“That’s right,” he said, slinging his arm around her shoulders. “Time you learned to put some wood on ball.”
“That sounds vaguely dirty,” she murmured.
“We can only hope,” and he gave her a kiss and was somewhat amazed at how great it felt to cheer her up.
WELL, LIAM HADN’T managed to teach her to hit, Posey thought, but it had been very fun (and yes, vaguely dirty) to have him stand behind her, his arms enveloping her as he tried to get her to swing at the right time, her bottom pressed most comfortably against his groin. Yep. Dirty. Who knew batting practice could be so much fun? As an improvement on her swing, it was worthless. As foreplay, much better. And he’d made her laugh, and that was really something, given how churned up she’d been feeling.
“Okay, try it yourself a few times. I have to call my kid,” Liam said, stepping out of the batting cage. Seemed a lot lonelier in here without him. The next ball came. She swung. Missed. “You are the worst hitter I’ve ever seen,” he added, smiling.
“We all have our talents, lunkhead,” she said. Another pitch from the machine. Another miss.
“Hey, honey, it’s your father,” Liam said into the phone. So sweet. He gave Nicole the paternal interrogation—Posey was standing just feet away, it wasn’t like she was eavesdropping. But it was…warming, Liam asking Nicole how was her paper going, had she checked in with Mrs. Antonelli, did she eat the leftover chicken and not just M&Ms. Posey’s chest swelled. Liam was a good father, that was clear, and there was little more appealing than a man who was a loving dad.
Liam glanced at her a couple of times as he talked. “Mind if I grab dinner while I’m out?” he said into the phone. He had yet to mention her—Posey tried not to notice, but, yeah, her name had not come up, she was pretty sure. Not that it mattered, not really. “Okay, baby,” Liam said finally. “See you later. Love you.” He put his phone back in his pocket and looked at Posey once more. “Here it comes…you can do it…swing!”
Posey swung. Missed. “Okay, enough humiliation. What’s the plan, Big Papi?”
“How about some dinner?” he asked.
“That would be fantastic,” she said. “I’m so hungry, I’m about to gnaw off your arm.”
They found a nice little place on the water, ordered some fried clams and scallops, a beer for him, a white zinfandel for her. “No whiskey sours?” Liam asked. “Because you were a lot of fun that night.”
“Well, same to you on pain meds, you big baby.”
He grinned. She smiled back. Goofy in love, that’s what she was. Dang. Or huzzah. She wasn’t quite sure.
They talked about ordinary things—she told him about the one-sided romance between her coworkers, he told her about Nicole wanting to go to the prom.
At the word prom, Posey felt that old twist of…betrayal. The complete and utter dashing of expectations. But it was clear Liam had no knowledge of the impact of Posey’s own prom, and it was better to keep it that way. “So, will you let Nicole go?” she asked.
“I said yes today.” He took a long pull on his beer, clearly not convinced that his decision was a good one.
“Well,” Posey said briskly, looking out the window, “proms can be very formative.”
“Exactly what I’m hoping to avoid. Some idiot boy breaking her heart.” The irony of his statement was lost on him; he gave her a half smile and a shrug. “Anyway. Enough about my kid. How are you doing? Feeling a little better?”
Her heart softened. “Yes. A lot better, actually.”
“Good.” Liam smiled fully, making her knees tingle. So he’d said a crummy thing back in the olden days. He was clearly a great guy now.
The waiter approached, slipping the check on the table. “I’ll take this whenever you’re ready,” he said, gliding away.
“Let me get it,” Posey said, grabbing the check. “You were a prince today. You deserve payment.”
“Yes, I was a prince, and no, I’m paying.” He reached over and took an end of the check.
Posey didn’t let go. “Don’t make me wrestle you, Liam,” she warned. “We both know who would win, and you don’t want to be embarrassed in front of all these nice people.”
“No, no, let’s wrestle,” he said, and with that he leaned over and kissed her, a soft, full kiss, his fingers sliding through her short hair, and Posey felt herself melting against him, against his mouth, toward his heat.
Then he pulled back and tugged the check out of her unresisting fingers. “Sucker,” he said, grinning.
“Jerk.” She straightened up and slid him a glance, still a little flustered from that kiss. “Thanks for dinner, biker boy.”
“My pleasure.” He stuffed a couple of bills into the leather check holder and continued looking at her. His eyes were smoky. Maybe they’d have time to zip back to the church, have a tumble, before he had to get back to—
Oh, bieber. Oh, no.
George and Louise Tate were standing at the maître d’s desk.
Staring at the two of them.
“Liam?” she whispered. “Um…the Tates are here.”
His smile vanished. “Oh, crap,” he muttered.
“I’m so sorry,” Posey said, biting her lip. Dang it! Right when they were out in public—public, you know, with kissing and everything, meeting all of Jon’s criteria—there were his dead wife’s parents, frozen in dismay.
“No, no. It’s… Well, let’s go say hi.”
They stood up and approached the Tates.
“Hi,” Liam said, offering his hand to George. George didn’t take it, and Posey had to force herself not to cringe. “Uh, George, Louise, this is Cordelia Osterhagen.”
Louise Tate stared at her like she was a severed head on their doorstep. Posey swallowed. Her cheeks were on fire, her hair was, doubtlessly, a mess… “Hi, Mrs. Tate, Mr. Tate,” she said, a little too brightly. “I remember you from church, way back when.” She paused, lowering her voice. “I was so sorry to hear about Emma. We were friendly in high school, and she was—”“Thank you,” Mrs. Tate interrupted stiffly. “Liam, who’s with Nicole?”
“She’s at home, working on a paper,” he said.
“Alone?” Mr. Tate asked.
“Yes. She’s almost sixteen, George.” Liam’s hands were jammed in his pockets. The Tates said nothing. “Well, have a nice dinner,” Liam said. “Talk to you soon.”
“It was nice to see you again,” Posey added, then kicked herself. It wasn’t nice, certainly not for them.
“Tell Nicole we’d like to see her twice this week, since we didn’t get to visit today,” Mrs. Tate said, ignoring Posey. Her tone was ice-cold.
The sky was red and purple outside, and the lights of the Piscataqua River Bridge glittered in the reflection of the water. “I’m really, really sorry about that,” Posey said quietly as they walked to the parking lot.
“Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. It’s fine.” His voice was normal, but of course, it wasn’t fine. He was tense as they drove home, the ride not nearly as pleasant as it had been earlier. His back was stiff and straight, his movements overly cautious.
When they pulled into her driveway, Liam walked her to the door, despite her protestation that he didn’t have to. From inside, Shilo began barking in joy, his baying voice bouncing off the forty-foot ceilings.
“Okay, well, thanks, Liam. For today. You were really great,” Posey said. She took a deep breath. “Sorry about the Tates and the kissing and stuff.”
He shrugged. “I kissed you. And don’t worry about it. But I should get back to Nicole.”
“Sure, sure. Okay.”
They stood there another minute, the silence growing awkward. Then Liam reached out and pinched her chin. “Good luck with the family stuff,” he said. “And you know, you can call me. If you want.”
“Thanks.”
“I mean it.”
“Thanks even more, then, biker boy.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Now, shoo. Go home to your kid.”
Instead, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight for a long minute, and it was so unexpected that Posey felt her eyes prickle with tears. She kissed his cheek again. “You’re a good guy, Liam Murphy,” she whispered. Then, a little embarrassed at the proclamation, she pulled back. “Go on, git,” she said. “And thanks.”
Inside, with Shilo licking her face and wagging so hard he knocked over an end table, Posey found that she was still smiling. Even with the Tates ending their night on an off note, Liam had really come through.
NOPE. THAT HAD NOT been cool. The joy of riding his Triumph was gone as Liam made his way from Cordelia’s back into town. The Tates hadn’t wanted him with Emma, but they sure didn’t want him with someone else. Not now, anyway. And of course, they’d busted him at the very moment he’d been picturing Cordelia na**d and underneath him. Bad enough that he’d deflowered, then stolen, their precious daughter. Now he was—in their minds, anyway—cheating on her.
Liam pulled into the garage, figuring the walk home might cool him off a little, give him time to figure out how to make this okay. The thing was, being out with Cordelia had been pretty fantastic. She’d been upset, he’d made her feel better, they’d had fun. It had been a long time since he’d felt so…well, so good. You’re a good guy, Liam Murphy, Cordelia had said.
It wasn’t something he’d heard a lot in his life.
Enter the Tates, almost on cue to remind him just how not-good he really was. Not only was Nicole left alone— Liam, the negligent father, was out with another woman. The warmth from being with Cordelia evaporated as he walked through the quiet streets of Bellsford. He hadn’t heard the end of this, he was quite sure.
He opened the door of the apartment building and ran up the five flights of stairs. Heard the sound of the Ramones and smelled popcorn. Nicole must’ve finished that paper. Good girl.
Then Liam opened the door, walked into his apartment, and found Tanner Talcott and Nicole sitting on the couch, entwined around each other, kissing like a meteor was about to hit the planet and end life as they knew it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“YOU CAN’T GROUND me for kissing someone!” Nicole yelled.
“I already have grounded you!” he yelled back. It had been three days since Nicole had aged him fifty years—three days of whining, sobbing and yelling—and if he could magically turn her mute, he’d do it in a heartbeat.
“You’re so unfair! I’m sixteen years old, almost! I should be able to kiss my boyfriend!”
“You weren’t grounded for kissing that boy! It was for breaking every rule I have! You were home alone, Nicole! No guests! You know that! Let alone a horny boy who just wants to get into your pants!”
“Our clothes were totally on! Maybe he doesn’t just want to get into my pants, Dad. Maybe he loves me!” She burst into tears and threw herself into a chair.
Emma, you really screwed me by dying, Liam thought irrationally. I don’t know how much more of this I can take. He took a deep breath. “Stop crying, Nic,” he said in a calmer voice. “I’ll drive you to school.”
She cut him a glare. “I’m taking the bus.”
“Get your stuff and get in the car, Nicole!”
There should be some drug for fathers of teenage girls. Something that calmed your heart so it didn’t practically rip through your chest. Something that could soothe the fury your daughter could inspire, the absolute terror that something unspeakable would happen to her, the almost murderous sense of protection. Something that would give you the words to tell her that no one would ever love her as much as dear old dad, and if she just listened to him, she’d have a much easier time of things and be safe from boys who ruined her life.
Liam would bet his left nut that George Tate had wished for the same thing.
They rode to school in silence. When he pulled into the parking lot, she didn’t get out right away, just sat there, staring straight ahead. “I still get to go to the prom, right?” she asked, her voice defiant. “Tanner already bought the tickets, and they were, like, really expensive.”
No. You don’t ever get to go out with that boy again. Do you know how hard it was for me not to kill him the other night? Prom? Are you serious? Are you out of your mind? Absolutely not. Never.
But nearly sixteen years of fatherhood had taught Liam one thing—sometimes, it’s best not to answer right away. “Have a good day at school, and I’ll pick you up at 2:30. I love you, even if I’m really, really mad, Nicole. And I know you’re mad, too, but you’re grounded for your own good.”
Nicole answered with the Slitty Eyes of Death and got out of the car.
It was not with a light heart that Liam went to work. The smell of oil and machines, the faint bite of soldered metal, the cool echo of the garage that usually welcomed him failed to work its magic today. Usually, he loved coming to the garage. It was the one place he really knew what he was doing. When Liam was six years old, his father had asked him to help him take apart an engine. The car had been stolen, but Liam didn’t know that and probably wouldn’t have cared if he had. Father-son bonding times were few and far between. Dad may have been a mean drunk, but when he was sober, he’d been great with an engine. Liam had been hooked.