Until There Was You

Chapter SEVEN



“DID 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.





POSEY’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.

“Want some coffee?” he asked.

“No. Thanks. No, thanks, I mean.”

“So…” Liam said, and, lordy, he smelled good. He must’ve showered, because his hair was damp, and even though she really didn’t approve of people getting drunk and sleeping with men they didn’t really know that well or even like that much, Posey’s lady parts seemed to stretch like a waking cat. Hello! Liam Murphy is sitting inches from your naked body. Do something. Now.

“Um…Liam,” Posey began, gripping the covers to her chin.

“Yeah?” he said.

Her grip on the sheets turned into a clench. “Liam, about last night…”

“What about it?”

Posey closed her eyes. Opened them. There were her clothes, still on the floor. And here was her hungover self, still naked and in Liam Murphy’s bed. Sherlock Holmes would say that, yes, she’d definitely done the wild thing with God’s Gift, and while that act was one she’d imagined, oh, six thousand and fifty-seven times, it wasn’t exactly making her happy now. Wouldn’t she remember…something? Because there was nothing in the old memory banks. Not one thing. Not even a kiss.

“Did we…um…you know?”

“Did we what?”

That half smile on his face was making thought difficult. “Um…did we…” Make love didn’t sound right. Fool around? Have intercourse? Make out? Make babies? Oh, man, what if she was pregnant at this very moment? “Did we do anything last night? Anything, um…adult?”

“You don’t remember?”

“No, Liam, I don’t. Can you just… Did we do it or not?”

He gave her a long, steamy look, dropped his gaze to her mouth—oh, mommy—and back to her eyes. Then he grinned. “No.”

“No?”

“Please. Are you kidding? Absolutely not.”

Well, okay, he didn’t have to say it like that. Would a tinge of regret be too much to ask for? A little wistfulness? Huh? Hmm? Would that be so hard? “So, how did my clothes get over there?” she asked.

He took a sip of coffee and cocked an eyebrow. “I don’t know. I sure as hell didn’t undress you.”

Again with the insults. “Okay, you know, Liam, do you have to be so…” Her voice trailed off.

“So what?”

“So…emphatic.”

He laughed, the sound scraping her most pleasantly. “I was gonna give you a ride home, but you were pretty, uh, limp, so I just figured you could sleep it off here.” He paused. “Rather than in the elevator, like you wanted.”

Bieber. That was right. Well, it was a nice elevator, if memory served.

“Are you mad that I didn’t take advantage of the situation?” he asked.

“No! Jeesh! Your ego, Liam. Wow.”

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 naked, 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.