His Little Mischief

“Come to the UK, you’re going to love it here.” After living with that woman for twenty-two years, you’d think I’d know better than to believe anything that comes out of her mouth. Especially when it’s about what I’ll love. She swore it was perfectly normal here to vape and smoke like chimneys. She said the people were friendlier, freer. She even swore the cold would be refreshing. Refreshing? My ass. My teeth haven’t stopped chattering since I landed. Which is exactly why I’m not rushing straight to her cozy little love nest with my new stepfather. I’m still a little pissed at her, and maybe—just maybe—that’s why I rented a room instead. One last taste of freedom before I stuff myself into the neat little box labeled dutiful daughter. So here I am, standing outside a hole-in-the-wall bar, praying this last night of rebellion will give me something worth remembering. The door bangs open. A group of girls tumble out, laughing, perfume and cigarette smoke trailing behind them. They look like they’re running away from trouble—or maybe straight into it. Good for them. I square my shoulders, shove the door open, and let the warmth of the pub wash over me. It smells of beer and whiskey, the lighting dim enough to make promises. I slide into the nearest booth without a second thought, desperate to thaw my fingers. “Lost, darling?” The voice is too close. Too deep. Too smooth. I jerk, twisting toward it. And nearly choke. I’m not alone. He’s sitting just far enough away to make it clear I’ve invaded his booth. Dark shorts cling to his thighs. Shorts. In this weather. The man is either insane or invincible. “Finished your assessment yet?” he teases, his grey eyes sweeping over me like he already knows the answer. I squeak—actually squeak—before forcing my chin up. “You scared me, that’s all. And you looked me over too.” His mouth curves. “Guilty. But that was outside. I was just wondering who thought heels like those belonged in this kind of weather.” I stiffen. Yes, my shoes are impractical. Yes, I nearly slipped twice coming here. No, I don’t need the reminder. “And shorts are what—practical?” I fire back. That earns me a grin and a lazy nod. “Touché. But I’m coming from the gym. What’s your excuse?” “I just moved here,” I mutter, wishing my voice didn’t sound breathless. His gaze sharpens, like that little confession tells him more than it should. “That explains the lost expression.” A growl slips out before I can stop it. He leans forward, smirk tugging at his mouth, and the air between us tightens like a string pulled taut. “I’m Liam,” he says, offering me a hand as though this is a polite introduction and not a trap I’m already falling into. I notice everything about him at once—the impossible shade of grey in his eyes, the dark, unruly hair begging for fingers to sink into, the mouth too soft, too sinful. My hand twitches. I want to touch. To taste. Instead, I press my palms flat to the table. He watches every flicker of hesitation, then raises a hand to flag down the waitress. She appears in record time, her smile syrupy sweet. “Hi, can I get you something to drink?” she asks, but she’s only looking at him. “Yes,” he answers smoothly. “Start with an espresso martini for her. Let’s see how she likes that.” His smile is lethal. The waitress actually blushes. So do I. The moment she’s gone, his eyes return to me. They don’t wander, don’t slide away—just burn. “You didn’t tell me your name,” he murmurs. “That’s because I didn’t give it.” “Careful,” he says, voice low. “You’re starting to sound rude.” “Guess you figured out my middle name.” He laughs under his breath. “Nice to meet you, Rude.” “Nice to meet you, Shorts.” Our handshake lingers. Too long. Too warm. Too much. When the waitress drops off my drink, she bends toward him again. I don’t even think before I say, sweetly, “Why don’t you slip him your number? Might save time.” Her gasp could fuel a jet engine. She bolts. Liam’s grin sharpens. “Not nice, baby girl.” The nickname sends a shiver down my spine. Too fast. Too intimate. Too dangerous. “And what exactly did I do to earn that?” I ask. “You entertained me.” I hide my smile behind my glass. The drink is good, but his eyes on me are better. “It’s Miranda,” I say softly. “Mira.” “What convinced you to share your first name?” “You’re making me enjoy myself.” His hand slides over mine, warm and deliberate, stealing the glass right from my grip. He raises it to his mouth, sipping directly from the mark of my lipstick. All while never looking away. My breath hitches. “Come on Rude, let’s go?” “You have my first name…” “I know but it won’t be much use to me until I get your last name, so stand up and let’s go.” “And where are we going?” “Somewhere which I think would surprise you enough to give me your last name.” He stood up and came out from the booth through the other side before reaching out a hand to me. All thoughts about stranger danger cross my head. They truly did. But in that moment, nothing and I meant nothing was going to stop me from reaching for his hand. And so I did.