Chapter 6: The Unexpected Visitor
The doorbell rang at 9:47 AM, which was exactly the kind of ungodly hour that Amy Whitmore believed constituted a reasonable time to drop by unannounced. Lauren had barely managed to drag herself out of bed, her hair a tangled nest of dark waves and pink highlights, still wearing the oversized band tee she'd slept in. She'd stayed up until two in the morning, staring at her phone screen, replaying conversations and dissecting every word Liam had said.
The bell rang again. And again. And again, in rapid succession, the way only Amy could manage.
"Lauren Hartley, I know you're in there, I can see your car, open this door before I start singing—"
Lauren yanked the door open, squinting against the unmerciful morning light. Amy stood on the doorstep, a cardboard tray with two iced coffees in one hand, a paper bag from the bakery down the street in the other, and a grin on her face that could only be described as predatory.
"Good morning, sunshine," Amy sang, pushing past her into the house without waiting for an invitation. "I come bearing caffeine and carbohydrates, and you're going to tell me everything."
"Everything about what?" Lauren asked, her voice a croak.
Amy froze mid-step, turning slowly on her heel. Her eyes swept over Lauren—the rumpled pajamas, the wild hair, the unmistakable glow that had nothing to do with the morning light—and her grin widened into something that made Lauren's stomach flip with dread.
"Oh, nothing," Amy said, her voice dripping with false innocence. "Just about how you were glowing like a goddess of love last night when you texted me. And about how I drove past Liam's last night and his Ducati wasn't in the driveway. So, you know. I'm curious."
Lauren groaned, burying her face in her hands. "You're insufferable."
"I'm your best friend. Same thing." Amy swept past her into the living room, dropping onto the couch with the casual confidence of someone who had keys to the house and intended to use them. "Now sit. We're not moving until I get the full story."
Lauren sighed, but she was already smiling. She settled into the armchair across from Amy, pulling her knees up to her chest, and took the offered coffee. The warmth seeped through the cup into her palms, grounding her.
"There's not much to tell," she said, but her traitorous cheeks flushed pink.
"Bullshit." Amy pulled the bakery bag open, producing a still-warm cinnamon roll. "I saw your face when you looked at your phone this morning. You had the dopeyest smile I've ever seen, and I've watched you get a hundred percent on a medieval history exam." She tore off a piece of the roll, popping it into her mouth. "Spill."
Lauren took a deep breath. Where did she even begin? The confession in her bedroom. The kiss that had made her forget her own name. The hours of talking, of touching, of the careful, reverent way he'd looked at her like she was something precious.
"He came over," she started. "We talked. We touched. We kissed." She paused, the words catching in her throat. "A lot."
Amy's eyebrows rose. "And?"
"And nothing. He left around midnight."
"Nothing?" Amy's voice pitched higher. "You're telling me you spent hours alone with the hottest guy on campus, and nothing happened? I don't believe you."
"I'm serious, Amy. We just..." Lauren gestured vaguely, searching for the right words. "We talked. He told me about his family. I read him Arthurian legends. We made pasta. It was—" She stopped, a smile spreading across her face that she couldn't contain. "It was perfect."
Amy stared at her, her expression shifting from disbelief to something softer, more contemplative. "Wait. Hold on. You're telling me he came over, spent hours with you, and didn't try to get in your pants?"
Lauren shook her head.
"He didn't even push?"
"No. He said he'd go as slow as I needed. That he'd be whatever I needed him to be."
Amy's jaw dropped. She set the cinnamon roll down, her eyes going wide. "He's never done that. Not with anyone. He's a get-what-he-wants-and-move-on kind of guy, Lauren. I know him. I've seen him operate. He doesn't do slow. He doesn't do tender. He certainly doesn't do 'tell me about your feelings' while holding hands and making pasta."
Lauren's heart stuttered. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying." Amy leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "He's smitten. Like, head-over-heels, world-stops-spinning smitten. He's never gone slow for anyone because he's never actually cared about anyone." She pointed a finger at Lauren. "You broke him. I don't know how you did it, but you broke him, and it's the best thing I've ever seen."
Lauren's chest felt too full. The words echoed in her mind, and she replayed the night with new understanding. The way he'd held her hand like it was something precious. The way he'd listened, truly listened, when she talked about her classes and her books and her secret dreams. The way he'd looked at her like she was the only person in the world worth looking at.
"It doesn't feel real," she admitted quietly. "All of it. I keep expecting to wake up."
"Well, you're not dreaming." Amy pulled a face, but her eyes were warm. "And for the record, I'm thrilled for you. Even though I'm contractually obligated as your best friend to warn you that if he hurts you, I will hunt him down and make his life a living hell."
"I know. You've mentioned the various ways you'd do it."
"I've added three new ones since last week. Want to hear them?"
"No," Lauren said, laughing despite herself.
The sound of a motorcycle engine rumbled through the open window. Both of them froze, turning toward the sound. Lauren's heart leaped into her throat as she recognized the low, throaty growl of the Ducati.
"Is that—" Amy started.
The engine cut off. Footsteps approached the front door. A pause. Then a knock, soft and almost hesitant.
Lauren looked at Amy, her eyes wide, panic and excitement warring in her chest.
"Go," Amy said, already on her feet, scooping up the coffee cups and bakery bag. "I'll slip out the back. Don't worry about me."
"Amy, you don't have to—"
"I absolutely have to. This is your Kodak moment, and I refuse to be a third wheel." She pressed a quick kiss to Lauren's cheek, then scurried toward the kitchen. She paused at the doorway, looking back over her shoulder. "Oh, and please tell me that's not a bouquet of wildflowers I'm about to walk in on, because if it is, I'm going to have to find a man who looks at me the way he looks at you."
Then she was gone, the back door clicking shut a moment later.
Lauren took a deep breath, smoothing down her rumpled outfit. She looked terrible. She looked like she'd just rolled out of bed. And yet, when she opened the door, Liam was standing there, a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand and a smile on his face that made her forget everything else.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey," she echoed.
He held out the flowers. Forget-me-nots and daisies and wild roses, tangled together in a messy, beautiful bunch. "I was walking past a flower stall and they reminded me of you."
She took them, her fingers brushing against his. "They're beautiful."
"You're beautiful." He said it simply, like it was an indisputable fact, and her cheeks flushed. "I know I just left, but I couldn't stop thinking about you. I tried. I really did. But every time I closed my eyes, I saw you reading to me, and I heard your voice doing the knight's voices, and I—" He stopped, running a hand through his hair, suddenly looking shy. "I wanted to see you again."
Lauren pressed the flowers to her chest, inhaling their sweet scent. "I couldn't stop thinking about you either."
He stepped forward, pulling her into his arms. His embrace was warmth and safety, his heart beating steady beneath her ear. She closed her eyes, breathing him in. He smelled like motor oil and soap and something indefinable that was just him.
"I wanted to ask you something," he murmured against her hair. "A proper question. A proper date."
She pulled back, looking up at him. "A date?"
"Yeah." His smile turned crooked, almost nervous. "There's a medieval faire in the next town over this weekend. Jousting, sword fighting, mead, the whole thing. I figured it was right up your alley." He paused, and something vulnerable flickered in his eyes. "I know it's cheesy. I just thought you might like it."
Lauren's heart soared. She imagined walking through the stalls with him, his hand in hers, the smell of woodsmoke and roasting meat, the clash of steel in the background. A medieval faire. For her. He'd actually paid attention.
"I'd love to," she said, and the smile that broke across his face was worth more than any amount of gold.
"You would? Really?"
"Really. You had me at jousting."
He laughed, pulling her close again, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "I'm going to show you the best time you've ever had, Lauren Hartley. I promise."
She buried her face in his chest, smiling so wide her cheeks ached. The wildflowers pressed between them, sweet and fragrant, and in that moment, she knew something with absolute certainty: this was the beginning of something real.
The wildflowers pressed between them, sweet and fragrant, and in that moment, she knew something with absolute certainty: this was the beginning of something real.
She looked up at him, the morning light catching the gold flecks in his eyes, and something in her chest unlocked. She rose on her toes, the bouquet still clutched between them, and kissed him.
It was slow, that kiss—deliberate in a way that made her feel brave. His arms circled her waist, pulling her flush against him, and her arms slid around his neck, the flowers pressing against the back of his shoulders. He tasted like coffee and mint, and she could feel him smile against her lips, that crooked, disarming smile that made her knees weak.
Neither of them heard the car.
Neither of them noticed the engine cut, or the doors open, or the footsteps crunching across the gravel driveway. They were lost, utterly and completely, in the soft slide of lips and the warmth of hands and the quiet hum of something that felt terrifyingly like joy.
A throat cleared.
Loudly. Deliberately. The kind of sound that could only come from a man who had spent decades perfecting the art of parental intimidation.
Lauren and Liam sprang apart like they'd been caught doing something illegal. Lauren's face went scarlet, the heat rushing up her neck and flooding her cheeks as she turned to see her father standing on the path, a bag of groceries in one arm, his eyebrows raised to somewhere near his hairline.
Beside him, her mother had a hand pressed to her chest, her lips twitching in what looked suspiciously like a suppressed smile.
"Dad," Lauren squeaked. "Mum. You're back early."
Her father said nothing. He just looked at her, then at Liam, then at the wildflowers still clutched in her hand, then back at her. The silence stretched, thick and unbearable.
"I'm Liam," Liam said, stepping forward with his hand extended. His voice was steady, but she could see the slight tremor in his fingers. "Liam Carter. I'm—I'm Lauren's—"
"The boy who was just kissing my daughter on the front step," her father finished flatly. He didn't take the offered hand.
"That's—yes. That's accurate."
Her mother finally broke, a small laugh escaping her as she stepped past her husband. "Bill, stop being dramatic." She patted Liam's shoulder warmly, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'm Sarah. This grumpy bear is Bill. We've heard a lot about you."
"You have?" Liam's voice cracked slightly, and Lauren felt a rush of affection for him so strong it almost hurt.
"Lauren mentioned you," Sarah said, her tone light. "Said you were... studying together."
Bill cleared his throat again, and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. "Well, charming boy. Why don't you come inside? You and I are going to have a chat."
"Dad," Lauren protested, but her father was already walking past them, carrying the groceries into the house like a man on a mission.
Sarah gave Lauren and Liam a sympathetic look, but it was tinged with something else—curiosity, maybe, or approval. "He doesn't bite. Usually." She followed her husband inside, leaving them alone on the porch.
Liam let out a breath he'd apparently been holding. "Well. That's not terrifying at all."
"I'm so sorry," Lauren said. "He's just—he's protective. And you're the first boy I've ever—" She stopped, her face flushing again. "He's never had to do this before."
"First boy, huh?" Liam's voice was soft, and when she dared to look at him, his expression was tender. "So I get to be the one to break him in. Lucky me."
She wanted to laugh, but her father's voice boomed from inside the house. "Lauren! Bring your young man inside. The kettle's on."
Liam looked at her, and somehow, despite the awkwardness and the terror, he was grinning. "I think we'd better not keep him waiting."
She took his hand, squeezing it tightly. "I'll be right there with you. Whatever he says, whatever he asks—I'm on your side."
He lifted their joined hands and pressed a kiss to her knuckles. "That's all I need."
They walked inside together. Her father was already seated at the kitchen table, a cup of tea steaming in front of him, looking every inch the stern patriarch. Her mother was busy at the counter, pointedly not looking at them, but Lauren caught the small, pleased smile on her face.
"Sit," Bill said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Liam, was it? Sit down. We need to talk about your intentions with my daughter."
Liam sat down across from Bill Hartley, the kitchen table a thin wooden barrier between them. The domestic normalcy of the scene—the humming refrigerator, the stack of mail by the fruit bowl, the faint lavender scent that clung to the curtains—seemed to sharpen the tension coiling in the air.
Lauren hovered behind him, her hand resting on the back of his chair. He could feel her presence like a warm current, and he clung to it.
"So," Bill began, folding his arms on the table. His voice was calm, but there was a weight to it that made Liam's spine straighten. "Lauren tells us very little, which tells me a lot. You're a university student?"
"Yes, sir. Business major. Third year."
"Business." Bill's eyebrow arched. "That's practical."
Liam nodded, keeping his voice steady. "It is. But I'm not entirely sure it's what I want to do forever. I've got a bike, and I've been saving to travel after I graduate."
"Traveling." Bill's tone was unreadable. "That's a big ambition."
Sarah set a cup of tea in front of him, the steam curling into the air. "Nothing wrong with ambition, Bill."
Bill ignored her, his gaze fixed on Liam. "And this ambition of yours. Where does my daughter fit into it?"
Liam felt the question land like a stone dropped into still water. He glanced at Lauren—her knuckles white where she gripped the chair—then back at her father.
"Sir, I'll be honest with you. I've known Lauren for a short time, but she's already changed the way I see things. I can't promise I have my whole life figured out, but I know I want her in it."
Bill's expression didn't shift. "You've known her for days, and you're talking like that. That's a strong claim."
"I know it is." Liam leaned forward, his palms flat on the table. "And I understand if that sounds like something you'd hear from a guy who's just saying what he thinks you want to hear. But I've been thinking about her constantly since we met. I want to do this right. I want to earn her trust, and yours."
The room fell quiet. The kettle's soft hiss filled the space, and somewhere outside, a bird sang—unbothered by the weight pressing down on the kitchen.
Bill didn't break eye contact. "I've heard things about you, Liam. From around campus. About your reputation with women."
Liam's stomach dropped. He kept his voice level. "I'm not going to deny that. I've made choices I'm not proud of. I was young, and I didn't take things seriously."
"Young." Bill's tone sharpened. "You're twenty-one. You're not a boy anymore."
"No, sir. I'm not." Liam met his gaze. "And I'm not asking you to trust me based on who I was. I'm asking you to judge me by who I'm trying to become."
Lauren's hand found his shoulder, a small squeeze that steadied him. He didn't dare look at her.
Sarah set her own tea down, her voice gentle. "And who is that? Who are you trying to become?"
Liam exhaled slow. "Someone worthy of Lauren. Someone who treats her like the remarkable person she is. She's—" He stopped, the words catching in his throat. "She's the first person who ever made me want to be better. Not for my own sake. For hers."
The silence stretched, thick and unyielding. Bill's jaw tightened, his eyes scanning Liam's face like he was searching for any crack in the facade.
"You've slept with a lot of girls, haven't you?"
Liam didn't flinch. "Yes, sir. I have."
"Are you telling me that's not going to matter? That my daughter—my only daughter, who has never had a boyfriend—isn't just another notch on your bedpost?"
The accusation hung between them, raw and sharp. Liam's throat tightened, but he refused to look away.
"She's not another anything. She's Lauren." His voice dropped, quiet but firm. "I've never felt the way I feel about her. I can't explain it beyond that. I just know I don't want to mess this up."
Bill studied him for a long, agonizing moment. Then something shifted in his expression—a nearly imperceptible softening.
"You care about her."
"More than I've ever cared about anything."
Bill leaned back, exchanging a glance with Sarah. She gave a slight nod, a silent conversation passing between them.
"Alright," Bill said slowly. "You want to date my daughter. What does that look like?"
Liam blinked, caught off guard by the shift in tone. "I wanted to take her to the medieval faire this weekend. In the next town over. There's jousting, sword fights—she'd love it."
Bill raised an eyebrow. "A medieval faire."
"Yes, sir. She's passionate about history. I figured it'd be something we could share."
Sarah smiled, hiding it behind her teacup. "That's thoughtful, Liam."
Bill didn't smile, but the hard edge in his eyes had dulled. "And after the faire? What then?"
"Whatever Lauren wants. I'm not here to rush her or push her into anything." Liam paused, weighing the next words. "I promised her I'd go as slow as she needs. I intend to keep that promise."
Bill held his gaze for a long moment, then let out a breath. "Alright. You can take her to the faire."
Liam's heart stuttered. "Really?"
"Really." Bill's voice was gruff, but there was a hint of something almost like warmth. "But if you hurt her, you'll answer to me. And I have a claymore sword on my wall and a decade of medieval reenactment experience. I know how to use it."
A laugh burst from Liam before he could stop it—surprised and genuine. "I believe you, sir."
"Good." Bill rose, extending his hand. Liam took it, and the grip was firm but not crushing. "Don't make me regret this."
"I won't."
Sarah swept in, pulling Liam into an unexpected hug. "You're welcome here anytime, sweetheart. I think you're good for her."
Liam's chest tightened, something warm and unfamiliar blooming behind his ribs. "Thank you, ma'am."
Lauren appeared beside him, her eyes bright. "I'll walk him out."
The fresh air hit him as they stepped onto the porch, the afternoon sun warm on his skin. The knots in his shoulders finally loosened, and he let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"That wasn't so bad," he said.
"You just survived an interrogation from a man who made a Hobby Lobby manager cry." Lauren's lips curved. "That's not nothing."
He laughed, low and warm. "He really made a Hobby Lobby manager cry?"
"Threatened to sue over a mispriced garden gnome." She shrugged, a grin flickering across her face. "I'm proud of you for holding your own."
He stepped closer, his hand finding hers. "I meant every word in there, Lauren. Every single one."
Her eyes searched his face, soft and searching. "I know you did."
He lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. A slow, gentle gesture that made her breath catch. "I can't wait for Saturday."
"Neither can I."
She rose up and kissed him—not cautious, not shy, but something surer. He slid his hand into her hair, cradling her skull as he kissed her back, and for a moment, the world shrank to just the two of them, caught between the dying afternoon light and the hum of his Ducati in the driveway.
When they broke apart, her hand lingered on his chest, tracing the line of his collarbone through his shirt. "Saturday," she repeated, soft as a promise.
He caught her fingers, lifted them to his lips, and kissed them once more. "Saturday."
He climbed onto his bike, the engine roaring to life. She watched him go with her arms wrapped around herself, her smile so wide it hurt. The road stretched before him, but all he could see was her.