He smiled; she blushed.
Memories, none of them particularly flattering, flooded back. Winding through the streets of Bellsford. Liam taking off her socks. And oh, yes, the damn itchy dress. She’d just pulled it off at some point; there was a faint recollection of the blessedly cool and un-itchy sheets. As for the panties…best not to think about panties on the floor when Hottie McSin was sitting next to her, smelling the way he did.
“Want some breakfast?” he asked.
“No, thanks. Um…my dog. Is home. Alone. With the cats. So I’m gonna run.”
“Okay.”
“Is your daughter here? I can sneak out the back,” she said, feeling her cheeks heat up again. Imagine having to face a teenager after her father carried your drunken self down the hallway…
“She’s at a friend’s house,” Liam answered.
Right, right, she had a vague memory of him saying something about that. “Good. Great. Okay.”
“I’ll let you get dressed, then.” He stood up and left the room, and Posey couldn’t help feeling a little…disappointed. That being said, she also wasn’t about to leap out of bed na**d, just in case he popped back in with a question. She grabbed her clothes and got dressed under the covers. Her panties. Liam Murphy had seen her panties, for God’s sake! At least they were fairly new and not hideous. Crikey. Almost violently, she tugged the dress over her head. Still itchy.
She dashed into the bathroom, rinsed out her mouth and splashed water on her face. Man. Why not just wear a sign that said Can’t Hold My Liquor? Smears of mascara made her look rather like the poster child for Les Miserables, except not as adorable and far more dissolute. Her hair, never well-behaved on the best days, was completely flat on the left side, standing up straight on the right. Gorgeous. She ran her damp hands through it, knowing it was futile, took a deep breath and went down the hall.
“Thanks for watching out for me last night,” she said, barely glancing at Liam. Still, she could see enough… He was lounging against the counter like he was posing for a shoot in a GQ magazine. Too beautiful to look at directly. “See you around.”
“Bye, Cordelia,” he said, smiling, and with that, she fled. Once in the hall, she opted for the stairs rather than the elevator. With her luck, she’d run into someone she knew, and even though it wasn’t true, she knew what this all looked like. The walk of shame. Like she’d gone home with Liam and done all sorts of delightful and naughty things until the break of day.
Which, of course, was just wishful thinking.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“COME ON, TURNIP! You can do it!” Max’s video camera, a prehistoric relic from the ’90s, went up, as it had every single time Posey had come up to bat in the four years she’d been playing on the town softball league. There were roughly ten games a season, and on average, Posey was up to bat four times. That meant Max had roughly a hundred and sixty movies of his daughter striking out.
Baseball was something of a religion in New Hampshire, as Fenway Park was only an hour south. Alas, it just wasn’t Posey’s sport. Not that she’d gotten to try many, due to Stacia’s rules about body contact and danger. But a few years ago, Jon, who was one of those irritating people who was good at everything from flower arrangements to sports, convinced her to join Guten Tag’s team. He played shortstop—the hottest position for the hottest guy, as he liked to say. Posey was the catcher, and not a bad one at that; she threw out a fair number of runners attempting to steal second. But when it came to the bat…not so much.
And she always struck out. Never popped up, never grounded out. Nope, she went down swinging, which had a certain élan to it. She’d been hit three times, which had been thrilling, since it got her on base, even if it did leave a bruise. But she’d never scored a run, never driven in a run, never hit so much as a foul ball. It was something of a town legend.
Now, in the bottom of the second, she was up, facing José Rivera, the pitcher for Stubby’s Hardware and rumored to be third cousins with half of Major League Baseball.
Brianna and James were here tonight—Kate was first baseman for Guten Tag, an excellent one at that. Both kids were a little on the fringe of high school, and Posey was glad they were hanging out more, even if Brie pretended not to like James. Shilo was there, too, lying on his back in front of the kids, waiting for them to notice his giant belly, always ready for a scratch. When they failed to comply, he let out the occasional groan until finally, James rubbed the dog’s cow-like belly with his foot, earning Shilo’s croon of approval.
Posey stepped into the batter’s box. Her teammates all stood up and started clapping, their way of supporting the cause.
“Eye on the ball, Posey!” called Reverend Jerry. At the sound of his owner’s name, Shilo sat up and woofed.
“Swing away, Merrill!” This in unison from Jon and Kate, both fans of the movie Signs.
“History about to happen, Posey, hon!” Bruce Schmottlach, their oldest player at seventy-eight, had a batting average of .402. But he was a bit of a freak of nature in general.
Posey took a deep breath, dug her cleats into the earth and waited. She could do it. Even a foul ball would be a triumph. José let fly and she swung with all her might. Strike one. She’d been a little late, that was all. She’d swing earlier this time. She did. Strike two.
“Hang in there, honey!” Stacia called. One more pitch. She swung. “Strike three!” called the ump, and that was that.
“That was pathetic,” Brianna called. “Points for trying, though!”
“You’ll get it next time, honey!” Stacia called.
“Thanks, Mom.” Posey trotted back to the dugout, got on her catcher’s gear, and went back to home plate.
As the batter for Stubby’s came up, her face blazed with heat.
It was Liam. She hadn’t seen him since the Night of Drunken Sloppiness.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hi,” she answered, grateful for her face mask. “Didn’t know you were playing.”
“Mike Owens asked me to join. Hi. Liam Murphy.” He shook hands with Lou, the home plate umpire.
“Nice to meet you,” Lou said. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Being catcher meant that Posey was eye level with Liam’s groin. Granted, she was squatting and garbed in padding, but the whole thing felt very sexual nonetheless. Then again, she guessed that she could watch Liam get an appendectomy and find it hot. Which was just pathetic.
“How good are you, Liam?” she asked as Liam took a practice swing. Oh, crap, that sounded really dirty. “At baseball, I mean?”
“Not bad.”
“Go, Liam! Knock it out of the park!” The women on Stubby’s were all leaning out of the dugout, and was it her imagination or was there more cl**vage than usual being shown tonight?
Reverend Jerry, who was pitching for Guten Tag tonight and imagined himself quite a talent, glared down from the pitcher’s mound. “Prepare to feel the power of God’s wrath,” he said and fired off a pitch. Liam swung, and kablammy, it was gone.
“Not bad indeed,” Posey said. Liam grinned and set off around the bases.
He clobbered a triple in the fourth and a double in the eighth, driving in six runs altogether, and Stubby’s won, as they usually did. Liam’s teammates—especially the women—swarmed around him, and there was much patting of his back and stroking of his arms, much hair tossing and laughing.
“Gotta run. James and I have a yoga class,” Kate said, trading her cleats for Nikes. “Want me to bring Brianna home? It’s on the way.”
“Brie?” Posey asked. “What do you think?”
Brianna gave James a long, contemptuous look, then smiled. “Sure.” James flushed. Posey gave Brianna a hug, reminded her of their movie date on Sunday (another Twilight, but at least there’d be popcorn), and slung her bag over her shoulder, then stowed Shilo in the truck with a promise of a Whopper on the way home.
“I feel like we never see each other anymore,” Jon said as they walked over to Rosebud’s to buy Stubby’s a round.
“We had lunch together yesterday,” she said.
“True, true. How’s business? You get Vivian to sign yet?”
“Business is good,” she said. A young couple with uncommonly good taste had come this morning and bought four stained-glass windows, a carved mantel for their fireplace, and a concrete lion, which she and Mac would deliver tomorrow on the flatbed. “But no, Viv hasn’t signed.”
“A shame to have that place torn down.”
“Tell me about it. Is my brother meeting us here?” Posey opened the door to the bar, and the noise of the crowd and the spicy smell of buffalo wings enveloped them in a warm embrace.
“He sure is. There he is now, fighting off Rose.” Rose had tried to turn Henry straight in high school, and Henry was perversely fond of her, smiling as she flirted outrageously. Gretchen was there, too.
“Does that woman ever work?” Jon asked. “I thought she’d be at the restaurant, barefooting away.”
“Seems like Willem still does most of the cooking as far as I can tell,” Posey said.
“She’s revamping the menu. Experimenting,” Stacia announced, materializing with Max and the Schmottlachs. Posey’s parents looked around disapprovingly—they didn’t like going to other restaurants, even Rosebud’s, which was more of a bar. “Oh, there’s Henry! Henry! Over here, honey! We haven’t seen you in weeks!”
“We were there on Sunday,” Jon muttered, and Posey smiled. Time-telling was a subjective skill where her family was concerned.
Liam stood in a cluster of people, including Taylor Bennington, one of his flings back in the day. Posey’d bet he remembered Taylor, who’d once stuffed a thong into Liam’s pocket in the hallway. And Taylor was still beautiful.
“Hello, all!” Gretchen came over to their table and set down her plate, leaning over to reveal an acre of boobage. Jon held up a napkin to shield himself from the view. “How are we tonight? Does anyone want some of this artichoke dip? Oh, hi, Posey, I didn’t see you there. Heard your streak’s still not broken. Too bad. Maybe if you weighed a little more?”
What does a person say to that? Bite me? “Does everyone want their usual?” she asked, standing up.
“I’ll have a glass of pinot noir, but only if it’s from Willamette Valley. The California pinots this year? Why bother, right, Henry?”
Indulging in an eye roll, Posey went up to the bar. “Four Heinekens for them, one seltzer for me. And a California pinot noir for my cousin.”
“Coming up,” Rose said. She gave Posey her seltzer first. “That brother of yours gets cuter every year,” she added with a grin, turning away to fill the rest of the order.
Liam appeared next to her, having apparently hacked through the crowd of women vying for his attention. “So, I hear you’ve never hit a ball,” he said.
“I’ve broken many, though. Just saying.”
“I bet.” He looked at her glass. “Nonalcoholic, I hope.” Was he flirting with her? No. That would be… No. Still, the very thought paralyzed her brain.
“Liam! Hi! It’s so good to see you!” Of course. Gretchen materialized beside Posey, pushing her out of the way with her curvy hips, and wrapped her arms around Liam like he’d just returned from Afghanistan. “Join us! Stacia has commanded it, and you know how she is. Not someone to disobey, right?” She smiled up at Liam, and Liam smiled right back. “Come on, now, I don’t want my aunt getting mad at me. Posey will be right with us, right, hon?” She leaned in a little closer to Posey. “You might want to freshen up first, though,” she whispered, loudly enough for Liam to hear. “You’re a little ripe.”
Gretchen towed Liam over to the Osterhagen table, chattering and laughing away. They sat next to each other, too. And, for crying out loud! Now Gretchen was feeding Liam a bite of whatever she was eating. Just…gross. Both of them.
It was just as well. Lusting after Liam Murphy had been fruitless—indeed, damaging—back in high school. No point in repeating past mistakes. Almost against her will, Posey went to the loo to freshen up—Gretchen might have a point—and stopped at the bar to bring their drinks back to the table. When she got there, Liam was gone.
Yep. Just as well.
MEN SHOULD NOT have to buy tampons, Liam thought darkly. Especially not when there were fifty-seven different kinds, and God forbid he came home with the wrong one. Should’ve stayed at Rosebud’s and been sociable, but no, he’d made the mistake of going home only to find his baby girl in the throes of PMS the likes of which the world had never seen. So here he was, at Hannaford’s.
He double-checked the list, which Nicole had written in big, block letters as if she thought he was an idiot (which, given her current state of hormones, she did), and tossed it into the cart. One more item to find. He scanned the shelves, muttering the product name over and over. It wasn’t here. Scanned again. Nope. Not here. They must not have it.
Liam pulled out his phone and hit Home, dreading his daughter’s voice.
“I can’t find the last thing on the list, sweetie,” he began.
“Dad!” Baby Girl stretched the once-loved word into three syllables of shrill torture. “Come on! I need it! I’m dying here! You don’t understand! You’re a guy!”
And thank God for that. “Okay, well, I have the first three…?.” And that was another thing. Three types of feminine protection? Pads, panty liners, tampons… It was bad enough to have to shop for this stuff, but to have to stand there, painstakingly reading every frigging box. Pearl. Sport. Super Pearl. Super Sport. Super Fresh. Sport Lite. If you were dyslexic, sport and super looked a lot alike, the letters sliding around as if they wanted him to screw up and bring back the wrong kind, at which point Nicole’s head would turn 360 degrees and she’d start puking pea soup or whatever.