Liam's Pov
We ended up on the couch in front of the TV, each holding a mug of fresh coffee, letting the morning pass in a comfortable silence.
Then we heard movement near the back door.
Berta walked in, purse slung over her shoulder, wearing her usual work shirt and an expression like she'd already survived a morning she didn't want to talk about.
"Well, if it isn't Liam," she said, her tone softening the second she saw me. "Looking as handsome as ever."
"Morning, Berta," I greeted with a smile. "Good to see you."
She actually smiled back. "It's always nice to have someone polite in this house and easy on the eyes."
I chuckled, figuring her extra warmth toward me probably had everything to do with my looks.
Charlie, sensing his own fading relevance in the conversation, jumped in. "Hey, Berta, maybe you could start on breakfast—"
She shot him a look sharp enough to cut glass. "I'm talking to Liam."
Charlie raised his hands in surrender. "Just saying… he's going to eat with us."
That changed her attitude instantly. "Oh, well, why didn't you lead with that?" she said, turning toward the fridge.
Still, as she pulled out ingredients, she gave Charlie a suspicious look. "But how come you're up this early?"
Charlie scratched the back of his neck. "I… don't know. Feels wrong, though. Like I missed the memo on sleeping in."
Berta just grunted, muttering something under her breath about "miracles before breakfast," and went to work at the stove.
Berta cracked eggs into a skillet like she was punishing them for existing.
Charlie took a sip of coffee and said, "You know, business has been good lately. Jingles are recession-proof, apparently. People always need someone to make toothpaste sound sexy."
Berta snorted. "Toothpaste isn't sexy, Harper. That's why they need you. You've got that lazy, fake confidence that makes people believe nonsense."
Charlie looked proud. "See? She gets it."
Berta slid a glance toward me. "Speaking of nonsense — my daughter's still single, Liam. You'd like her. She's got a good job, great smile, and she's the only woman I know who could out-drink Charlie."
I smirked, leaning back in my chair. "She sounds impressive… but I'm not in a place right now where I can risk someone like that finding out how boring I actually am."
Berta narrowed her eyes, like she was deciding if I was serious.
I continued before she could object, "Besides, if she can out-drink Charlie, I don't want to end up on the losing end of that competition. Man's got a liver like it's been in training since the '80s."
Charlie raised his mug in salute. "Decades of dedication."
Berta chuckled, shaking her head. "Alright, fine. I'll let you off the hook… for now. But you're not boring, Liam. You've got that… polite trouble vibe. Women like that."
I shrugged. "Polite trouble still gets grounded."
That actually made her laugh, and just like that, the subject was dropped without a scratch to her pride.
Breakfast was easy and unhurried — eggs, toast, coffee, and Charlie's occasional groaning whenever the hangover fought back.
Between bites, I asked, "So… the girls from last night?"
Charlie didn't even look up from buttering his toast. "Still sleeping"
I smirked. "Convenient."
Berta arched her brow. "You're just gonna leave two beautiful women in your house unattended?"
Charlie shrugged like it was the most natural thing in the world. "They're adults and if they regret their decisions, they have to blame their own life choices, not the player who provided the liquor."
Eve's voice slid into my ear with her trademark dry bite. [Ah yes, the Charlie Harper school of hospitality — boozed, wake up, and leave with either a headache or regret and if they decide to stay, they get thrown out.]
I had to bite back a laugh. "Guess that makes you the man for the job, Charlie."
Berta snorted. "He's the man for the job all right. Just not the job anyone's proud of."
Eve didn't miss a beat. [If that were on a résumé, it would be under "Special Skills.]
Charlie shot both of us a half-annoyed yet half-amused look, but didn't bother defending himself.
He knew better.
When the plates were cleared, I pushed back from the table. "Alright, time to get moving."
Charlie disappeared into his room and came back with my car keys. "Here. Try not to ruin my reputation out there."
"Pretty sure you've done that yourself," I replied, taking the keys back.
We walked out to the driveway. Charlie leaned against the doorframe while Berta stood with her arms crossed, smirking at me like I was about to go do something she'd approve of.
"Don't be a stranger, Liam," she said.
"Wouldn't dream of it," I replied.
I slid into the driver's seat, started the engine, and gave them both a small wave before rolling out of the driveway.
The drive back to my apartment was quiet except for Eve's occasional commentary about Charlie's definition of "responsibility," which was entertaining enough to keep me smirking the whole way.
I pulled into the parking by my building, killed the engine, and headed up.
No Sheldon, Leonard, or Penny in the hallway — which meant no awkward neighborly conversations.
Inside, I dropped my keys on the counter, stripped down for a shower, and let the hot water wash off the Malibu night.
Fresh clothes on, I dropped onto the couch, remote in hand, and flicked on the TV.
Eve sighed in my ear. [Ah, the thrilling life of a man who can fight in a cage match and outscore the legal world on the LSAT… only to spend his free time channel surfing.]
I grinned. "Even legends need downtime."
The TV was halfway through some forgettable crime drama when my phone buzzed.
[Penny: We'll meet in front of the building at 12. You promised lunch, remember?]
'Right. That promise.'
[Me: Sounds good.]
Sliding the phone back into my hand, I said, 'Eve, I need a good lunch spot. Somewhere nice enough to impress, but not 'mortgage-your-apartment' expensive.'
[Searching…"] she replied, her tone making it sound like she was running calculations at light speed.
[Here are your top five matches within a 15-minute drive. Number one: La Sorella — Italian, rooftop seating, 4.8 stars. Number two: Ahi & Ember — modern fusion, best cocktails in the city. Number three—]
'La Sorella,' I interrupted. "Book it for seven people."
[Done.]
With that handled, I stood and headed to my bedroom. My lunch crowd wasn't a "sweatpants and hoodie" type, and besides — I'd be heading to the airport later. Might as well dress for both.
I went with dark indigo jeans, slim-fit and clean, paired with a crisp white button-down rolled at the sleeves. Over that, a light charcoal blazer — casual enough for daytime, sharp enough for travel. Brown leather belt to match the polished Chelsea boots and the Platinum Rolex watch on my wrist
Eve made a small approving sound in my ear. [I see we're going for "effortless gentleman who could also close a million-dollar deal before dessert.]
'Always,' I said, smirking at my reflection.
Checking the time — still an hour to kill before lunch so I continued to watch TV.
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