On the eve of June 14th, my twenty-third birthday, Karina and I stand on the curb outside my apartment building. We’re dressed to the nines but have no idea what the night has in store. I’d been told to dress for a party and bring a friend. That was it. Every time I’d pressed Liam for details, I’d received a slap on the ass. And not the teasing variety, either.

A few minutes till eight, a limo rounds the corner and pulls to a stop before us. I gawk at the sleek giant, and Karina gives a soft whistle.

“I’m so glad I took the night off work,” she says fervently. Her heavily made-up eyes glisten with excitement. “Are we going to Vegas or something?”

I shake my head. “No clue.”

When the back door opens and Liam emerges, I suck in a breath. Not since the day he came to my work have I seen him in a suit. Slacks and freshly pressed shirts, yes, but this is different.

He looks like a different man. Sharper. Older. Sophisticated beyond my understanding. The trappings of wealth magnify his natural power. Make it dizzying. This is the version of him that intimidates me the most. The one who seems so far out of my league.

“Happy birthday, Eden,” he says with a secretive smile, bending to kiss my cheek. “You look incredible.”

“Thank you.” This close, his familiar scent invades my nose. Liam. Still Liam. As my nerves settle, I run the tips of my fingers along his smooth jaw. “You shaved. Is this my present?”

“Not even close, dove.” His eyes flicker away from me for the first time since he exited the limo. “Hello, Karina.”

“Hey, Mr. Fancy. Nice ride.”

Though they’ve met several times, Karina has yet to call him by his name. Mr. Fancy is new. It’s normally Mr. Hollywood, Mr. Moneybags, or Liam the Dom (though the last she only uses in my company).

Liam laughs good-naturedly and takes my arm, guiding me into the limo. Once Karina and I are settled, he slips in beside me and nods at the driver. As the limo pulls away from the curb, he pours Karina and me glasses of champagne.

“I could get used to this,” Karina says, smirking as she sips her drink.

I’ve never been a fan of champagne—it gives me a nasty hangover—but one sip tells me this isn’t a grocery-store purchase. It’s light and dry, with the barest hint of fruit.

“Do you like it?” Liam murmurs.

I nod and force a smile, taking another sip. Liam has never flaunted his wealth; for all his material comforts, he doesn’t live lavishly. The reminder is making my head spin. I feel ill at ease, my skin too tight. Out of my element and out of touch.

Maybe it’s as simple as the flashy silver mini-dress Karina cajoled me into wearing. But I think it has more to do with the man beside me in a tailored suit, his eyes simmering with easy confidence and worldliness.

This doesn’t feel like us. Not the us I’m used to, anyway. The us that fights over the bedcovers, that eats sushi out of takeout containers on the beach. That laughs at reruns of Seinfeld at three in the morning because I can’t sleep and sex didn’t help.

Liam leans close to me, his mouth near my ear. “Stop it,” he whispers.

I stiffen. “Stop what?”

He draws back, eyes intent on mine. “Stop thinking that because our surroundings have changed, we’re different people.”

His thumb slides across the back of my neck, caressing a pressure point. A sycophant for his touch, I feel my anxiety melting away.

“You’re mine, Eden. And I’m yours. Limos don’t change that.”

Yes, but for how long?

* * *

He takes us to Providence on Melrose, a Michelin star-rated restaurant I’d never heard of until this past Sunday. There was a review for the restaurant in the morning paper—Liam refuses to cancel the subscription even though he can just as easily read the contents online.

Over Belgian waffles, coffee, and fresh fruit, I’d read the review aloud. Now, staring at the sign over the restaurant’s door, I also distinctly remember sighing over the fact that we could never eat there, as reservations had to be booked at least three months in advance. We have just under a month left together.

When the host greets Liam as Mr. Rourke with an air of recognition if not familiarity, I have part of my answer. The rest, I’m not sure I want to know. Call me willfully ignorant, but I haven’t found the motivation yet to ask him about Maddoc Donnelly.

Our meal is exquisite. We don’t actually order food; instead, a seemingly endless array of tasting dishes and paired wines come and go on the white linen surface. By the third serving, I’ve forgotten my earlier stress. And it’s not the copious alcohol.

It’s Liam.

Knowing that neither Karina nor I could ever afford to eat at a place like this, he keeps us from feeling like lambs among wolves by laughing louder than we do, stabbing food off both of our plates, and generally being himself.

Men glare from surrounding tables, disguising their envy with disapproval, while women watch Liam surreptitiously with hunger in their eyes. I can’t blame them. In the mellow lighting, he looks every inch a leader among men. His hair gleams darkly with auburn accents, perfectly tousled. I happen to know he never brushes it. Broad shoulders at ease, their angle and strength apparent. The long legs, the trim, fit build. He’s the definition of eye-candy.

Apparently our table makes an impression, because after dinner the chef comes out of the kitchen and sits with us for a while. He and Liam trade fishing stories from their youth—the chef’s in the Northeast and Liam’s in Galway, Ireland. With a handshake and an invitation to return whenever we wish, the chef leaves us to finish our desserts.

Karina and I trade a wide-eyed glance, then hide laughter behind our hands.

Liam leans back in his chair, smug and amused. “Finish your desserts, ladies. The night has just begun.”

Around a mouthful of truffle, Karina asks, “What? You’re going to have to roll me out of here.”

“Oh no,” he chides, “you’re not getting off that easily. We have places to go, parties to crash.”

I almost choke on my chocolate. “As long as there are no Ferris Wheels involved.”

He smirks. “Would I do that do you?”

“Yes. Yes, you would.”

He laughs and signals for the check.

The limo appears like magic when we walk outside. It’s not quite ten o’clock and the sidewalks are still bustling with people—tourists, hipsters, and dinner-goers blending together.

A young woman squeals and aims her cellphone at us, snapping pictures, while her friend hisses furiously in her ear. Locals look us over, then roll their eyes at the antics of out-of-towners. Across the street, two men scream at each other outside a store, and an old homeless woman is weaving her shopping cart through traffic.

Just another night in Los Angeles.