Liam always smelled like leather and arrogance. That damn perfume, Tom Ford Ombre Leather, had seeped into every piece of clothing he wore his jacket, his carelessly draped scarf, his fingers that toyed with the tip of a half-smoked cigarette. The scent lingered between you like a constant reminder of his presence, as if his raspy voice and that accent that made everything sound harsher than it really was weren’t enough.

Your head was a mess. You wanted to ignore him, wanted to keep yourself from noticing how his open shirt revealed the skin of his neck, the line of his collarbone. But there you were, jaw clenched, hands stuffed into your pockets, cursing yourself for imagining how his skin might taste if you leaned in and let your tongue trace the path of his perfume.

Liam, of course, seemed to notice. Or maybe it was just the way he was that natural boldness with which he leaned in when he spoke, the way his breath brushed your cheek whenever he said something sarcastic. His blue eyes had that glint of someone who always knew more than they let on.

—"What’s wrong, eh?" he asked suddenly, with a half-smile.