Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player Chapter 147

EMILIA

The brunch spot is already packed when we pull up. There's a line curling out the door and down the block, and I'm ready to tell Liam to forget it and take me to the nearest diner. But he squeezes my hand, grins like he's got the whole thing figured out, and says, "Trust me. It'll be worth it."

I roll my eyes but secretly? I kind of love that he wants to do something this... normal with me.

By some miracle (or maybe because the hostess recognized him through the world's worst disguise), we're seated within fifteen minutes. The place smells like coffee and sugar and way-too-expensive bread.

The menu, though, is chaos.

"Twenty bucks for avocado toast?" I whisper. "Is the avocado gold-plated?"

"Deconstructed waffle flight," Liam reads. "What the hell does that mean? The waffle comes in pieces?"

I snort. "Order it. I want to see."

I snort. "Order it. I want to see."

"Not a chance," he says, ignoring me completely and handing the menu back like he's made a life-altering decision. He goes for pancakes and eggs with two ridiculous sides, while I pretend to deliberate and then settle on "sampling" whatever ends up on his plate. He knows it too. Before the waiter even leaves, he slides the syrup toward me like it's a peace offering.

The second our plates hit the table, I commit daylight robbery—I snatch a hash brown off his plate and bite into it before he can blink.

Liam stares at the empty space like he's mourning a fallen soldier. With a long-suffering sigh, he cuts off a piece of pancake and drops it onto my plate. "You should've just ordered your own."

"Where's the fun in that?" I grin around my bite. "Food tastes better when it's stolen."

He raises an eyebrow. "That so? Then I guess my eggs are about to be Michelin-starred."

I reach for them immediately, but he's quicker, spearing the eggs with his fork and popping them into his mouth while giving me the smuggest grin known to man.

"You're evil," I accuse.

"You started it," he says, totally unbothered.

I get my revenge by ignoring the salad he ordered—"for balance," he'd claimed—and focusing solely on the pancakes. When he realizes I'm not even pretending to care about the greens, he pushes the entire plate toward me with a resigned shake of his head.

"Fine," he mutters, though he's fighting a smile. "All yours. Happy?"

I take an exaggeratedly huge bite of pancake, nodding like it's the best thing I've ever tasted. "Ecstatic."

In between bites, we people-watch. It's impossible not to in a place like this.

Two tables over, a couple is locked in a heated debate about bottomless mimosas.

"She's right," I whisper. "It's simple math. Three glasses and you've already beaten the system."

Liam leans in, smirking. "Bold of you to assume you could handle three glasses. One and you're already asking me if the room is spinning."

I glare at him. "That was one time."

"That was last month." He raises his brows, smug as hell. "Half a glass and you were giggling at the salt shaker."

I kick him under the table. "You're exaggerating."

"Am I?" His grin says otherwise. Which is unfair, because I'm already laughing, and that just proves his point.

By the time our plates are empty, I'm so full it actually hurts to laugh—but Liam keeps making me anyway. Every time I wheeze through another giggle, he cracks up harder, like I'm the funniest thing he's ever seen.

When we finally roll out of there, ignoring the ridiculous line snaking down the block, I make a beeline for the car. But Liam pats my shoulder, laces our fingers together, and tugs me in the opposite direction.

"Walk first," he says.

I groan dramatically but don't resist. "Even disagreeing would take too much energy right now."

He smirks, satisfied, and I let him lead me down the street.

"For a place so overpriced," I say, rubbing my overstuffed belly with my free hand, "they actually serve decent portions."

"That might be why they're popular. Good food, Instagram-worthy décor, and they don't skimp on the pancakes. Triple threat."

I squint at him. "You sound like a Yelp review."

He grins, then glances at my hand still resting over my stomach. Without warning, he covers it with his own, warm and big and steady.

"Careful, love. You look about five months along."

I gasp and swat at him with my free hand. "Don't you dare."

He ducks away from my half-hearted hit, laughing, but leaves his palm right where it is. Instead, he gives my belly a gentle squeeze, like he's patting it for luck. "I'm just saying—if you burst, I'm not explaining that to the ER."

"You're insufferable."

"You adore me." His smile softens as his gaze finds mine. He lifts my hand—the one still tangled in his—and presses a slow kiss to the back of it. "So, what's the verdict, Your Honor? Would you brunch with this criminal again?"

I roll my eyes, though my cheeks are burning. "Fine. Five stars. Would brunch with you again." The giddiness buzzing in my chest finally settles into something warmer, steadier. "But you know you could get food just as good at a diner for half the price, right?"

"True," he admits, eyes glinting with quiet amusement as they flick down to me. "But then I wouldn't get to watch you go after my pancakes like it's the Stanley Cup Finals."

I laugh, shove his shoulder, but the smile he gives me in return—soft, steady, quietly in love—makes my chest ache in the best way.

"I love you, Calloway."

His grin turns downright smug. "Of course you do. What other choice do you have?"

This bastard. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. "You know, these might be our only calm moments for a while. So maybe... I just want to savour it with you."

We've been walking long enough that my stomach finally stops feeling like it's about to explode, and Liam's fingers are cold where they lace with mine. He squeezes once, firm. "Are you sure about everything with Stone?"

"Never been more certain of anything in my life."

He exhales slowly, and for a second, I feel the weight of it in his chest against mine. "I don't like it. But I love you. And I'll be here, every step of the way."

My throat tightens. "I know." Funny—since when did my vision blur this easily?

He doesn't push, doesn't demand more words. Instead, he just tugs my hand and steers me toward a building. "We're here."

I blink at the façade, trying to place it. It doesn't make sense. I shake my head, confusion spilling out in a whisper. "What is this?"

Liam doesn't answer me right away. Which is strange. Normally he'd have some smug one-liner locked and loaded. Instead, his thumb rubs the inside of my palm like he's stalling, like he's buying himself time.

I glance up at him. His jaw's tight, his brows drawn just slightly, and—God—he actually looks nervous. Liam Calloway. Nervous.

My stomach flips. "Why are you looking at the sidewalk like it personally offended you?"

He clears his throat. "I'm not."

"You so are."

He huffs a laugh but doesn't deny it. Which only makes me more suspicious.

We stop in front of the building, and I have to tip my head back just to take it all in. Glass panels, clean white stone, tall arched windows that catch the afternoon light like a halo. The kind of place that screams expensive, modern, curated.

I blink, then glance back at him. "Liam... this looks like—" I hesitate, unsure what word even fits. "I don't know. Something out of a magazine. Or the kind of place people get married at if they hate barn weddings."

That earns me a crooked smile, but it's twitchy at the edges, like he can't quite hold it steady. His hand is still clasping mine, warm and a little clammy.

I eye him suspiciously. "Calloway. Why do you look like you're about to propose to me in front of a crowd?"

He chokes on air. "Jesus, Em."

"Well?" I press, half teasing, half genuinely curious. "What is this place?"

He exhales through his nose, shoulders rising and falling like he's bracing himself. "You'll see."