Liam's List: The List, #2

By Haleigh Lovell

From the NEW YORK TIMES and USA TODAY bestselling author, Haleigh Lovell. A Contemporary Romance packed with Heat and Heart.

Shortlisted for Goodreads List of Top Ten Romances of 2014.

"A hot, hot sexy read and a wonderful love story. It reached inside my heart, grabbed hold, and refused to let go." ~ Falling in Fall Books

"Get ready for the steamiest ride of your lives!" ~ Renee Entress Book Blog
 

"Liam is on my top list of HOT BOOK BOYFRIENDS and this is a MUST READ!" ~ Eb's Dirty Diary
 

"Wow! Words cannot express. The book captures the characters and bring them to life with love and passion, leaving you breathless and wanting more." ~ Cat Sat
 

"A must read. Brilliant dialogue and storyline. So realistic and beautiful, it struck a chord with me emotionally." ~ Amy Homes

 

His best friend's sister. A list. A love story. 

NOTE: Liam's List is a deliciously sexy full-length novel. No cliffhanger.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haleigh Lovell
• Release date: May 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9798201258245

Book preview

Chapter One

Liam

I EASED AGAINST THE pillow and pressed the phone to my ear. What are you doing right now?

Talking to you. Vivian’s drowsy voice wrapped around my heart.

What were you doing before I called?

Oh, you know... just being lazy in bed with a good book and green tea on a Saturday night, because I’m wild like that.

My chest moved in a silent chuckle. "You are a wild one. Don’t get too crazy now."

I’ll try not to, she said with a teasing note in her voice. But I can’t make any promises. You know I’m like an animal in bed. More specifically, a koala, since I can sleep for more than twenty hours straight.

I laughed. What book were you reading?

A steamy romance, she said coyly. And though I couldn’t see her, I knew she was smiling—a warm smile that lit up her face and lingered in her eyes.

Mmm. I closed my eyes briefly. How steamy?

Oh, gosh, she breathed. "You won’t believe the amount of sexy time scenes in the last two chapters."

"And these sexy time scenes... I cleared my throat twice. Are they better than the real thing?"

Maybe. Her voice held a challenge.

I see. I rubbed my chin, filing away that information for another time.

And the guy in the book is so hot. She let out a little laugh. I think I’ll make him my book boyfriend.

At this point, I knew she was egging me on, but I willingly took the bait. Your book boyfriend? My mocking voice turned into one of genuine amusement. Why would you need a book boyfriend? You’ve got me.

True. You come close, but my book boyfriend is so dreamy. She released a deep, full-body sigh. And it’s not just him. I love all the characters so much, and I just don’t want the book to end. Sometimes I wish some fictional characters were real and some real people were fictional. You know what I mean?

I think I do, I said, reaching down to grab a paperback from a growing pile of books stacked neatly next to my bed. Guess what I’m looking at now?

What?

"Threat Vector by Tom Clancy."

You got the care package! she practically shouted.

"Sure did. I got it today. And thanks for all the books, the treats, and your sexy photo." I propped an elbow behind my head and stared at that photo of Vivian in a red string bikini, sitting in my Jeep with her thighs slightly spread, tiny grains of sparkling white sand sprinkled along those long, slender legs. Ocean spray clung to her lashes as she looked longingly at the camera... like she was looking right at me.

A tide of desire rushed through me and I swallowed hard.

Her next question snapped me out of my reverie. Did my brother get his care package, too?

I think he did. He told me he was gonna zone out and play some video games before we head out tonight.

Every night, we went out on missions, raids, and patrols. Right when the sun came up, we returned to base camp, drained and exhausted, and collapsed into bed. We slept during the day, worked out, and sometimes zoned out, and then we headed out and did it all over again.

Vivian knew this was our routine, so it took me by surprise when she grew quiet for a long moment.

What’s wrong? I asked.

I worry about you... both of you, she said, all humor gone from her voice. I guess she could only keep up the facade for so long. This woman I work with down at the rescue shelter, I hadn’t seen her for days. There was a small break in her voice. Yesterday, I found out her husband was killed in Fallujah.

I’m sorry, Viv.

I...I... She pulled in a breath, the sound uneven and shaky. I just don’t want anything to happen to you and Julian.

Hey, I said gently. Nothing’s gonna happen to Julian. I’ll make sure of that. And nothing’s gonna happen to me. After a pause, I asked, You remember that medallion you gave me?

Uh-huh.

It’s kept me safe all this while, and it will keep me safe until I come home. And I’ll be home soon. Thankfully, my term in Iraq was coming to an end in just a few months.

But as much as I tried to reassure Vivian I would be fine, I knew she wouldn’t stop worrying. And it weighed on me... all that I was putting her through in choosing a military life. I knew she was a strong woman. Fiercely independent. But I feared what my deployment was doing to her.

We continued talking for hours, exchanging tidbits of this and that, tacitly avoiding any mention of my missions. When we’d burned up all the minutes on our cell phones, it was finally time to say good-bye.

Before I hung up, I said softly, I trust you, Viv.

The thin mattress creaked as I turned on my side and slid the phone across my desk. Sharp metal springs dug into my ribcage, but with Vivian still fully on my mind, I barely registered the stab.

Trust. I trusted Vivian. That was the truth. Call me crazy, but to me, trust was so much greater than love.

Everyone says I love you.

I love you, babe. I love you, bro. I love you, man.

It was used so loosely, like telling someone to have a nice day.

I loved my cousins. I loved my nephews. Hell, I even loved my barber, but did I trust him? Not really.

As I stared at the rusted steel walls of my CHU, I was reminded of that saying: Love all. Trust a few. Do wrong to none.

Well, I loved a few and I trusted only one—I trusted Vivian.

I trusted her with my heart.

MY FORWARD OPERATING Base was barren and brown. Built on exposed dirt, it had been scraped out of the Iraqi landscape shortly after the US invasion. The structures, the rusted CHU (Containerized Housing Unit) trailers, the Bradley tanks, the Humvees, every single military vehicle, and everything on this base was brown. Desert brown.

I swore never to wear brown when I returned home.

On the base, I lived in a rusted CHU with another lieutenant, Brian Merrick.

Merrick, a fellow San Diegan, was the youngest of seven children from a blended military family. He was an extrovert with lots of energy and a rock-solid commitment to the Corps. On the field, Merrick was an exemplary intel officer. But one-on-one and behind the closed doors of our rusted CHU, his mind was perpetually in the gutter.

The prevailing ethos was: Do what makes others comfortable.

For Merrick, comfortable was underpants and his Gibson guitar.

Why so glum, Sykes? You look like a lovesick puppy, he taunted. Miss your woman?

I sighed. Merrick was right. I probably did look like a lovesick fool. Vivian was constantly on my mind. She was the face I put to memory to keep me company.

And I missed everything about her.

I missed those tiny freckles on her face that made up their own personal constellations. When I closed my eyes, I tried to imagine kissing every freckle on her face and every single freckle on her entire body... my weight pressing down on her, my hardness pushing into her.

You miss doing it like they do on the Discovery Channel? Merrick began gyrating against his bed with his guitar between his legs. Unghh, he grunted like a wild boar as he rocked back and forth. Ungghh, he grunted even louder.

You need to get laid. I shook my head. Go home to your wife!

Don’t need to, he quipped. We sext and Skype sex all the time.

When I remained silent, Merrick set aside his guitar and turned to face me. What? You’ve never sexted before?

I shrugged. Not really.

Why not?

I’d rather talk dirty to Viv in her ear when we’re alone, or watch her smile as I whisper to her in public.

"Humph, Merrick huffed and made a great show of looking around the spartan interior of our trailer. Is your girlfriend here? I guess not. So I guess you’ll have to make do with sexting."

Sure, I said, striving for a bored tone.

Merrick grabbed a balled-up sock and hurled it at me. C’mon, man. Don’t be such a pussy.

I caught it with my left hand and tossed it back at him. You’re the pussy.

A smug smile crept across his face. "I am what I eat."

I don’t know why I even tried. That ass fuck could turn every retort into a compliment.

Go on. He urged. "Text her something dirty. Tell her you wanna penetrate her with you light saber. Tell her you wanna eat her out until she surrenders to the empire. Tell her you wanna take her in the back of your Millennium Falcon and show her what it feels like to go light speed."

I gave a tired laugh. "Do you ever sext your wife without referencing Star Wars?"

Fuck, yeah. You wanna hear more?

With perfect disinterest, I said, Nope. No thanks.

Merrick continued anyway. Now listen up. He took a few paces about the room. Tell her to put her phone on vibrate against her pussy, and then tell her you’ll be calling her in three.

I scratched my chin. You’re not very original, are you?

Merrick took the bait. "I’ll show you original. He grabbed his phone off the desk and began scrolling through his texts. Ah, this one is a classic. Eating an Arby’s sandwich. Wish I was eating... your vagina."

No. I gave a rough bark of laughter. Just—no.

Merrick received my dig with surprising ambivalence. "All right, all right. Check this one out. I unzip my jeans, and with a loud thud, my anaconda-like dick hits the ground, causing an earthquake so massive it tips the Richter scale."

I winced. Are you trying to turn her on or are you trying to make her laugh?

Wait! he added, scrolling frantically through his phone. "I got this. Check this one out. It’s one of my better ones. I peered over his shoulder to get a good look at the text, but he was already reading it out loud. I’m gonna pound you so hard your head slams through the headboard. Your face will be so busted you can only drink smoothies through a straw."

Um... I stared at him, impassive. That just went from a sext to a possible murder attempt.

Merrick gave a careless shrug. My wife was turned on. Her panties were drenched. I’m telling you! Drenched.

Though I had a hard time believing him, I let it drop when something else on his phone caught my eye. What the hell is that?

What? Merrick asked. What?

That, I said, pointing at his phone. The text simply said: AUUUURRRRRGGGHH.

Oh, he muttered. That was me when I blew my load.

A beat passed. And then another. You actually typed out your orgasm?

Yeah.

"That is fucked. I shook my head. You’re not supposed to type out your orgasm."

Says who? Merrick retorted.

"You’re just not supposed to. I ran a hand through my hair. You know what? You suck at sexting."

Merrick laughed good-naturedly and flopped down on his bed. Almost instinctively, he reached for his guitar and began strumming a haunting melody. I had to give Merrick credit; he was an amazing talent and could play everything from flamenco-inspired tunes to Hendrix-esque rock.

All in all, I’d say we made pretty decent roommates. If I could describe our friendship in two words, it would be relaxed and chill.

And our rusted trailer, like all the others, had become a kind of home away from home.

As the colorful scales, shapely chords, and sweet melodies fell quickly and easily under Merrick’s fingers, my thoughts drifted back to Vivian. Then I picked up my phone and texted her.

What are you doing?

Seconds later, my phone beeped.

Just got out of the shower. Getting ready to go to class. What are you doing?

I texted back: Thinking of you.

My phone beeped again.

Me too. I was thinking of you when I was in the shower.

Smiling, I texted: Are you still naked?

My phone beeped. 

No

A guy could only hope. I texted: What are you wearing?

My smile widened when I read her reply.

What would you like me to wear?

I closed my eyes briefly. Then my fingers worked in tandem.

Nothing is more beautiful to me than you wearing only the sunlight and my kisses.

It must have been a full two minutes before my phone beeped again.

Sorry, babes. Running late. Gotta go now. Text you later?

I texted back: K. Make it dirty.

Chapter Two

Vivian

THERE ARE FOUR DISTINCT seasons in San Diego: summer, not quite summer, almost summer, and Oh, hey, look! It’s summer again!

It had only been a month since Liam returned to Iraq, and summer classes at the U of San Diego were already in full swing.

And because it was summer, the classes were smaller and a lot more intimate.

Not exactly ideal for me. I actually liked a bit of anonymity and preferred larger classes with hundreds of students packed into huge lecture halls.

As I slid into a seat at the far back of the classroom, I quickly realized I could forget all about slipping under the radar.

Here, there were only twelve of us taking Philosophy of Human Nature, I surmised.

Oh well. I sighed. I was still looking forward to this course. Dad once told me I should strive to learn the knowledge of values, not just facts.

So I was hoping this course would give me not just a worldview, but also a life view. In short, I wanted to see the bigger picture.

I had so many questions: What is the essence of a human being? What is the meaning of human life? What is a good life? What is a good society? Are there higher laws than man’s laws? Are we here by chance or design? Are we fated or free? Why do we suffer? Why do we die? Is there life after death?

Professor Marquez’s booming voice carried across the classroom. "Your philosophy can quite likely make a difference and leave a deep imprint in this world. Mother Theresa and Saddam Hussein were not professional philosophers, but both had philosophies and lived them and made the world a better or worse place because of their philosophies. That is how much of a difference thought can make. As Charles Reade put it: ‘Sow a thought, reap an act; sow an act, reap a habit; sow a habit, reap a character; sow a character, reap a destiny.’

Siddhārtha Gautama, or Buddha as most of you know him, said, ‘All that we are is determined by our thoughts: it begins where our thoughts begin, it moves where our thoughts move, and it rests where our thoughts rest.’

Inadvertently, my thoughts rested on Liam. On his last text. Make it dirty.

It was absurd, but I ascribed all sorts of meaning to it. Did he mean dirty as in get- freaky-in-the-bedroom dirty? Or did he mean dirty as in garbage-laundry-dirty-dishes-in-the-sink dirty? I was pretty sure he meant get-freaky-in-the-bedroom dirty, but then again our texts had always been so PG, sometimes even borderline NC-17. Did he want to move into a more R-rated direction? Or MA-rated perhaps? My imagination went wild with the notion, painting a vivid sex scene in my mind.

Stop it! I scolded myself. Focus. Focus on the lecture.

Professor Marquez paced back and forth, an almost predatory quality to his movements. A lion slinking in his cage. To those of you who ask what philosophy has to do with real life, my answer to you is this: everything. It is far more important to know the philosophy of your friends and enemies, of your spouses and significant others, than their income, social class, or politics.

I fell into ponderous silence, wondering what Liam’s philosophy was, when the professor’s gravelly voice cut into my thoughts. How many of you think philosophy is elitist? Show of hands.

Nearly half the class raised their hands. 

Of course philosophy is elitist, the professor barked. "We will be studying and discussing great minds, great books, and great ideas. If you prefer asinine minds, subpar books, and idiotic ideas, then this course is not for you. In fact, a college education is not for you."

That got everyone’s attention. Professor Marquez wasn’t messing around. This guy clearly meant business.

Today’s topic of discussion is: Do we have free will? Atoms and particles behave in probabilistic ways. Our mind is made of atoms and particles, so how can free will exist? This is called the dilemma of determinism. Are our actions controlled by a causal chain of preceding events? Or are we free agents making decisions of our own volition? The implications of our views on it can affect everything from the small choices we make every day to our perspective on criminal justice and capital punishment. From the Stoics to Boethius, from Kant to Hume, from Sartre to contemporary philosophers, scientists and great minds have puzzled over this debate for millennia, with no apparent end in sight.

A guy seated at the front row raised his hand. Our mindset is a consequence of our genotype and the environment. So you can do as you will, but you can’t will what you will. And studies now show that our brains make decisions before we’re even conscious of them. So really, we can’t have free will, he said in a smooth and confident baritone.

True. The professor’s expression went pensive. "Neuroscientist Benjamin Libet explored the relationship between brain activity and decision making. He measured his subjects’ brain activity using an EEG and their muscular activity using an EMG. He asked them to perform certain small actions, like flexing a finger. And then he asked them exactly when they decided to perform the action. What Libet discovered was that their brains registered activity before they decided to perform the action."

In another study, the professor went on, participants were asked to solve word puzzles that included words commonly associated with elderly people, words such as Florida, wrinkled, and gray. When the participants went to leave the building, they walked toward the elevator more slowly than others whose puzzles included neutral words.

Excuse me! The girl next to me raised her hand and spoke with a southern twang. But if we don’t have free will, then why did we evolve consciousness instead of zombie minds? And... Her words began to taper out when she was interrupted by the rustling sound of a candy wrapper.

Shoot! That was my candy-wrapper-unwrapping ringtone, a sound not quite as socially acceptable, but still better than your typical midi-tune ringtone and tough to pin on me if I’m not holding candy. The only hitch was no one in class was holding candy. 

A few curious glances drifted in my direction.

Sorry! Sorry! Hastily apologizing, I dug through my bag, pulled out my phone, and shut it off. My bad. I suppressed a sheepish smile. I forgot to switch it off before class.

And you are? the professor asked, quirking a spidery eyebrow.

Joy. I’d somehow managed to land myself in the doghouse on the first day of class. Dread streaked through me, and I had to clear my throat twice before answering. Vivian Sorenson.

Professor Marquez regarded me glacially. Miss Sorenson, ask me if I have a problem with students using cell phones in my classes.

Um, um... I found myself become correspondingly more tongue-tied.

Professor Marquez growled, Ask me the question.

I began worrying the edge of