback.

Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath and gathered my thoughts. When I opened them, the room roared into focus alongside my determination.

“A combination of wheeled, tracked, and legged bases will optimize performance in different environments. While it requires more effort and consideration in building and troubleshooting, the reward is flexibility for any site. In an unknown search and rescue operation, time is of the essence. Offering versatility is worth the investment. We’d be foolish to accept inferior designs just to shave off what equates to minimal production time when we’re talking about the ability to save lives.”

Dr. Coleman leaned closer and spoke quietly. “Your idea is strong, but you’re presenting to a board of investors who want innovation and a product they can sell. Make it meaningful, and you’ll get there. I know you can.” She clapped her hands and headed toward Paul’s table.

I craved more recognition. Paul’s dumbfounded expression was just the start. I shot him a satisfied smile.

I wanted the win—all the wins. I pulled back my shoulders and stood tall.

The gratification from this morning thrummed through me all day, leaving my posture proud as I let myself into the condo. I refused to be cowed by Paul or my insecurities. Not only did I relish the triumph of a professional win, but I outlawed hiding in my own home.

No one, let alone a man, would control my choices. They were mine , and I would make them accordingly.

Settling into my sweats and unpacking after work, I parked myself on the living room couch to read. I refused to allow Liam to determine my movements just because my control over my libido grew questionable. But I wouldn’t give in. I would survive on spite and pride alone.

He sat at the kitchen table, his hands pressed to his temples and his teeth grinding hard enough to hear in the quiet between us. He didn’t glance up from his laptop.

Thankfully, he wore joggers.

We ignored each other, for all the good that did. Liam, porn. Liam, shorts. Liam, big dick energy. No! This Ernest Shackleton biography is way more interesting!

It was.

A short while later, my stomach growled. I headed into the kitchen to make dinner.

Rummaging through the cupboard, I pulled out supplies. Dishes clanged and dry pasta rattled in the box as I tossed it on the counter. My gaze drifted to Liam while I filled the pot with water. He paid me no attention as I prepared my meal.

Occasionally, the hair on the back of my neck stood up, alert to eyes on me, but when I subtly shifted to reach for something in the cupboard and peeked at Liam, he remained glued to his screen.

Was this how he wooed his women? It was just as unexpected as the book.

Unless he wasn’t wooing me.

Could this be a sleight of hand? I waited and watched for his pursuit, but the true trick to his magic was that he wasn’t pursuing me at all. I would overthink and ruminate and worry, only to find he already had a place lined up—yet another means of humiliating me.

I don’t care either way. Old me would have taken a defensive position, anxiously awaited an attack, and feared her ability to handle it. New me could manage whatever came her way, even with Liam.

Besides, this was just a game to him. What did I care what he was doing? I wouldn’t play into his hand, let alone allow him to win.

“There’s extra.” I tried to keep my tone casual as I offered him pasta.

His eyes lifted from the computer, narrowing as he cocked his head. “Is that a statement? Or an offer?”

I plated a dish and passed it to him. I hadn’t seen him eat anything, and it was getting late. “It’s not laced with arsenic.”

He sighed. “Again, is that a statement?”

To prove my point, I wrapped up a bowl for Shana when she got home and served myself. He didn’t protest when I sat at the table, but eyed me cautiously as he dug into his food.

“You’re being nice.” He pointed his fork at me, squinting. “Why?”

The movement caused the corded lines in his forearms to flex. Veins stood out against the backdrop of toned muscle. The sexiness of a man’s forearm was a work of art.

I shrugged and glanced away. “I’m a nice person.”

He hummed, relaxing his arm. My gaze drifted back to him—such a pathetic level of willpower.

Liam gripped his cutlery and resumed eating. I bet he had exceptional grip strength. Calloused hands. Masculine and rough and?—

“Why are you blushing?” He reached for a napkin from the center of the table, passing me one before resting his napkin in his lap.

“I’m not!” I patted my cheeks. “It’s hot cooking over that stove.”

Another hum.

“What are you working on that has you so frustrated?” I nodded to his closed laptop.

Liam stabbed his pasta and shrugged. “Stuff.”

“Okay. Secretive stuff or?—”

“College.” He cut me off curtly, then sighed and softened his tone. “Sorry. College. It’s a college admissions essay. It’s a smashing success, as I’m sure you can gather from my daily tantrums.”

I studied his face as he focused on his plate. His shoulders slumped, and his jaw clenched tight. The shift in his mood was noticeable. I told him to do his worst to get me to break under pressure, and this... was pretty bad. I kind of felt sorry for him.

I cleared my throat. “Anne Wood was fifty-seven when she went to college and majored in creative writing.”

Liam furrowed his brows. “Who?”

“Your favorite author. She wrote Sir Arrick based on one of her professors—a younger professor.” I waggled my eyebrows, ignoring how ridiculous I looked.

He smiled softly, the kind that began in his eyes with a shine but hardly lifted the corners of his mouth. It was my favorite of his smiles because it was genuine. “There’s hope for me yet, huh?”

“Plenty of time left for you to write historical smut.” I propped my chin on my fist, grinning. “What chapter are you on, and why is Groundskeeper Murphy the best character?”

Liam didn’t hesitate. “He’s sinfully sexy and off-limits.” He leaned forward. “He’s Penelope’s endgame, but do not confirm or deny that theory if you’ve read past chapter twenty-two.”

I zippered my lips, stifling my laugh. I’d made it to chapter seventeen. Liam’s dedication to Forbidden Fruit in the Orchard impressed me.

We finished our dinner with idle conversation about the book before Liam rose and took both of our plates to the sink, rinsed them, and loaded the dishwasher. He then packed up the leftovers and started cleaning the pots and pans.

It seemed like such a benign task, but I stared with my mouth open. I didn’t even have to ask Liam to contribute. He just did it.

The overhead light cast soft shadows across his features, accentuating the rugged line of his jaw and the subtle curve of his lips. His smirk lingered as he soaped a pot. “I know how to clean up.”

I leaned back in my chair. The rhythmic clink of plates and utensils echoed as he closed the dishwasher, having loaded it efficiently. His twin sister didn’t share that trait.

The soothing drone of the dishwasher kicked in. He grinned and dried his hands on the dishtowel. An oddly domestic display. “I also do laundry.”

I should stop staring; it was getting creepy, but I couldn’t help it. “You’re full of surprises.”

“Just wait.” Liam nodded toward the fridge. “Go on.”

I hesitated, unsure what I might find. Something that would torture or infuriate me, probably.

I gathered the courage to get up and look, and what I found inside the refrigerator was worse—so much worse.

Goat milk yogurt sat on the top shelf; the container full. He hadn’t even dug the empty one out of the recycling to trick me.

“Did Shana replace my yogurt?”

“Would it make you feel better if I told you she did?” Liam leaned against the counter. His eyes remained on me, assessing and waiting for my reaction.

We both knew she hadn’t.

I was wrong. It wasn’t the book, the stolen glances, or even a sleight of hand. Those weren’t points of attack, but this was.

Oh, god. I am totally, utterly fucked.

“You did something nice for me.” I closed the fridge, regretting his decency and his witnessing my learning of it.

Do not melt in the presence of the enemy.

“I’m a nice guy.” His playful smirk and suggestive tone were deliberate and calculated. I was sure of it. They had to be.

Right?

I crossed my arms, resolute in my skepticism. “You’re not.”

“I am… To others.” He broke into a megawatt grin.

Okay, that was at least honest.

“We’re not kids anymore.” His lingering glance only reinforced my conviction that this equated to nothing more than a ploy. I couldn’t forget that he wanted something from me—this was intentional, purposeful, and constructed. He messed with my head to see how far he could push me before I cracked.

Yet, despite my better judgment, a part of me wanted to see how far he’d go.

“We’re not kids,” I agreed, failing to acknowledge my role in stoking the fire of our feuds. I hadn’t made things easier for us, but as much as I longed for him to notice me, I didn’t want him to spot my vulnerabilities. “Thank god.”

He stepped closer. “Thank god indeed. Maybe now we can play nice.”

I dodged his direct gaze. Despite his flirty demeanor, I couldn’t shake the sense that he designed his actions to keep me off balance.

Liam leaned into my space, his hands splaying on either side of the fridge beside my head and boxing me in.

Close, too close—yet not close enough. I struggled to focus when the scent of his body wash mingled with the tension crackling between us.

I forced the words from my mouth, my breath a whisper when he drained the air from the room. Breathing proved impossible. “You think you can play nice?”

His shirt brushed against mine when he leaned onto his right forearm. The room burst into flames, my skin burning beneath the heat of his intense focus.

“I think I can play very nice, Brooke. I bet you would like the way I play.”

A part of me longed to confess the truth, and the awareness vibrated like a tuning fork. I probably would like the way he played, and I wanted him to play with me.

Trapped between the cold metal appliance and the warmth of his presence, I shoved down emotions I dared not acknowledge.

He was goading me, teasing me, torturing me. The blush on my cheeks gave away my desire, but I couldn’t give in—I wouldn’t. No matter how much I craved it, I couldn’t give in.

Because giving in meant the game would end. I didn’t want that.

“Please,” I puffed. The word rang desperate, not indifferent like I intended. He smelled good—Jesus, so good.

I could count the dusting of light freckles along the bridge of his nose when this close—a small patch that would darken in the summer—the only boyish feature that remained on his face.

He brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, watching the movement. “You don’t like to play?”

“I don’t like to play your games.”

“Oh, now that’s a lie. You played my games better than me growing up. You followed me around like you were interested in my life, only to cut me down in the next breath. You tattled to my mom when you felt left out, only to refuse to join me when I invited you along.” He pushed off the fridge.

My chest ached with the truth of his words. I had done that—all of it. I’d been just as bad as him.

“So yeah, Brooke. I bet you would like the way I play, and I bet you’re better at playing games than you used to be.” He backed away, his eyes not leaving mine. “But so am I.”

Vulnerable and on display, I was no longer invisible to Liam Porter. I felt so silly, hopeful, and alive. My heart beat wildly as I struggled to catch my breath. The sheer intensity of the moment and the raw power of desire coursing through me were a visceral reminder of what I’d been missing.

It was fun.

“I’m not giving up or giving in, and I’m sure as hell not losing.” I launched the taunt with a smile. “Games are for children.”

“Hmm. Not the kind I play.” He winked and turned his back to me, disappearing from the kitchen like he hadn’t just declared war.

A very sexy war.