Chapter 2: The Bartender’s Secret

I just moved into a big apartment near the university. That place was meant to be a gift for Carter. Obviously, that’s not happening now.

At night, I changed into workout clothes and went for a run at the university track. As I jogged, I spotted a familiar figure.

"Liam?"

He turned, grinning in surprise: "Mr. Sam, what a coincidence."

So he knew to call me Mr. Sam. Must’ve looked me up online. He slowed his pace to match mine:

"Mr. Sam, you live around here?"

"Yeah," I said as we ran. "What about you? Why are you here?"

Shouldn’t he be working at Silver Hollow?

"Bartending’s just a side gig. I go to school here."

"Oh? Which department?"

"Business."

Same department as Carter. That surprised me—I shot him a look.

He met my gaze, smiling openly:

"Carter’s my classmate. Actually, he’s my roommate."

I stopped short:

"So you know Carter? Why didn’t you say so? Were you just watching me for laughs?"

Liam stopped too:

"You never asked."

Maybe it was because I hadn’t exercised in a while—I braced my hands on my hips, a little out of breath.

Liam joked, "Mr. Sam, you’re out of shape."

That ticked me off.

"Who says I am? Want to race?"

"Sure."

So we raced. And then, I managed to twist my ankle.

Liam only noticed after he’d lapped me and saw me sitting on the ground. He rushed over, concerned: "What happened?"

My face twisted in pain: "Twisted it."

Liam picked up my leg, pulled off my shoe and sock—my ankle was already swollen.

"I’ll take you to the campus clinic."

"No need, it’s just a little—"

He ignored my protest, scooped me up in his arms.

I was stunned. A six-foot-one guy like me, just picked up that easily?

Up close, I caught that faint rain-soaked cedar scent again.

I coughed awkwardly:

"Liam, put me down, I’m not crippled."

He explained patiently:

"A twisted ankle can’t take weight, or it’ll get worse. The clinic’s just ahead—hang in there."

He even patted my butt like a kid. My back went stiff—something felt off. But when I looked up at his honest, open face, I wondered if I was just imagining things.

After seeing the doctor, Liam insisted on taking me home. He squatted in front of me, patting his shoulder:

"Piggyback or bridal carry? Mr. Sam, pick one."

Piggyback, then. I lay on his back, my legs swinging as he carried me all the way to my building.

"Which floor, Mr. Sam?"

I hesitated, a little unsure. I have a rule: never bring a hookup home. But did Liam even count as a hookup? Maybe not.

"Building A, 16th floor."

Inside, Liam carefully set me on the couch. He grabbed ice from the freezer, wrapped it in a towel, and iced my ankle.

Suddenly I remembered:

"Liam, what time does your dorm lock up?"

He glanced at the clock—already eleven:

"Locked. Mr. Sam, mind if I crash here tonight?"

I stared into those dark eyes. This guy… Was he stalling on purpose?

Whatever. Eight thousand square feet—one more person won’t make a difference.

"Guest room’s over there. There’s a bathroom, towels, robe."

Liam suddenly leaned in close. His perfect features filled my view—almost too handsome.

"Mr. Sam, your place is like a hotel. Do you often bring people home for the night?"

I shoved him away: "Nonsense."

"You’re the first, Liam. Be grateful." I added with a grin.

He smiled, eyes crinkling: "I’m honored."

When I came out of the shower, Liam was already in a robe, holding some medicine, waiting quietly outside my bedroom.

"Something else?"

"Mr. Sam, let me put some medicine on your ankle, then I’ll go to bed."

Pretty thoughtful. I limped over to sit on the bed. He knelt in front of me, propped my injured foot on his knee.

The robe hung open. From where I sat, I could see water droplets in his hair, thick lashes, and smooth muscle lines at his collar.

I couldn’t help thinking of what happened in the penthouse suite. Of how perfect that body felt.

I even started to feel a little hot. I did the math. Tsk. Just my luck.

Liam seemed to sense my restlessness, looking up:

"Did I hurt you?"

"No."

My throat felt dry as I looked at the gorgeous man in front of me. I leaned over, opened the nightstand, and pulled out a suppressant.

Liam was still massaging my foot. When he saw what was in my hand, his face went blank for a moment:

"Mr. Sam, is it your heat?"

"Just keep massaging. Stop talking."

He shut up obediently. Then suddenly snatched the suppressant from my hand.

"It’s expired. Can’t use it!"

The scent of cedar filled the room—my pheromones, wrapping around his rain-soaked cedar, sending out an unmistakable signal.

I was both embarrassed and angry. How could the high-and-mighty Mr. Sam act like a dog in heat?

I reached for the suppressant in his hand. We tussled and both fell onto the bed.

Two strong arms landed on either side of me, holding himself up—so we didn’t end up kissing by accident.

I stared up at this giant, living suppressant—like a starving wolf scenting meat.

The fire inside me burned hotter and hotter. I couldn’t help but lick my dry lips. I reached out, untied his robe.

The front fell open—he wasn’t wearing anything underneath!

Boom. My mind went blank. By the time I realized what I was doing, I was already holding him by the neck, biting his lips.

And for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was exactly where I wanted to be: caught between a memory and a promise, with nothing left to lose but my pride.