The storm didn’t come from the sky that night.
It came from the living room, where liquor clinked in glasses and desire hung thicker than the summer heat.
“Drink,” Liam said, sliding a shot glass toward me across the coffee table. His gaze dared me. “Or answer the question.”
I stared him down, refusing to flinch. “You want me to say if I’ve ever fantasized about someone I shouldn’t?”
Liam’s lips curved into a slow, dangerous grin. Drew didn’t say a word, but the way he sipped his whiskey, the way his eyes pinned me—gray and unreadable—I knew he was waiting too.
We were playing a twisted version of Truth or Dare. No spinning bottles. Just alcohol, dim lights, and the steady unraveling of everything I’d been pretending wasn’t happening between us.
I lifted the shot glass, threw it back
