Page 66 of Landing Liam

I hold the door open for Maggie, watching as she steps out of the hotel. She’s careful not to get too close, keeping her distance as though there’s an invisible line between us she doesn’t want to cross. Part of me hoped she’d accidentally brush against me, even just a fleeting touch, but she doesn’t. I didn’t think it would bother me this much, but it does.

When we reach my car, I circle around to open the passenger door for her. The worry etched into her expression hasn’t softened, the corners of her mouth drawn tight, her brow faintly furrowed. Something about it makes my chest ache. I rest a hand lightly on her forearm as she moves toward the door.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I ask gently, my voice barely louder than the crunch of snow beneath our feet.

She bites her lower lip, hesitating for a moment before shaking her head. “Not right now,” she says softly. Then she slips into the passenger seat, her movements quick, almost defensive, as though she’s afraid of lingering too long.

I exhale through my nose, the cold air biting at my lungs as I make my way to the driver’s side. She doesn’t owe me anything, I remind myself. After everything—the text messages, my distrust, my own mistakes—I shouldn’t expect her to let her walls down for me. Still, the distance between us feels heavier with every passing second.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, I glance over at her. Maggie’s staring out the window, her eyes tracking the people trudging through the thick snow outside. The scene is bustling despite the lingering storm—locals and tourists bundled in coats, hauling gear, and laughing as they navigate the icy sidewalks. It’s the same mountain chaos I’ve seen every season of my career, but Maggie seems transfixed, her mind clearly somewhere else.

I grip the steering wheel, the leather cool beneath my fingers. “You know,” I start, keeping my tone casual, “I’ve never seen the mountain this packed during a blizzard. You’d think the weather would scare people off.”

She hums a noncommittal response, her gaze never leaving the window. I know she’s not really seeing the snow or the crowd—her mind’s somewhere far away, tangled in whatever she’s trying not to talk about.

The silence stretches, heavy but not uncomfortable. I want to reach for her hand, to close the growing chasm between us, but I stop myself. Instead, I start the car, the engine rumbling softly beneath us, and wait for her to decide if she wants to let me in.

Maggie stays quiet the entire drive to Mom and Dad’s. The silence isn’t heavy, but it’s not exactly light either—it feels like she’s trying to keep her thoughts to herself, and I don’t blame her. Normally, I wouldn’t even consider bringing someone home like this. Lyla barely set foot past the driveway when we were together, and that was by design. I’ve always kept my family separate from my relationships. Not because I don’t care what they think—far from it. I care too much. Their opinions matter more than I let on, and one wrong word from Mom or Dad could have sent any past fling running for the hills.

But Maggie? For some reason, I know Mom’s going to love her, even if—or when—she finds out about the story. That realization feels both comforting and dreadful. It makes me like her even more than I already do, which is saying something, considering how much space she’s taken up in my head these past few days.

Dad used to tell me how he “just knew” Mom was the one from the moment he met her. I’ve always thought that was a load of romanticized garbage. How could anyone just know something like that? But now, as I glance at Maggie out of the corner of my eye, I wonder if there’s more to it than I ever gave him credit for. I’ve had my fair share of… let’s call them conquests over the years. Not one of them made me feel the way Maggie does. Not one of them made me want to take her home and let my family get to know her.

And yet, here I am. Driving her to my parents’ house. Hoping they’ll see what I see in her. Wishing I understood it myself. Because if she’s not the one, then why does this feel so monumental? Why do I want her to like my family as much as I already know they’ll like her? Why do I want her to stick around when she has every reason to walk away?

Maybe I’m being too hard on her. She said she didn’t even know who I was before this story landed in her lap. I’ve spent all morning questioning her intentions, questioning if she’s the one who leaked the story. But what if she really is just someone trying to prove herself? To keep her job, better herself, and make something out of her career?

Can I really blame her for that? Don’t I risk everything for my career every time I strap into my board and hurl myself down the side of a mountain?

The thought hits me like a gust of wind, sharp and sudden. Maybe we’re not so different after all.

As I pull into the driveway, I feel Maggie’s body go rigid beside me. Her shoulders tense, and she grips the edge of her seat, her gaze fixed on the house looming ahead. Despite the invisible walls we’ve both been trying to keep up, I instinctively reach across the center console and take her hand. Her fingers are cool against mine, and for a moment, she doesn’t respond. But then, slowly, she threads her fingers through mine and squeezes—firm, steady, like she’s trying to anchor herself.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, her voice cracking just enough to tug at my chest. “I’m sorry if anything I’ve done or said has hurt you. That was never my intention.”

I exhale, letting the tension I’ve been holding melt away. “It’s okay. I think I understand more than I thought I would.”

Her head tilts toward me, her blue eyes wide and searching. “You do?”

“Yeah,” I say, giving her hand another squeeze. “Really.”

She glances back at the house, her lips parting as if she wants to say more, but she doesn’t. Instead, she licks her lips nervously and nods toward the front door. “I’m nervous.”

Her honesty catches me off guard, but I smile, trying to put her at ease. “Don’t be. They know you’re here to help. And, not to brag, but my family’s pretty great. You’ll see.”

Her smile is faint but real, like a crack of sunlight through heavy clouds. “Okay,” she whispers, her grip on my hand tightening briefly before letting go.

As we step out of the car, the sound of crunching snow fills the air, and I feel a strange sense of calm wash over me. Maggie walks beside me, her hands buried deep in her coat pockets, and even though she’s nervous, I can feel her determination radiating off her. I can’t help but hope that whatever happens in the next few hours, this moment—the two of us walking toward something together—means more than either of us is ready to admit.

Chapter Thirty

Maggie

Standing on Liam’s front porch, my nerves feel like live wires, sparking with every passing second. The crisp mountain air bites at my cheeks, but it’s nothing compared to the cold pit in my stomach. Meeting his family under normal circumstances would be nerve-wracking enough, but after that scathing phone call from Janowicz, I’m teetering on the edge.

His words still echo in my mind, sharp and relentless. “I don’t care if he’s doping or not. You have a story, Maggie. Use it.” He didn’t even bother hiding his indifference to the truth. For him, it’s about clicks, headlines, and getting our paper noticed. It doesn’t matter that Liam’s name and reputation are on the line. It doesn’t matter that every fiber of my being is screaming that Liam is innocent. Janowicz wants the story, and if I don’t deliver? My job is on the chopping block.

I glance over at Liam as he pulls open the heavy wooden door. He doesn’t notice my hesitation, his focus already shifting to the voices filtering through the house. For a moment, I envy his ability to compartmentalize—he’s juggling a scandal that could ruin his career, yet here he is, holding the door for me, steady as ever.