Until There Was You (11 page)

“Hoi, hoi, hoi!”

A new look? A new name? Since when? Posey closed her mouth, then took a slug of her drink. Granted, the restaurant could use a little…updating, maybe. But Stacia and Max loved it, didn’t they? And to Posey, it was as much home as her parents’ house.

Another hipster waiter walked past with a tray of something. Posey snagged an appetizer and popped it into her mouth. Flaky dough, cheesy, some meat inside. Fantastic, if minuscule. Before she could grab another one, the waiter was gone.

The reporter from Channel 2 was gesturing for Max, Stacia and Gretchen to stand together. Posey couldn’t hear what the question was, but Gretchen, standing in the middle, did most of the talking.

Huh. Her drink was empty. Time for another, that was clear. She waved to Otto and held up her empty glass. She was already a little dizzy, but in a pleasant way. And pleasant was called for. She caught a glimpse of Glubby, the moose with the broken antler. Would Glubby make the cut in the new look? If not, he’d always have a home in her church. She would not leave Glubby, that was for sure. Glubby was her friend. Glubby and his broken antler were more than welcome at her house.

People who weigh a hundred and seven pounds should not have two drinks on an empty stomach,
a voice in her head warned. True enough. She would kill to scratch her boobs right now. Probably not advisable in public, though. Oh, to be home with Shilo right now, searching Google for pictures of James Franco. It would sure beat this.

“Thanks, pal,” she said as Otto handed her the whiskey sour. There was another waiter with another batch of tiny appetizers. Could she take the whole plate? She was starving. She managed to snag one—more flaky stuff—and popped it in her mouth. The room spun just a little. Kinda fun.

“Hey,” came a voice. Posey looked, then closed her eyes. Liam Murphy. Black high-tops, black pants, black shirt, black hair, looking like a really hip Lucifer.
Hey, there. Feel like a sin or two?

“Yes,” she said. A flake of pastry fluttered out of her mouth. Great. Smokin’ Hot Lucifer and the Simple Farm Girl.

“Nice dress,” Liam said, giving her a disdainful scan.

“Bite me,” Posey said.

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Sorry?” he asked.

Oops. Maybe he wasn’t disdainful. Maybe she was channeling or projecting or whatever that word was. “Nothing. How are you, Liam?” He didn’t answer, engrossed in his phone. Ass.

The last appetizer (tapas…please) had something spicy in it. Posey’s lips stung, so she took another sip of whiskey sour. It didn’t work; her lips still stung. She licked them. Liam glanced up, as if sensing tongue, then went back to his phone, dismissing her. Which he was good at, it must be acknowledged. A true gift.

Posey looked around. Mom and Dad, perpetually welded together at any social event, were schmoozing off by the kitchen; she could hear Dad’s booming laugh. Did they really want to change Guten Tag? In her entire life, it had never been discussed. And you know, maybe they could’ve asked her opinion. Asked for some help, being that she had the furnishings to redecorate ten restaurants in Irreplaceable’s barn.

There must’ve been a hundred people here—she recognized the mayor and mean Maya from the chamber of commerce who never remembered her name. Kelsey and Lola from the pastry shop waved; Posey probably stopped there enough to fund a mortgage payment. Sure, she knew everyone. But she was still alone. And being alone at a party, even a party hosted by your parents…well, it sucked. Kate and James had a standing movie date on Friday nights, carved in stone, though how much longer the kid would put up with that, Posey didn’t know.

She glanced at Liam, who was still checking his stupid phone.

“How are you, Cordelia?” he asked without looking up. And did he have to use that name? Huh?

“I have leprosy,” she said.

“Cool,” he murmured, his thumbs texting away. Posey rolled her eyes. Whee! The room spun.

“So, how do they treat leprosy these days?” Liam said, sliding his phone into his pocket, and Posey choked a little on her drink. Okay, first of all, apparently he had been listening. And second of all, hot
diggety,
he was gorgeous. Eyes so green and clear, just the hint of a smile on his face, like he was just a sin begging for a taker. Posey forced herself to look away, her face practically crackling with heat. Bieber! The man. Was. Edible.

His hands were in his pockets, and he seemed to have no inclination to leave. “Is your daughter here?” she asked.

Liam shook his head. “She’s at a sleepover. Teenagers, you know.”

Wow. Two whole sentences. Well, one sentence and a fragment. Still, it dawned on her that this could be classified as a real live conversation, which in turn made her mind go completely blank. If—just if—she wanted to charm Liam (not that she’d be dumb enough to try, mind you), but if she wanted to make him see that she was someone worth knowing and perhaps regret that he’d ever said anything mean about her, thus altering the course of her life (sort of)—now was the time.

“So,” she offered. Not exactly brilliant repartee. “How’s business?”

“We opened today.”

“Oh.” Wow. They were on a roll now.
Think of something to say, idiot,
her brain commanded. Otherwise, it was devoid of conversation ideas. She sighed and took another slug of her drink.

“Liam! My man! Dude, how you been?”

Ah, bieber. It was Rick. Rick Balin, world’s worst prom date, New Hampshire’s biggest beer belly. His little finger was still bandaged. Weenie.

Liam took the offered hand. “Hey,” he said.

“Dude, I heard you were back in town! So cool. And that motorcycle place? Awesome. Meant to come by today, couldn’t. I’ve been thinking about getting a chopper myself. Gotta have a sweet ride, know what I mean? Of course you do. What are you riding these days? Dude, we have to hang out. Wanna grab a beer sometime? Catch up?”

Liam’s expression was totally cool…and totally blank. Well, well, well, Posey thought, leaning against the bar with a very slight wobble, Batman didn’t remember Robin. Robin had, of course, gained about seventy pounds, lost half his hair, but still. Kinda funny.

“Man, we had some fun in those days, didn’t we? God, I miss high school,” Rick said, sighing. “Dude, Grey Goose martini, make it dry,” he said to Otto. “I love my Grey Goose,” he added to Liam. He had yet to acknowledge Posey, which was A-okay by her. “Sure, it costs more, but who cares? Gotta have the best. Right?”

Liam gave Posey a level look and smiled. Eyes crinkling, gorgeous, smokin’ hot. He looked right into her eyes, like she was the only other person in this entire restaurant, and Rick the Idiot Balin was their own private joke.

Holy Elvis. She was halfway to Planet Orgasm. Imagine if they bumped heads or something. She took a quick gulp of her drink and looked away.

Hello? Been here, done that regarding Hottie McSin here,
a faint little voice said from far, far away. But that smile…and those eyes…

“Hello, hello! Posey, why are you hiding over here? Come out and mingle! Auntie and Max are looking for you!” Gretchen appeared, grabbed Posey by the arm and heaved her away from Liam. “Hi, there. We met a couple weeks ago. I’m Gretchen Heidelberg? The Barefoot Fraulein?”

“I remember,” Liam said, turning that smile to Gretchen, and whatever champagne bubbles were just dancing merrily through Posey’s veins went abruptly flat.

“Holy crap!” Rick brayed. “You’re even more beautiful than on TV!”

Posey turned to the bar to give Otto her glass—she knew better than to have another, that was for sure. When she turned back around, she was presented with Dante’s back, because the two men had flanked Gretchen. Because apparently it was the law that if you were male, you had to worship the Barefoot Fraulein.

Posey tripped off to find her parents. Good thing she hadn’t remembered to wear girly shoes, because it was getting dizzy in here. There they were, Stacia and Max, holding hands. So cute, her parents, and resembling each other more and more these days. They were roughly the same height—six-two—both with the fading blond hair and the strong-boned features of Bavaria. Soon, Posey mused, they’d just sort of grow into each other like two trees.

“Hey, you two trees,” she said, smiling.

“Baby! There you are!” Stacia broke free from Max to give Posey a kiss. “Are you having fun? Oh, you’re flushed. Do you have a fever?” She pressed a hand to Posey’s forehead, the human thermometer. “Ninety-eight point four. Hmm.”

“I had a drink,” Posey explained.

“Are you enjoying the party, Turnip?” Max asked.

She looked up at them, her doting parents. They seemed so happy. And if Gretchen taking over made them happy—even if that meant Glubby had to come home with her—she wasn’t going to say a word. “You bet. So much fun. So, a new look, huh?”

“We should go talk to the mayor,” Max said. “Come with us, sweetie. The newspaper wants a picture.”

“You know what? I’m gonna pass,” she said, enunciating carefully. “I have to find some more of those green thingies. They were great. Have fun! See you later!” Posey kissed her parents, almost but not quite losing her balance. She watched as they schmoozed and laughed, but when Gretchen joined them for the photo op, Posey decided it was time to become invisible again.

“D
ID
I
TELL YOU
I’
M
on a new hormone replacement?” Mrs. Antonelli asked.

Liam choked on his beer. “Uh…no. No, you didn’t.”

“It works
much
better,” she said.

“I—I’m glad,” he said, not daring to look at her. Did she go around telling everyone this kind of thing? Was this some kind of geriatric pass? Would this party ever end? Liam glanced at his watch.

“What time is it, dear?” Mrs. Antonelli asked.

“Almost nine,” he answered.

“Oh! I have to go. I have to take my blood-pressure medicine at nine-thirty. And that estrogen. Don’t want to be late with that, if you know what I mean.”

He didn’t. But he had come with the old lady, so taking her home was his duty. Hopefully, he wouldn’t be fending off any Bengay-scented passes in the elevator. Meanwhile, a woman was giving him the eye, doing the hair toss and sidelong look. Why not just whip her bra off and toss it to him, huh? The message was received. Just not wanted.

His phone buzzed.
Nicole,
the screen read. Good girl, right on time for her check-in. “I have to take this, Mrs. A,” he said, taking the phone out of his pocket. “It’s my daughter.”

“Oh, that’s fine, sweetheart. I’ve got a ride with Lenore. She’s coming up to watch
CSI: Miami.
It’s our tradition. See you at home!”

God bless you, Lenore.
“Hi, honey,” he said into the phone.

“Hi, Dad! Are you having fun?”

“Oh, yeah. You?”

“It’s really great. We’re about to watch
Drag Me to Hell,
so I have to make this short.”

“Nic, you know you don’t like scary movies,” he said.

“When I was, like,
nine,
Dad. I’m fine. So, I’ll call you later?”

He sighed. “That would be great. Thanks, honey.”

“Love you.”

“I love you, too, Nicole.”

She hung up before he’d finished saying it. Well, Liam guessed if Mrs. Antonelli could go, so could he. Maybe watch the Sox, despite their wretched start this year. Pay some bills. Check the locks. All that fun stuff.

He said his goodbyes to the Osterhagens and managed to avoid the red-faced fat guy who’d cornered him earlier. Someone from high school, obviously.

Those weren’t years he was particularly proud of. Then again, those years had brought him to Emma, so there was that. But before her, yeah, he’d been a shit. A few people remembered him fondly—the Osterhagens, of course, and the librarian who’d helped him stumble through Shakespeare. Marty, who’d let Liam work at his garage, had come by the other day and schmoozed about engines. Liam had even run into one of the bouncers from the bar in Kittery where he’d played a couple times, trying to pick up a little extra money before the Osterhagens hired him.

But then there were the people who weren’t so glad to see him. The girls-turned-women like Maya who, though more than willing enough back then, now seemed to hold a grudge. In the supermarket the other day, some guy shot him a dark glance and muttered “Dick.” No clue why, other than the suspicion that it had something to do with a female. Twenty years ago. Grudges seemed to be an art form around here.

But Bellsford was a pretty town, too, unlike anything in Southern California, Liam thought as he stepped out of the overheated restaurant into the cool night air. The downtown was crammed with little shops and restaurants, and antique iron lampposts lit the brick sidewalks. On one corner was the huge old granite bank, and across the street, the big brick church with a white steeple spearing up into the dark sky. Not the boonies, not the city, and just perfect for Nicole, he hoped.

The Tates were certainly glad to have them back. Well, glad to have Nicole back, the only child of their only child. If they had never warmed up to Liam, at least they appreciated the fact that he’d given them easier access to their granddaughter. Said access might bite him in the ass, granted; they were already asking if she could spend every weekend with them up in Ogunquit, where they’d moved when Emma was in college.

Liam crossed Boyden Street, then paused. Up ahead was a woman in a sleeveless dress and engineer boots. Cordelia Osterhagen, weaving more than walking.

He caught up to her easily. “Hey, Cordelia.”

“Oh. It’s you. Hi, you.”

Liam smiled. “Tipsy?”

“Hmm? No, not really. Just figured I’d walk home.”

“Can I walk with you?”

“You bet, God’s Gift.”

Wow. She was wasted.

“Do you have a car, Liam Murphy?”

“Yep. At home. You want a ride? I live down by the bridge.”

“I’m walking home,” she said, a little slurry. “But thanks.”

Liam couldn’t help a smile. Kinda fun to see little Miss Osterhagen drunk. “Where do you live?” he asked, steering her away from the fire hydrant she was about to crash into. Her arm was cold, so Liam took off his jacket and offered it to her, but she’d already wobbled over to a shop window.

“That’s pretty. Don’t you think?” she said, gesturing vaguely within.

He draped the jacket over her shoulders. “Very pretty. Where do you live, Cordelia?”

“I live on South Church Road. In the old church? That’s why it’s called South Church Road.” She put her hand over her mouth and grimaced. “I think I may have overindulged, Liam Murphy.”

“Gotta puke?”

“Not just yet.” She took a deep breath, then looked at him. “So, how is it, biker boy? Being back, I mean. I bet a lot of people are happy to see you and a lot of people aren’t.”

Huh. Drunk or not, she seemed a little psychic. “That’s about right. Which one are you?”

“The former. Or the latter. I always confuse those.” She wove a little dangerously, and he took her arm again.

“How far is your house from here?”

“Eleven miles.”

Liam blinked. “I’m driving you home, Cordelia.”

“That might be a good idea. Thanks, God’s Gift.” Another big wobble.

“You are really drunk. How many did you have?” She couldn’t weigh much.

“Two whiskey sours,” she said. “But I didn’t eat much. Thassa problem. The food was so small, you know? I don’t like small food.”

There was his building, the lights warm and welcoming. Drat. His car keys were on the kitchen counter. Liam steered her into the foyer, which was empty. “I have to run upstairs for the keys, okay? Want to wait here?” Then again, what if she wandered out? “Actually, come on up.”

“Cool. I can see the Batcave.”

Liam laughed. “Here we go. Into the elevator.” Even if he’d rather take the stairs, he couldn’t make her go up five flights of stairs when walking was already a challenge.

“This is a wicked nice elevator,” she said. “I think I’ll just lie down for a sec.” Her legs folded underneath her.

“No, no. Up you go. Come on,” he said, hauling her up by her arms. She was like limp spaghetti. “Cordelia. Come on.”

“I don’t feel so good,” she muttered.

“Do not throw up on me,” he warned, slipping an arm around her.

“Why, pretty boy? You too good for that?”

“Two drinks, huh? I’ll have to remember that.” The bell dinged for the fifth floor, and as she didn’t seem capable of getting out of the elevator under her own power, he half dragged her into the hall, then sort of propped her up against the wall. She started to slide down, so he leaned into her, pinning her there as he pulled out his keys. With luck, Mrs. Antonelli was engrossed in her TV show…at least she wasn’t peering through the door, offering suggestions. Liam managed to get the key in, then turned it and pushed the door open.

He glanced at her face—her eyes were still closed. Long eyelashes, kind of wispy. She smelled nice, like oranges. She also may have been asleep. The thought of driving her home and leaving her alone…maybe it wasn’t such a good idea.

“Cordelia?”

“Mmm-hmm?” she said, not opening her eyes.

“Want to stay here tonight? I have a guest room.”

She opened one eye. “I don’t think your kid should see me sleeping over,” she whispered. “But it would be great if you could get me home.”

It was kind of thoughtful of her, he had to admit, worrying about Nicole. “My daughter’s at a friend’s house.”

“Oh. Okay, then.” She took a wobbly step, bumped into the door frame. Screw it. He picked her up—he was right, she didn’t weigh much—and carried her inside.

“Nice place,” she murmured, though her eyes were still closed. Liam grinned, tried not to hit her head on the wall and carried her down the hall to the guest room door. The bed looked like an ad in a magazine, all those dopey little pillows that served no purpose he could see. Nicole had made it up during one of her domestic moments, wanting to make the room look less lonely, she’d said. Emma had always been unable to let a bed go unmade, too, even at hotels. Funny, the things you inherited.

Liam deposited Cordelia on the bed. “Comfy,” she mumbled, lying back. One of the little pillows fell over her face, and, without opening her eyes, she grabbed it and flung it off.

“Glad you like it.” He unlaced Cordelia’s boots and pulled them off. Ugly brutes, those. Emma would’ve killed herself before wearing man-style work boots. Or wool socks, which Liam also removed.

“You need anything?” he asked. She didn’t answer. Might have been sleeping already. Liam stood there a second or two. Should he put her under the covers? He hesitated, then just folded the bedspread over her and looked around. Back in his youth, he’d been something of an expert at putting drunks to bed, but it had been a while. He put the trashcan next to the bed in case she needed to puke. Went to the kitchen, got a glass of water and a couple aspirin and put them on the night table, then glanced around to see if there was anything else she might need.

This room hadn’t been used yet; he and Nicole hadn’t had any guests, though Cammie, her closest friend from San Diego, might come out this summer. And someday, much sooner than he wanted to acknowledge, his daughter would go off to college, and he’d be stuck with two empty bedrooms instead of just one. Then again, maybe she’d come back to visit and bring some friends, and the apartment would be full and happy.

Cordelia gave a little snort, then murmured something.

She was kind of cute in an elflike way, with that stick-up hair and little chin, those long wispy eyelashes. And that mouth. Not an ounce of fat on her, not much in the way of a rack, either. Nice legs, cute feet. His eyes wandered back to her mouth. That was a nice mouth. All the rest of her was lean and spare, but her lips were lush and full and pretty damn tempting.

Cordelia used to have quite a crush on him back in the day, he remembered. She’d follow him around like a little duckling who’d imprinted on the wrong thing. Given that the Osterhagens had been good to him, he kept his distance. Wouldn’t be cool to let their kid fall for some punk fresh out of juvie. So he ignored her many attempts at conversation until her initial crush cooled.

Suddenly the red-faced guy clicked. Had he dated Cordelia? Liam had some flash of memory of that guy… Rob? No, Rick. Rick and Cordelia together…or maybe not. Maybe he was thinking of someone else. Those days were kind of a blur…?. Bellsford was the eleventh place he’d lived in seventeen years, and he’d learned not to get real attached, which had worked just fine. Until Emma, that was.

His charge gave another snort and turned on her side.

“’Night, Cordelia,” he said and closed the door gently behind him.

P
OSEY’S FIRST THOUGHT
on waking was not optimistic. No. It was that the sunlight hated her, and really, God was quite cruel in sending this blindingly painful day, and why did her mouth taste like a landfill for poopy diapers?

She clamped a pillow over her head and groped for the comfort of Shilo. Empty. And hang on a sec…this pillow…it was foam. And her pillows were not. Hers were down. She cracked open an eye. These sheets were blue.

Her sheets were yellow.

Posey bolted upright, pain kicking her head like an angry mule. Where was she? Holy Elvis Presley, where was she? The room was nowhere she’d ever been. Ever.

In a panic, she looked around, wincing. Oh, man, the party. Otto passing over drinks like they were M&Ms, those tiny appetizers, Gretchen taking over Guten Tag. So, what happened after that? She must’ve gone home with someone. She’d picked someone up. Or been picked up. This was something she’d never, ever done before.

But that dress on the floor…that was hers. Boots…hers. Panties…oh, man! They were hers, too… Which meant…

Posey lifted the covers and glanced down.

She was naked. Oh,
bieber.
Who? How? What?

Just then, a soft knock came on the door. She opened her mouth to say something, but only a squeak came out.

The door cracked. And Liam Declan Murphy looked in.

Posey yanked the covers to her chin, thoughts sloshing around like toxic waste in her sore brain. Liam? Liam Murphy? Oh, no. Oh, man. She was officially a slut. A slut! And for nothing… She’d slept with
him
, and she didn’t even remember. What a waste of her first slutty night ever!

And Liam. Did he actually take her home and…do things to her? Had he also been, um…impaired? A memory floated to the surface—Liam had
carried
her somewhere! Horrifying! Thrilling, too, but mostly horrifying.

“Hey,” he said, and there was a very appealing half grin on his face. His unshaven face. His gorgeous, unshaven, smiling face.

“Hi,” she whispered, drawing up her knees to her chin, trying to disappear. Yes. Disappearing—or melting—or spontaneous combustion, any of those would be most welcome right about now.

He glanced at her clothes for a long moment, then at her face, which was on fire. “How are you feeling this morning?” he said, and his voice was just a purr, oh, bieber, bieber, bieber!

“Um…you know,” she managed to squeak.

He sat on the edge of the bed. And she was naked. Her spine was already digging into the headboard. Unless she tunneled through the wall, she couldn’t get any farther away. And how bad was her breath at this moment? Because it felt like she’d swallowed a decomposing dragon.