Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 63: Chapter 63

EMILIA
The days on the cruise go by quickly.
Or maybe I’m the only one who sees it like that, maybe time isn’t passing quickly, it’s just that I don’t care enough anymore about everything that would have once killed me on the inside.
And this time feels different.
Because this time… I have Liam.
Liam, who isn’t scared to post public statements defending me. Liam, who shares pictures of us on his socials — even if it doesn’t stop the whispers from those articles or that mysterious “source,” he does it anyway, like he’s proud to be seen with me.
And I don’t feel anything for him. Obviously.
Still, somehow, he’s managed to become this… constant. Someone I know will be there when everything else gets loud. Someone who shows up, even when I don’t ask.
I’ve tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend I don’t notice the small things.
Like yesterday, when I finally asked him why he always picks the non-seafood meals. I mean, it’s not like he has to. It’s just me with the seafood allergy.
He blinked at me, totally unfazed, and tilted his head — the sun hitting his stupidly blue eyes like a scene from a romance movie — and said, “Isn’t it kind of lonely being the only one at the table who can’t eat what everyone else is having?”
Like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Then there’s this morning. We had barely stepped out of the suite when he grabbed my arm, pulled me to his side, went down on one knee and tied my shoelaces without saying a word. Then looked up at me and gave me the worst stink eye ever.
Ass.
And he’s always taking pictures of me.
Not the posed kind — the real ones. Mid-laugh. Mid-yawn. When my hair’s a mess and my eyes are puffy. He just smiles and says, “I’ll delete them… if you give me a kiss.”
Like that will ever happen.
Yesterday, we stumbled into the cutest little kitchen tucked away for guests. It looked more like a cozy cottage kitchen than something on a cruise ship. I was too busy marveling at how it had everything — spices, chopping boards, even a cast iron skillet — while Liam was too busy trying to keep me from accidentally slicing a finger or crashing into a counter.
Eventually, he gave up, muttered something about “a walking safety hazard,” picked me up by the waist (I let out a scream and he laughed. I hate him. I will kill him.) and set me on one of the bar stools. Then he rolled up his sleeves, tied an apron around his waist, and got to work — like some broody culinary god.
After minutes of watching and blinking, I ask: “What are you making?”
He doesn’t answer. Just opens the pot, stirs it slowly, then grabs a spoon and lets the steam rise for a second before scooping up a bit of sauce. He grabs a plate, slides the spoon over it, and walks to me.
He tips my chin up with his finger. “Say ah.”
I laugh. “Seriously?”
“Say. Ah.”
“Fine.” I grin. “Ahhh.”
He feeds me the spoon and waits.
The second the sauce hits my tongue, my eyes flutter shut and I can’t help the soft sound that escapes me. It’s rich, savoury, and a little sweet — whatever he made, it’s magic.
When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me with the most smug, satisfied smile.
“Good?” he asks.
I shrug, teasing. “It’s okay.”
“Just okay?”
“Maybe a little bland,” I lie, licking my lips. “Needs more spice.”
He hums and turns back to his pot, stirring with focus.
My eyes drift before I can stop them — to his back, his broad shoulders, the way his arms flex with every move. His sleeves are rolled up, and the muscles in his forearms shift with the spoon. Even the veins on his hands look hot. Veins. I mean, who looks good stirring sauce?
“Do you like spicy food?” He asks casually, oblivious to my… well, I won’t call it ogling. I’m merely savouring a fine specimen.
Lacey would be proud.
“Yeah.” I say, a little too quickly. My voice is higher than usual. Great.
Honestly, I don’t even care what he’s cooking. Watching him like this does weird, fluttery things to my stomach.
“Are you feeling well?” he asks, voice softer now.
“Hm?” I blink, completely missing his words because — yeah — he just reached up for a spice, and his back muscles did a thing. I might need to go outside, inhale the salt in the water or something because this is ridiculous.
Then he turns around, and I whip my gaze to his shoes like they’re the most interesting thing in the room. Maybe he won’t notice how weird I’m acting.
“Emilia.”
“Yeah?” I croak. Thank God for melanin because my cheeks are definitely warm right now.
“I asked if you were oka— Hey,” he says gently, “look at me. Please?”
Something about the way he says it makes me stop pretending. I lift my head.
His eyes are soft but serious, the kind of look that wraps around you like a hug. “You’re okay, right?”
And just like that, the air changes.
My smile slips. I know what he’s asking without him having to say it. I look away, my voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah.”
His face turns stern. “Emilia—”
“I know, but it’s okay,” It’s really not. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can feel Stone’s hands on me, taste the smell of his breath like a poison. See my brother’s sad smile that seems to haunt me in all my dreams.
But then I think of the look on Stone’s face when everything eventually comes crashing down on him. How warm Adrian sounded when he said my brother would be proud.
You know what? I think I really am okay.
His jaw flexes and I can more feel than guess the thought that crosses his mind. “No.”
“You can’t just let him ge—”
“I said no, Liam.” My voice goes sharp. “I don’t appreciate you acting like I’m some helpless damsel.”
“I never said that.”
“No, but you implied it.” I fold my arms. “Which is worse.”
His jaw tightens. “Em, come on—”
“Don’t ‘Em’ me. You think just because I’ve been quiet about everything, I can’t handle myself? That I need saving?”
“That’s not what I—”
But before we can dive headfirst into round fifty of our ongoing Liam vs Emilia: Who’s More Stubborn saga, the kitchen door creaks open.
“Oh,” Lacey squeaks, her voice an octave higher than usual. She’s holding an already half-empty bottle of wine and looks like she just walked in on a live grenade. “I didn’t think anyone else knew about this place. I can leave if—”
“No, it’s fine,” I cut in, stepping back. My tone softens, a bit embarrassed now that our argument has an audience. “We were just…talking.”
Liam snorts, under his breath. “If that’s what we’re calling it now.”
I shoot him a glare.
Lacey glances between us, clearly debating whether to run or stay. “Okay, well… I brought some wine. And I’m emotionally fragile, so if you start yelling again, I will cry.”
That gets a small laugh out of me. Liam mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “same,” then runs a hand through his hair and walks over to wash his hands.
Lacey plops the bottle on the counter. “So. Kitchen fight club aside… what are we making?”
Liam doesn’t answer. His attention is fixed on his sauce like it personally offended him. His jaw ticks, his shoulders are tense, and every so often, he glances my way — sharp, unreadable looks I make a point of ignoring.
“Liam’s making some kind of sauce,” I say, my voice tighter than I’d like. Lacey doesn’t notice — or if she does, she’s too tipsy to care. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s got that dreamy, floaty look that means she’s long past one glass. I lean in close enough to catch a whiff of her perfume, it smells so unique I can’t stop myself from asking: “Did you change your perfume?”
“No, it’s Céline’s. I just borrowed it.” I don’t notice Liam tense up at her words. Then at Liam: “Is it Julie’s recipe?” she slurs, propping her head up with one hand while the other works the cork loose. She takes a long pull straight from the bottle like it's apple juice.
“Yes,” Liam finally says, clipped. He spares her a once-over, then wipes his hands and strides over. Without hesitation, he plucks the bottle from her hand.
“Hey!” she whines, half-heartedly reaching for it. He doesn’t even flinch.
“You shouldn’t be this drunk. It’s barely afternoon,” he says, already walking to the sink.
Lacey sits up, alarmed. “Wait— no, don’t—”
But he does. He pours the wine out in one smooth motion, not even looking at her.
“Wha— fuck you!” she shrieks, hands thrown in the air like he just burned her childhood diary. “That was mine!”
Liam doesn’t respond. The bottle clinks against the sink as he sets it down, done with the conversation.
Lacey glares at him, then flops back against the stool with a dramatic sigh. “God, you’re the worst. I hope your sauce burns.”
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. “Who’s Julie?”