Fake Dating My Ex's Favourite Hockey Player - Chapter 79: Chapter 79

EMILIA
Somehow, I never seem to learn from my mistakes.
My head is pounding like it’s trying to crack itself open from the inside — embarrassing, considering I barely drank half as much as Lacey did last night, and yet I ended up twice as drunk. Story of my life.
Maybe it’s time I finally admit that alcohol and I just aren’t a good match.
I’m still sifting through the fog of my bad decisions when a flood of light slices through my eyelids. I hiss and groan, dragging the covers higher over my face.
“Rise and shine, beautiful,” Liam sings, his voice far too chipper for a human being. I squint one eye open to see him standing by the window, sunshine pouring in behind him, grinning like it’s Christmas morning.
“I hate you,” I mutter, dragging the blanket higher — only for him to yank it off me with no remorse.
Now would be a good time to mention a deeply unfortunate discovery I’ve made: Liam is a morning person. A fully functioning, smiling-before-coffee, chipper-at-dawn kind of morning person. Even when he complains about early practices, he does it with a grin. It’s sick.
“Come on, Em. Work with me here,” he says as he plops down onto the bed beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight. I squeeze my eyes shut and chant under my breath, If I can’t see him, he doesn’t exist.
He snorts. “I made you hangover breakfast. All you have to do is drag yourself to the bathroom and brush your teeth.”
“I’d rather die.”
“You promised to make me breakfast, remember?” he says, poking my arm.
I crack an eye open. “I did no such thing.”
He grins wider. “Must’ve slipped your mind. The alcohol probably short-circuited your memory.”
“Drunk Emilia doesn’t make breakfast promises.”
“She does to me,” he says with a smug shrug, like he’s won a Nobel prize.
I sigh and finally sit up, hair a disaster, mouth dry, and soul slightly dead. “If I go brush my teeth, will you stop being so happy?”
“Not a chance.”
While I brush my teeth, I hear him moving around the room — drawers opening, cabinets shutting, the occasional hum like he’s living in a feel-good musical. I lean against the sink, staring blankly at my reflection. My eyes are puffy, my hair is a mess, and regret is written all over my face. After a long moment of self-pity and minty toothpaste, I decide to take a shower. Maybe if I feel a little more human, I’ll stop wanting to fling myself off the balcony.
As soon as I step out, towel in hand and still damp, Liam’s there, extending a bottle of water like he’s my personal nurse. “Drink all of it before you even think about getting dressed,” he says with a raised eyebrow.
“Bossy.”
He shrugs, unfazed. “Efficient.”
I down the water, mostly because I don’t want him hovering. By the time I’m dressed, he’s plated breakfast and waiting like a smug diner host. Toast, eggs, avocado, perfectly arranged.
“I don’t have an appetite,” I mutter, sinking into the chair anyway.
He leans his head on his palm and grins at me. “Cooking requires energy, love. Don’t insult the effort.”
I sigh but take a bite. My stomach protests at first, but the food is good — annoyingly good. He even knows how much pepper I like.
When I’m done, he hands me a thermos of ginger tea. “For the nausea,” he says, and I shoot him a look that says I’m not that fragile but take it anyway.
We make our way to the kitchen, and the moment I spot the spread of ingredients — plump tomatoes, crisp onions, fresh herbs, and enough peppers to start a fire — I feel something settle in me. My headache eases slightly.
“Now this,” I say, pulling open a drawer and grabbing a chopping board, “is the kind of therapy I can get behind.”
Liam leans casually against the counter. “What’s on the menu, Chef Emilia?”
I open the fridge, scanning shelves for inspiration. There’s cheese. Leftover pasta. A carton of eggs. Cold milk. This place might be a luxury cruise, but the kitchen’s stocked like someone knew I’d come crawling in here hungover.
“Anything Chef Emilia feels like cooking, then,” he adds when I don’t answer right away.
“That’s a dangerous amount of freedom.” I bite my lip, eyeing the ingredients. “You want something cheesy or eggy?”
“Both,” he says immediately.
“Not helpful,” I mutter, pulling ingredients onto the counter. I’m halfway between whipping up creamy macaroni or a breakfast casserole when I glance over. “How’s Lacey doing?”
“She’s fine,” he says, opening a cabinet to grab plates. “Ate, chugged her coffee, and went to the gym like last night never happened.”
I snort. “To stare at abs, most likely.”
He shrugs with a grin. “That, and she’s dead serious about having biceps by next week. I respect the ambition.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So she gets coffee and I get ginger tea?”
“You looked like a stomach implosion waiting to happen. I chose the path of least vomit.”
Fair point. Once I’ve washed everything thrice, I start chopping the onions and tomatoes quickly, adding a sprinkle of salt to draw out their juices. “You do know you could’ve made this yourself, right?”
He puts a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “And deprive you of the joy? Besides, you promised.”
I groan. Again.
While the onions sauté in a hot skillet with olive oil, I beat eggs in a mixing bowl, grate cheese, and toss in some milk to make it fluffy. “Does she really seem okay? Yesterday was... a lot.”
“Yeah, she’s doing better. She even called Julie this morning to tell her everything.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Yeah. That’s peak emotional development from Lacey. Julie was thrilled.”
“And then Julie called you to relay it all, didn’t she?”
He grins. “What can I say? Gossip travels fast.”
I laugh under my breath as I pour the egg mixture into a baking dish and start layering it with sautéed veggies, shredded cheese, and chunks of yesterday’s bread I found in the pantry. It's turning into a breakfast strata of sorts. Low effort, big flavour.
“Alright, you might survive another day,” I say as I slide the dish into the oven. “But next time, I’m making you wash the dishes.”
“We’ll see about that.” He grins and steals a piece of tomato from the cutting board.
Half an hour later, I set a plate in front of him and cross my arms, waiting.
He digs in without hesitation, eyes lighting up the second the food hits his tongue. “If I never enjoy another meal after this, it’s because you’ve ruined me for everyone else.”
“Flattery gets you nowhere,” I say, but I’m already smiling.
He points at his plate with his fork. “I don’t think that’s true.”
I shrug and turn toward the sink, but before I can reach it, Liam catches my hand and gently pulls me onto the stool next to him. The scent of him — something bitter, almost chocolate and addictive — makes it harder to get away.
“Leave the dishes,” he murmurs. “I’ll handle it.”
I furrow my eyebrows. “That’s not what you said a few minutes ago.”
“I was just kidding, love,” he’s smiling now, showing off those two perfect dimples that make my heart flutter. “Honestly, you didn’t actually promise to make me anything.”
“I guessed that already,” I say beneath my breath, but he brushes his thumb along my forearm, slow and deliberate, his expression open in a way that makes it hard to breathe.
“I’m sorry for lying to you,” he says. Then he presses a kiss to my cheek — gentle, lingering just enough to knock the air out of my lungs. “But I’m greedy and I want everything you can give me. Even things that don’t really matter.”
My brain short-circuits. Every cell in my body is suddenly paying attention to the weight of his hand on mine, the heat under my skin, the way his eyes linger like he’s memorising me. “I just want you.”
And then, just as I start to lean into it, start getting addicted to his words and the butterflies they erupt in my lower belly, he kisses my nose, gives a smaller, more serious smile, and says, “Thank you for the meal, love. It’s perfect.”
I’m not sure if he’s still talking about the food. I just nod, voice caught somewhere in my throat. “You’re welcome.”
And just like that, he pulls away and keeps eating like nothing happened. I sit there, stunned, doing a terrible job hiding the crash of disappointment that follows.
He glances up a moment later. “We should figure out how Céline knew about your brother.”
That snaps me back to reality. I take a steadying breath and nod. “You’re right.”
But my pulse is still racing.