Page 37 of Landing Liam

“Here you are,” I echo, a stupid grin spreading across my face that I can’t seem to shake.

Her blue eyes narrow just slightly as she takes me in. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve never seen a woman in a sweater before.”

I bark out a laugh. “Maybe I haven’t seen one wear it quite so well.”

Her cheeks pinken—not from the cold this time—but she recovers quickly, rolling her eyes. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re late,” I tease, stepping back to give her some space. “Let’s find a spot near the bar.”

Her expression falters for just a second, like she isn’t quite sure she should do this, but then she straightens her shoulders and meets my gaze head-on. “Lead the way.”

The bartender takes our drink orders—beer for me, red wine for her—and we settle into a spot by the massive stone fireplace. The flames crackle and glow, the warmth instantly seeping into my skin. Maggie tosses her coat over the arm of the plush leather couch before sinking into her seat. I follow suit, taking the other side of the couch, careful to keep a respectable distance. She’s trying to keep things in the “friendly” zone, and while I’m not sure I want to stay there, I figure I should at least play by her rules. For now.

“So,” I say, clearing my throat as I lean back, stretching an arm casually across the back of the couch while strategically balancing my beer on my knee. “When did you get into writing?”

Maggie tilts her head slightly, looking at me with a small, almost hesitant smile, like she’s debating how much to share. Finally, she exhales, her gaze drifting to the fire. “I’ve always loved writing. It started with Journalism in high school. My teacher used to say I had a ‘nose for news,’” she says, using air quotes. “I think she was just being nice because I was the only student who finished her articles two weeks early.”

I chuckle. “Sounds on-brand for you.”

“Yeah, well…” She bites her lip before continuing, her voice softening. “It was my mom who pushed me to really go for it. She died before I graduated, but she made me promise I’d at least give writing a shot.” Her eyes flick to mine briefly, the firelight dancing in her irises before she glances back at the flames. “She always said life is short. That you shouldn’t waste time in jobs—or places—that make you miserable.”

I swallow, the weight of her words hanging in the air. “That’s… good advice.”

“It is,” she agrees softly, her fingers tracing the edge of her wine glass. “I guess I haven’t always taken it to heart. Maybe I’ve stayed in one place for too long.” She gives a dry laugh, lifting the glass to her lips. “Still working on that, obviously.”

Something tightens in my chest, a dull ache I don’t recognize. “You’ll find it.”

She glances over at me, a faint smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You sound pretty sure about that.”

“I am,” I say simply, holding her gaze. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who gives up easily.”

Her smile grows, and for a moment, she looks at me like she’s seeing something she didn’t expect. “You’re not as cocky as you seem, are you?”

I grin, shrugging one shoulder. “Depends on who you ask.”

That earns me a laugh—soft and real—and I feel it settle somewhere deep inside me, a warmth different from the fire. She shakes her head, still smiling, before taking another sip of her wine.

“Who should I ask then?” she teases.

“I’ll make a list,” I shoot back, grinning.

She rolls her eyes, but there’s a spark behind them, something alive and electric. And just like that, the space between us feels a little smaller. I lean forward slightly, resting my elbows on my knees, unable to help myself.

“You know,” I say with a click of my tongue, “your mom was right. Life’s too short to waste time.”

Her expression softens, the teasing gone, and for a moment, it’s just the two of us—her searching my face, me trying not to get lost in hers.

“I think I’m starting to realize that,” she murmurs.

“If you could have any writing job in the world, no limitations, what would it be?” I ask, keeping the conversation moving, but also genuinely curious. I want to know more about her—what drives her, what makes her light up.

Maggie tilts her head, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as she considers the question, really considers it. The firelight casts a soft glow across her face, and for a moment, she looks almost wistful. Then, with a small shrug of her shoulder, she answers. “I want to be editor.”

“Really?” I can’t hide my surprise. I was expecting something…different.