Page 60 of The Love Chase

What just happened?

I never expected an apology like that from him. Heck, I never expected him to say anything like that.

Does this mean he feels the same as me? Or is he just getting caught up in these moments?

With shaking hands and trembling legs, I went over to the chair where my wide-leg jeans and rust-red babydoll tank top were folded and hastily changed out of the dress. It took a couple minutes to undo the damage the makeup artist had done to my face, and in the end, I settled for a little bit of mascara and some lip gloss.

I stared at my reflection. There, that’s better.

Feeling more like myself—not to mention more confident—I slipped back into my black heels and went to the door.

Liam turned, something flaring in his eyes as he looked at me.

He grabbed my hand and guided me toward him, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “Beautiful, Emma.”

All I could do was smile at him. How many times had I wished to hear those words on his lips?

I was vaguely aware of Bridget scowling over in the corner, but she was lost in the background as Liam laced our fingers together, led me out from behind the stage, and seated me at the table right up front in the middle where I’d have a direct sightline to my husband. At some point tonight, he’d introduce me as his wife to a room full of rich, famous people.

Gulp.

But somehow, even in a room full of strangers who would likely look down on me for being me, I didn’t care. Not with Liam looking at me like that. Not with the memory of his lips on mine playing through my head.

The rest of the evening might be painful, but with him by my side, I felt like I could face anything.

Liam

Ihad no idea what had gotten into me other than I hated seeing Emma like that. It wasn’t the makeup per se—she’d looked gorgeous. But, then again, she was always beautiful with or without it. No, it was the way her shoulders had scrunched up by her ears, the way she’d wrung her hands in front of her, turning her skin red. It was the fact that she had been very clearly uncomfortable, and it had that primal protectiveness rising in me.

It was more than just being protective of her as a friend. The very first day we met, when we were five years old, Emma had been swinging at the playground when a group of boys went over and started making fun of her for being so tall. Her long legs always gave her an advantage in the underdog competitions that happened at recess, and the boys hated it. As a result, she ended up getting picked on a lot. But that one particular day, I got so angry that I put myself between those boys and Emma, and when they wouldn’t shut up, I punched one of them in the face.

Even at such a young age, when I turned around to make sure she was okay, finding her swallowing back tears, I knew that we’d be friends forever. But even that protectiveness I had felt for her then held nothing to what raged in me in her dressing room. I wanted her to feel comfortable—safe. The very idea that Bridget—or anyone else—would think less of Emma because she didn’t fit a certain image was enough to make my blood boil.

Emma was enough. End of story.

I’d deal with the backlash of Bridget’s wrath. She’d give me an earful later, but honestly, what was the big deal? Emma was equally beautiful without the makeup. She didn’t need a skin-tight dress, even if the sight of her in it made my jaw drop. Emma was the type of person who, as long as she felt comfortable and safe, shined brighter than anyone in the room.

At least, that’s how I always saw her.

I forced my attention back to what I was doing. Namely, sitting on this small stage, strumming away at my guitar while a handful of excessively rich people looked on. Thankfully, I was so used to this that I could do it in my sleep, and my skill wasn’t hindered by the fact that my mind kept wandering to the hazel-eyed beauty sitting directly in front of me. I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

As I finger-picked my way through the chord progression of a song I’d played at least two hundred times in the past year, a feeling of rightness settled into me as I sang the lyrics.

I always thought love was something you earned

Bare your heart, give your all,

Just to get nothing in return

Then those hazel eyes came storming into my life

And now the darkest days are filled with light

There was a spotlight on me, setting most of the room in shadows, but Emma’s hazel eyes somehow pierced through the dark, and I could feel the force of her gaze like a brand. When I had written the song, I hadn’t been thinking about anyone in particular—or at least I thought I hadn’t. But now, looking at Emma, it was like I was singing it for the very first time, like I had subconsciously written these words for her.

I’ve walked through dark skies,

You’ve walked through pain