• • •

The house is quiet. I wasn't expecting that. There are sixty brothers living here but I can't hear a single one. Liam shows me the cold-air rooms where he slept for the past two years, the air conditioning set to keep it at fifty with no heating in winter. Ten bunk beds are crowded into the otherwise bare room, a few occupied by napping brothers.

I'm not surprised by the untidiness. The frat may have a chef and a cleaner and a gardener and God knows what else, but that doesn't change the fact that they're college guys. There's just stuff everywhere, from leftover red solo cups to an arsenal of empty bottles and cans that line windowsills and every surface.

"Sorry about the mess," Liam says as he shows me around. The kitchen is by far the cleanest, the only room that the brothers hardly use, until Liam leads me up to the third floor and down a corridor to a room at the end.

It's like we've stepped into another world. The room is big and bright, a huge window set into the sloping ceiling to let the sun pour in, and it's tidy. Two neatly-made double beds are pushed against opposite walls, one beneath the skylight, and a couple of full double-sided bookcases act as a privacy divide.

"This is your room?" I can't keep the incredulity from my voice. Liam chuckles and stands in the middle of the room with his arms spread out.

"Welcome to Casa Alexander," he says. He steps over to the bed beneath the window, the navy covers bathed in warm light. "This one's mine."

His bedside table is empty except for a half-drunk glass of water and a couple of books in an uneven stack beside a lamp. The wall above his bed is decorated with a few posters, nothing too distasteful, and a schedule of the SoLa team's football games.

"You must be the tidiest frat guy ever," I say, staring at the distinct lack of a mess. "Where's all your ... boy crap?"

He laughs and the sun catches his eyes, making them look more green than gray. "Boy crap? The bathroom's over there."

It's not that funny but it gets half a laugh anyway. He shrugs and drops onto the edge of his bed. "I'm just a tidy person, I guess," he says as he kicks off his shoes. I do the same, hoping my feet don't smell too bad, but I don't sit yet. Liam looks up at me, the sun making his cheeks glow.

"I won't bite," he says. "Unless you're into that?"

I roll my eyes. He grins and stands. His hands are on my waist and I don't feel the urge to push him away, as though I can trick him into thinking I'm smaller if he just doesn't touch me: I let him feel the curve where my waist broadens to my hips.

His fingers meet at the small of my back and he pulls me closer, tilting his head down to kiss me. This is an entirely different kind of kiss to the three we've had so far. This time it's soft and gentle and I drape my arms around his neck to hold him closer. He groans when I push myself against him.

Then I pull away. He looks disappointed. I wring my wrists.

"What's up? Did I do something?" he asks.

"No," I say, and then, "Well, kind of."

His face falls and he puts his hand over mine to stop me twisting my wrist. "What?"

"What you said earlier ... you said I'm actually cute," I say, blurting the words out because if I don't address the niggle at the back of my mind then it'll just plague me forever and I won't be able to get rid of it. "What did you mean? Because you sounded surprised and, I don't know, it seemed kind of weird. If you didn't think I was cute before, why ask me out?"

I want to let go. I want to trust him. But I hate the word actually.

Liam's grinning. He touches my cheek and I can't help the way it makes me feel. He has soft hands and, God, his face. "Of course I thought you were cute before," he says. "You're beautiful, Storie."

"That doesn't answer my question. You sounded surprised when you said it."

A deep dimple pushes into each cheek, those incredible lips parting a little to hint at his perfect teeth. "When I said you're actually cute, I meant you," he says. "As in, your personality. You, as a person, are adorable. You were rabbiting away about an ice cream sundae and your uncle and I just thought, damn, she's so cute."

"Oh." My cheeks are hot. I feel like such an idiot. "Sorry." I awkwardly laugh at myself and push a hand through my hair, silently cursing myself for overthinking every damn thing. I wish I could hear a compliment and accept it without questioning its validity. "Thank you. Sorry. I just get paranoid."

"About what?"

"I just find it hard to believe when a guy thinks I'm cute," I say. I'm laying all my cards out on the table and I feel ridiculously vulnerable in that moment, as the words leave my mouth. I can't spill every pathetic thought that plagues me. "Never mind," I say, shaking my head. "It's stupid."

"Well, you'd better believe it," Liam says, "because I'm a guy who thinks you're cute. Inside and out." He kisses me again and pulls away. "Does this count as funny business?"

I shake my head and can't help but smile when I pull him back. "No. This is very serious business."

I'm not sure what kind of movie you're supposed to choose when you're hanging out in a guy's bedroom for the first time and not trying to sleep with him, so I leave the decision up to Liam. I'm no good with decisions and there's too much pressure when it comes to what to watch: I hate giving recommendations in case I'm then responsible for someone watching a movie they hate.

Several minutes pass before we end up on his bed and he pulls out his laptop to load up a romcom, and at last I feel comfortable enough to sit close to him. My fear has melted away. All it took was his words and his smile, his touch and his honesty, and I don't tense up when he puts his arm around my shoulders.

Twenty minutes into the movie, as Liam's fingers are tracing idle patterns on my shoulder, his hand slips lower down my arm and he nudges my cheek with his nose, and I can't resist his lips. I don't really care about the movie. It's hard to focus on the screen when all I can think about is him next to me, his arm around me.

No funny business, I think to myself. But that doesn't mean no fooling around. We can make out. I want to make out, and the more we do, the more I figure out what I'm doing. Every time we kiss, it makes a little more sense. I know what to do with my tongue now; my lips know how to move; my hands know where to go.

When he moans, my tongue buzzes and I can't help but smile. There's nothing to be scared of. My hand is over his heart and I can feel his pulse throbbing harder and faster, and knowing he's into it – he's into me – spurs me on. I don't know what I'm doing anymore when my fingers trail down his stomach and my wrist grazes his crotch.

"God, Storie." He lets out a dry laugh and pushes a hand through his hair. "I thought you said no funny business."

I'm not thinking straight. This isn't me. Embarrassment floods my body and I take my hand back, shifting away from him. "Sorry."

"I didn't mean you should stop," he says. "You're the one who said no funny business." He props himself up on his elbows and pushes his hair off his face. "Just so you know, I'm always down for funny business."

I can tell. He's still straining against his jeans and I feel kind of bad. That's my fault. And I want to touch him. The urge is growing, the temptation almost painful, but something stops me. I still have one more question and I'm frozen until I can figure out how to ask it.

"Storie?"

Now or never.

"Are we dating?"

I have to force the words out. If the answer is anything other than yes, then I know I need to get out of here before I make a fool out of myself. My self-control is slipping and if I'm just here to satisfy his urges, then I need to grab a hold of what's left of my willpower and run with it.

"I thought so," Liam says. "Aren't we? I mean, we've been on, like, three dates and I was kinda hoping this wouldn't be the last." His lips curve into a smile and if I wasn't already sitting, I think my knees would go weak. "Unless you don't want to be dating?"

"I do," I say, a little too fast. That stupid inner critic is telling me that he's a guy; he'll say anything if it'll get him what he wants, but I stuff a metaphorical sock in her mouth and feel a million times better when I get rid of that stupid freaking voice.

I know that voice is me, but sometimes it feels more like an anonymous cynic who can't bear to see me be happy.

"Good." Liam smiles. "So do I."

The movie is long forgotten. I have no idea what the plot is anymore and I don't care because Liam's hand is under my shirt and he's kissing me like his life depends on it, and I almost can't stand how aroused I am. He's hard, jutting into my thigh, and I love how he moans each time I barely touch him through his jeans.

I never thought a guy would touch me like this but he doesn't pull away when his fingers travel over the bumpy stretchmarks that litter my body; he isn't repulsed by the softness of my breasts or the breadth of my hips. He doesn't seem to care that I barely have a knee gap, let alone a thigh gap. He just wants to touch me, and I want him to.

• • •

I didn't realize how much I wanted that until now, lying in a haze of mild confusion with my tights around my knees, my skirt high around my thighs. Now that it's over, now that Liam's hands have done things I've only ever done to myself, my emotions are in flux between pride, relief, and shame.

That damn inner voice is back, bringing me back to my post-orgasmic reality, yelling at me for giving in to Liam. But I'm not sure I gave in when I wanted it too. I wanted his hand between my legs; I wanted his fingers inside me. I wanted to touch him, for him to show me how to do it until he came with a grunt.

It's not like we had sex. I'm not ready for that. But I don't know how well I know myself at the moment: I never would've thought my desire would override my constant internal critic, but it did. And I'm glad. I don't want to be ashamed. I don't want to feel dirty, but I do need to clean myself up.

Thank God Liam's room has an ensuite bathroom, somewhere for me to cool myself down and scrub my hands. I instantly feel better when I smell more like his lemon scrub soap than sex and when I head back to the bedroom, he's still lying on his bed, his hands behind his head.

"Does that count as funny business?" he asks.

"I'm not laughing," I say, but then I do. I can't help it. I'm so flooded with a sense of relief and accomplishment that my response is to laugh, an immense weight flying off my shoulders when I sit next to him and he grins, sitting up to join me.

I feel sexy. I feel pretty. I feel wanted. I wish it was easier to feel that without his validation but I needed that, for him to want to touch me like that, and I may still be riding on the high on the first non-solo orgasm I've had, but I've finally got rid of that persistent nagging that tells me Liam's hiding something.

I think Navya got in my head, and there's not much space in there alongside my own competing voices. Her frat-bashing freaked me out, but she doesn't know Liam. She's never met him. He's not like the others. He's good. He cares.

"Was that ok?" he asks, pulling on a t-shirt. He looks even cuter now, my newfound rose-tinted glasses giving him an angelic glow.

"That was great." I can't stop grinning. It's like he's scratched my surface and found a whole new Storie underneath, and I think I like this one a lot better. "I'm glad my class was cancelled."

"Me too," he says with a chuckle. He reaches across to fix my bra strap, which has somehow twisted itself despite never being removed, and he kisses my shoulder, my neck, my cheek. "Let me tell you a story," he murmurs, "about a girl who is a hell of a lot cuter than she thinks she is."

God, I could give in all over again.

But I don't. I can't. Liam's phone buzzes on the table and he sighs when he leans away from me to reach it. My eyes are fixed on him as he stares at the screen and swears under his breath.

I tuck my hands beneath my thighs and pull my bottom lip between my teeth. "Everything ok?"

He doesn't answer at first, his eyebrows knitted together as he taps out a short response.

"Liam?"

"Yeah." He pushes his hair off his face and shoves his phone in his pocket. "Yeah, everything's fine," he says. "Just my roommate." When he stands, he holds out his hand to me and pulls me to my feet. "Let's get outta here."

"Are you sure everything's ok?"

"Yup." He squeezes my hand. "I don't know about you but I'm kinda hungry. Let's go grab some cake."

• • •

It's only when I finally check my phone at four o'clock, while Liam and I are getting cake and ice cream from an incredible dessert place in town, that I see a text from Georgie asking to switch shifts with me. Not having to work this afternoon makes today even better than it already was and there was no way I would've been able to concentrate anyway.

I leave at four thirty, plenty of time to get home for dinner, and I've never felt so good driving down the I-90. The windows are rolled down, my hair whipping in its ponytail, and I feel free. Like I've been cut loose, unbound from the invisible ropes that have been holding me back all this time.

I get home grinning. The sun is hot and bright and there's a spring in my step as I head inside, my backpack bouncing off one shoulder. I didn't tell Mom I'd be home early. She's expecting me to turn up drained and exhausted after ten but it's not even six when I follow the sound of voices to the back garden.

Mom and Tad are sitting out in a couple of loungers, a pitcher of Mom's iced tea between them and a glass each, and I feel like I'm intruding by being home at a decent hour. It's not often Mom looks so relaxed, wearing nothing but a sundress and her hair in a messy bun, and Tad has exchanged his suit pants for a pair of shorts, his shirt unbuttoned.

I'm about to turn around and head inside when Mom spots me and waves me over. There's color in her cheeks and a smile on her lips, her eyes as bright as the blue kiddie pool her feet are in, and her beam widens when I head over.

"Storie, honey, you're home so early!" she cries, almost slipping in the pool when she gets to her feet. The lines around her eyes crease with her smile; the worry lines on her forehead are shallow.

"I switched shifts with Georgie," I say, letting my bag drop to the grass. I hope she can't tell that I spent my afternoon getting hot and heavy in a frat boy's bedroom. Maybe I overcompensated with the extra spritz of perfume. I'm suddenly too aware of my underwear. I never took them off. Liam just pushed them to the side.

"That's wonderful, honey," Mom says, her body warm when she hugs me. "I love having you home for dinner." She strokes my windswept ponytail and dries her feet on the grass. "Let me get you a glass."

When she heads inside, I pull over another lounger and drop down next to Tad, who shades his eyes to smile at me. He has a kind smile, and kind eyes. That was one of my first impressions when we moved in and he's lived up to it with ease.

"Hey, Tad," I say, no doubt overthinking how to act normal. No-one but Gray even knows I'm seeing Liam; there's no reason for anyone to suspect me.

"Hey, Storie. You're looking well. Good day?"

"Great day," I say, and immediately regret it in case I have to explain, but Tad doesn't push it. "You?"

"Not too bad, thanks," he says. "Work finished early so I was back at four. Checked on Graham and I've just been chatting with your mom since then."

"Is Gray ok?"

"He was feeling better when I got back. He'd just woken up but I think he went back to sleep. I reckon he'll be pretty much back to normal tomorrow," he says with a smile. "It's so wonderful to see how close you two are, you know."

"Thanks. It's wonderful to have him as my best friend," I say, and I'm testing the waters when I add, "It's great that Mom has you, too."

His eyes are closed, but he smiles and nods, his cheeks tilted towards the sun. He has a comforting face, the kind that you would search for in a crowd if you needed help. Tad stands out as someone to trust. If Mom's ever going to fall in love again, I really hope it's with him.

When she comes back, the three of us sip iced tea for a while and I listen to the two of them talking. It's amazing to hear Mom laugh so naturally when Tad makes a joke or shares an anecdote, and I hardly say anything when I don't want to disrupt their flow.

Tad goes in to check on dinner, leaving Mom and me alone for the first time, and she gives me a kind of wistful look when she comes over and takes Tad's seat.

"Look at you," she says, touching my cheek. "You look so happy, Storie. I can't tell you how happy I am when I see you look so good."

As she's playing with the end of my ponytail, winding my hair around her fingers, my nagging critic tells me I'm lying to her by not telling her about Liam. I know she'd want to know. She'd love to know that I've met someone; she'll be over the moon that I feel so good.

"My baby girl," she says, her finger under my chin. She leans closer to hug me, her cheek against the top of my head. "You know, I think I'm ready for you to stop growing up now, honey. My sweet little Storie."

Mom trails off, slipping into memories from when I was a little kid, and I decide not to tell her. Not yet. She wants me to be sweet little Storie and so do I, and sweet little Storie never would have done what I did this afternoon.

• • •