He puts down his fork, the dark green of his eyes imprable. “Ethan offered me a job as principal investor and overseer of an investmentpany he was setting up with two friends.”


    “Cole Porter?”


    “And Nichs Park,” Liam says. “So that’s what I am now, head of a fledging investmentpany called Porter, Park and Carter.”


    I frown at his tone. “And you aren’t enjoying it?”


    “I am,” he says, taking another bite of the food.


    “You don’t sound overjoyed.”


    He snorts. “They’re putting a lot of funds behind these investments, and they all have a wish list the size of Mount Rainier.”


    “And you’re Santa?”


    Almost despite himself, Liam smiles. “And I’m Santa,” he confirms.Content ? provided by N?velDrama.Org.


    “Walker is one of these investments?”


    “Yes. He’s never taken in outside investors. If I get this…” His lips quirk up. “Well.”


    I can hear what he’s not saying, cutting through themb. Ambition had always vored the air around him, even when we were thirteen and working on our science projects in school.


    He wants to be the one to crack Walker Steel.


    “How’s Ethan doing?” I ask.


    “He’s good.” Liam gets up and heads to one of the cabs. He pulls out a bottle of red wine. “He has three kids now.”


    “Three?”


    “Yes. Are you surprised?”


    I think of Ethan’s steadiness, his calm, even as a kid. He’s a few years older than Liam and me, and had never been keen to join our antics. “No, not at all.”


    “Exactly,” Liam confirms, filling two winesses. “He has a house in Greenwood Hills and will soon get married for a second time.”


    I push our tes away, getting up to finalize the third dish, duck and polenta. “I wonder what he would think of our little charade.”


    “Hmm.” Liam holds out a ss for me, our fingers brushing against each other. “He would scold me like I was ten.”


    I smile at the consternation in Liam’s voice, wiping off the sides of the te. The duck looks just right-pink on the inside and crisp on the outside. Three slices rest on a bed of polenta.


    “I read an article about him in the newspaper pretty recently,” I say. “What does Patricia think about it all?”


    Their mom had always been the entric sort, strict in some ways and ridiculously easygoing in others. Liam’s jaw tenses. “She’s very proud,” he says. “As are we all.”


    There’s something rehearsed about the words, so I don’t push. I hand him the te instead.


    “You know,” he says, looking down at the food, “I can’t imagine how you won’t get the culinary fellowship.”


    I burst outughing, thinking of the dishes Marco conjures up on the daily, of the snobby food critics that make up the gatekeepers of my world.


    “What?”


    “Thank you,” I say, resting my hands on the kitchen ind. “You’re very sweet.”


    A raised eyebrow. “Sweet? I haven’t been called that in over two decades, if ever.”


    “You were sweet as a boy,” I say. “Sometimes.”


    He snorts. “Good thing you added a qualifier there.”


    “I remember when you helped my parents and me take care of all those puppies.”


    “I was eight,” he says, “and they were puppies. I wasn’t being altruistic.”


    I lean forward, sping my hands together on the ind. Liam’s gaze tracks the gesture. “You were sweet in other ways.”


    He takes a sip of his wine, gaze on mine. Somewhere in my head warning bells go off, but I silence them, like I do so often with my rm in the morning. “How so?”


    I swallow. “Remember when I-”


    The sharp sound of a doorbell ringing cuts through my reply. Liam runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry,” he says, heading to the front door.


    I busy my hands with the kitchen, putting away pots and clearing the ind,


    “Hey,” I hear Liam’s low voice. Like so many of these open-nned spaces, there isn’t a lot of privacy.


    “Hi, Liam. It’s been a while.” A woman’s voice, unmistakable in its pitch that indicates intimacy. My hand tightens around the bag of flour I’m folding shut. “I just wanted to see if you were home and interested in sharing a sster tonight.”


    Liam’s voice is so smooth it could cut through butter. “I’m not,” he says. “Sorry to disappoint.”


    A lowugh. “I suppose I’ll survive. See you around?”


    “I’ll let you know if I find the time,” he replies. “But I wouldn’t hold my breath.”


    “I’ll just have to find someone else to entertain myself with.”


    By the time the door closes and Liam makes his way back to the kitchen, my hands are near trembling on the pan I’m trying to scrub.


    He stops beside me, solid, real, and I breathe in the faint scent of sandalwood and red wine. His hands close over mine in the sink. “I have a cleaning service,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to do the dishes.”


    The soapy pan slides out of my fingers and hits the sink with a dull thud. “I don’t suppose you heard all that?” he asks.


    “I did.” I reach for the tea towel. “Someone in the building?”


    “She lives a few floors down,” Liam says, leaning back against the kitchen ind. His eyes are inscrutable again, twin pools of caution.