Until There Was You
Page 5
“No, I just told you what I want. More than coming over once a week. Because that feels like a booty call, and I’d like to be more than that.”
“Fine.” His voice was sharp. “I’m sorry I don’t have more time. I thought you, as a successful business owner, would understand that.”
“I do. I just… I’m sorry. But you know, why don’t we kind of reassess things in a month or so? Maybe a little time apart will…clarify things.”
“Fine.”
“Great.” Posey folded her arms across her chest. To think she’d put on a lace bra for this. It itched.
Dante stood up and ran a hand through his hair. “I have to say, Posey, I’m a little surprised. You don’t seem like the type.”
“What type is that?”
“The settling-down type. I thought you were… Well, I thought you were different.”
“Apparently not,” she muttered.
“It’s just that you seem very…untraditional.”
“Because I don’t wear skirts and high heels? Does that mean I don’t want a normal relationship somehow?”
“Well, in some ways, yes. It sends a message.” He looked her up and down. Her jaw clamped shut. Lace bra. For this. And this was her girly outfit. Jeans (made for a woman and everything). Flowered shirt. Flowers! On the shirt! A peachy-colored, itchy lace bra and matching panties, come on! What kind of message was that? A traditional one, that was what!
“Okay, I’ll be going now,” she said, standing up.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Dante said, cocking his head and giving her a sorrowful look.
“It’s fine.” She sighed. “So…a break? We’ll talk again?” A small spark of hope flared in her chest. Maybe this was what they needed. Or what he needed—time to see how great she was.
“Sure.” He leaned in and kissed her, and she let him. “Want to stay for a while?” he murmured, moving to her neck.
“No. Gotta go. Thanks, Dante.”
All the way home, she alternated between mild fuming and healthy insecurity. A message, huh? Just because she wasn’t built like J-Lo, just because she lacked the feminine skills that so many of her gender expressed without effort—the flirting, the hair and makeup, the softness—it didn’t mean that she didn’t want to settle down. Of course she did. How could she look at her parents and not want what they had, that effortless, seamless togetherness? Or Jon and Henry, together since college? Of course she wanted that.
She pulled into her driveway and went inside her home, seeing it through fresh eyes. She lived in a restored—well, a half-restored—church rich in cobwebs, creaky floors and character. Someday—about a hundred thousand dollars from now—this place would be on the tour of homes. For now, though, the roof needed to be replaced. The belfry might be a little dangerous, given that the mechanism that held the 800-pound iron bell was not only broken, but rusting, and rusting fast. Furnishings-wise, the place was a little cluttered with the things she couldn’t bear to part with, things that hadn’t sold at Irreplaceable. The Victorian birdcage. The statue of the elephant. The bishop’s chair.
Shilo, sensing his mistress needed some love, gave a bay of joy at the sight of her, and Jellybean, the largest of her triumvirate of cats, trotted over as well, as he seemed to be half dog. “Who are my good boys?” she said as Shilo head-butted her in the stomach and Jellybean pricked her with his claws (lovingly, of course). “You hungry? Want some Stouffers? Huh? Want some delicious French bread pizza? You do? So do I, pal.”
But even as she cranked the Neil Diamond (“Sweet Caroline,” because, come on, what else would you play in a bad mood?), the thought came to her that maybe ending her arrangement with Dante, flimsy though it was, might not have been the smartest move. Not because it was meaningful and special (not yet, though she’d thought they had potential), but because she’d just lost even a small barrier between her heart and Liam Murphy. Since the moment she’d laid eyes on him in Guten Tag’s kitchen, not an hour had passed without Liam crossing her mind.
And that was not good.
CHAPTER FOUR
“LIAM, YOU’RE SO wonderful to do this. Really, dear! I didn’t know what I’d do!” Stacia Osterhagen beamed at Liam, her eyes scanning him up and down like a farmer assessing a stud bull at auction. He was almost surprised she didn’t circle around him and ask him to open his mouth so she could check his teeth.
“It’s no problem, Mrs. O,” he said. “Happy to help. So, what seems to be the matter?”
“Something’s stuck in the drain,” she said. She glanced at her watch, then at the door.
“Okay, I’ll take a look.”
He’d been at the garage when Mrs. O had called about ten minutes before, and from the way she kept looking at her watch, the door and his ass, Liam suspected she was waiting for someone…someone for him. The niece or cousin or whatever. Older women had the tendency to either proposition him or offer up a younger relative. Nevertheless, she’d asked for help, and he hadn’t forgotten how good the Osterhagens had been to him back then, so here he was. Better get to it. He knelt on the floor, opened his toolbox, took out a wrench and put a dishpan under the pipe he was about to take apart.
“A prince. That’s what you are. Oh, if only we had a son who could do this. Well, Henry could, of course, but he’s a surgeon, of course, and his hands! So special, Liam! They’re insured, did you ever hear of such a thing?”
“Can’t say that I have,” he said, lying under the sink and loosening the pipe fitting. Whatever liquid was in the pipe gushed out into the pan. Liam took a flashlight and shone it into the pipe—something metal, something white, and some string. He poked it with a screwdriver, but it was stuck tight, the metal thing wedged in there real good. Jammed, really. Felt like a fork…maybe some raw potato…
A rush of cold air wrapped around his legs as the back door opened.
“I might have to leave early,” said a rather deep feminine voice. “I have a cyst. You don’t want to know where.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” That was Cordelia, if he wasn’t mistaken. The offering, perhaps. He didn’t look up.
“It’s just below my left nipple.”
Women. Was there nothing they wouldn’t talk about? Honestly, every time Emma had had friends over, talk turned to gruesome tales of childbirth or periods.
Then someone kicked him in the leg; there was a thunk, a yelp, and the next thing he knew, something with a lot of sharp angles had sprawled on top of him.
Liam pulled his head from under the sink. Cordelia was half across his lap, wincing as she touched her jaw. Her knee was about two inches from making sure Nicole would stay an only child, but no real harm done. Her sweater had ridden up a few inches, giving him a glimpse of some very white skin. Pretty. Nice to see flesh that wasn’t perpetually tanned, the way everyone’s seemed to be in Southern California.
And nice to have a woman on his lap, regardless of how she got there. The unexpected jolt took Liam by surprise.
“Baby! Are you okay? Who’s the president?” Mrs. O leaped over, the floor shuddering under her impressive weight. “Should I touch you? Is your neck broken?”
“Dang it!” Cordelia wiggled her jaw and patted her mother’s outstretched hand. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“No, you’re not! How could you be?” The floor thudded again as she bounded away, pretty fast for an older lady.
Finally, Cordelia turned and looked to see what had tripped her. Her face froze. “Oh, hi, Liam,” she muttered, jerking her sweater back down where it belonged. “What are you doing here?”
“Being trampled on by you, Cordelia,” he said.
She answered with the Slitty Eyes of Death. “Maybe you shouldn’t be flopped down on restaurant floors, ever think of that?” She hauled herself off the floor and touched her jaw again.
“Well, well, well, the return of biker boy,” her companion said. “Heard you were back in town, hottie.”
This warranted sitting up. Liam smiled. “Nice to see you again. Katie Ellington, right?”
“Kate now. And likewise,” she said.
She’d been a jock during his two years at Bellsford, he remembered that. Baseball or rugby or something. As he continued to look at her, some pink crept into her cheeks. Cute. He’d always assumed she batted for the other team, but maybe not. Liam grinned. Kate’s blush deepened. Cordelia glared.
“Here, honey. Do you know who I am?” Mrs. Osterhagen returned with an industrial-size bag of peas and pressed them against Cordelia’s face.
“Thanks, Mom,” Cordelia said.
“What month it is?”
“It’s March. Still.” Cordelia sighed and tilted her head so Mrs. O could palpate her spine, and Liam chuckled. “Ma, I’m sure I’m fine. I wouldn’t be able to stand if my neck was broken.”
“You never know,” her mother said. Then, with another significant look at Liam, she added, “Your cousin, Posey? She got in this afternoon. Very disappointed you weren’t there to welcome her home. But—” another meaningful look at Liam, complete with raised eyebrow “—she should be here any minute. Stay. You can see her. I know you’ve missed her.”
Liam picked up his wrench once more. Women would keep talking no matter if you stuffed a sock in their mouths, so if he waited for the conversation to end, he’d be here all night. Besides, Kate Ellington was clearly thinking dirty thoughts about him, because her eyes were fixed on his groin. She licked her lips. Yep. Time to go back to the clog. He half listened as he wedged the screwdriver against the clog and wiggled. Man. Getting a fork and a knife and half a potato down a drain took some serious doing. Mrs. O had worked hard tonight.
“Well, I’d love to hang out, Mom, but I didn’t realize Gretchen was coming tonight, and Kate and I have plans. Right, Kate?” she said.
“What’s that?” Kate said.
“Our thing? Tonight?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, your brother’s in the operating room, so he can’t come, either. Liam, our son is a doctor. An orthopedic surgeon, just in case you break anything, dear.” Clearly, the son’s profession could not be stated often enough.
“Good to know,” Liam said. There. A chunk of potato fell out, nearly hitting him in the eye.
“Why is he here, Mom?” Cordelia whispered, the words easy to catch.
“He’s fixing the sink,” Mrs. O replied.
“He’s a mechanic, Mom.”
“So?” Stacia hissed. “He’s here, Gretchen’s single.”
Liam sighed. There. He got the knife free, then worked out the fork. Messy job, but not as bad as a carburetor, that was for sure.
Just then the back door opened, and Liam glanced up again. Ah. The niece. What was her television show? “The Naked Fraulein” or something? Naked would be A-okay. Wow. The woman. Was built. Kim Kardashian curves, long blond hair, blue eyes, ultra-white teeth, the same kind of perfection you saw in hordes in San Diego…but nicely done, by nature, it seemed, not a plastic surgeon.
“Posey!” she cried, beaming a thousand-watter, throwing her arms around Cordelia, her cl**vage practically swallowing the smaller woman.
“Gretchen!” Cordelia echoed back, her voice muffled.
“Oh, it’s so good to see you! There’s nothing like Verwandter!”
“Sorry, what does that mean?” Cordelia asked, pulling back. “No one in our family’s spoken German since World War II.”
“Oh, you! It means family. Just look at you!” She pulled a face. “Have you lost weight?”
“No, I haven’t,” Cordelia returned. “Have you gained any?”
Ah. A cat fight had to be looming. He’d put his money on Cordelia—scrappy vs. soft. Still, better to get while the getting was good. He finished tightening the washer around the pipe and stood up. The niece’s eyes slid to him…slowly. “Hello there,” she said, her voice dropping. “I’m Gretchen Heidelberg.”
“Hi. Liam Murphy.” He turned on the water and started washing his hands, counting automatically.
The woman’s too-long-to-be-real eyelashes fluttered. “Do I know you?” she asked.
“I used to work here. A long time ago.”
“We must’ve met, then,” she murmured.
“Maybe,” he said, drying his hands.
“Of course, I’m pretty familiar with this kitchen myself,” she said, giving a slight wriggle, in case he missed the mighty rack. “I filmed my audition tape here.”
Danger, my son, Liam told himself. Maneater in the vicinity. “Cool. You’re all set here, Mrs. O. Just a chunk of potato stuck in there and a few pieces of silverware.”
“I’m the Barefoot Fraulein,” the cousin went on. “Thursdays at five on the Cooking Network? Have you ever seen it?”
“Can’t say that I have,” he said, smiling to be polite. If he ignored her completely, she’d take it as a challenge, and God protect him from women who saw him as a challenge.
“Oh! Liam! You’re so clever! And so wonderful to help,” Stacia said. She glanced between Cordelia and Gretchen. “You girls should stay! You should all stay! I have some beautiful apple kuchen! Liam! Stay! Talk!”
“I’ll take a rain check on the cake, Mrs. O. My daughter’s home alone.” He turned to the cousin. “Nice meeting you. See you girls around,” he said to Cordelia and Kate, punching Kate lightly on the shoulder.
“Fine.” His voice was sharp. “I’m sorry I don’t have more time. I thought you, as a successful business owner, would understand that.”
“I do. I just… I’m sorry. But you know, why don’t we kind of reassess things in a month or so? Maybe a little time apart will…clarify things.”
“Fine.”
“Great.” Posey folded her arms across her chest. To think she’d put on a lace bra for this. It itched.
Dante stood up and ran a hand through his hair. “I have to say, Posey, I’m a little surprised. You don’t seem like the type.”
“What type is that?”
“The settling-down type. I thought you were… Well, I thought you were different.”
“Apparently not,” she muttered.
“It’s just that you seem very…untraditional.”
“Because I don’t wear skirts and high heels? Does that mean I don’t want a normal relationship somehow?”
“Well, in some ways, yes. It sends a message.” He looked her up and down. Her jaw clamped shut. Lace bra. For this. And this was her girly outfit. Jeans (made for a woman and everything). Flowered shirt. Flowers! On the shirt! A peachy-colored, itchy lace bra and matching panties, come on! What kind of message was that? A traditional one, that was what!
“Okay, I’ll be going now,” she said, standing up.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” Dante said, cocking his head and giving her a sorrowful look.
“It’s fine.” She sighed. “So…a break? We’ll talk again?” A small spark of hope flared in her chest. Maybe this was what they needed. Or what he needed—time to see how great she was.
“Sure.” He leaned in and kissed her, and she let him. “Want to stay for a while?” he murmured, moving to her neck.
“No. Gotta go. Thanks, Dante.”
All the way home, she alternated between mild fuming and healthy insecurity. A message, huh? Just because she wasn’t built like J-Lo, just because she lacked the feminine skills that so many of her gender expressed without effort—the flirting, the hair and makeup, the softness—it didn’t mean that she didn’t want to settle down. Of course she did. How could she look at her parents and not want what they had, that effortless, seamless togetherness? Or Jon and Henry, together since college? Of course she wanted that.
She pulled into her driveway and went inside her home, seeing it through fresh eyes. She lived in a restored—well, a half-restored—church rich in cobwebs, creaky floors and character. Someday—about a hundred thousand dollars from now—this place would be on the tour of homes. For now, though, the roof needed to be replaced. The belfry might be a little dangerous, given that the mechanism that held the 800-pound iron bell was not only broken, but rusting, and rusting fast. Furnishings-wise, the place was a little cluttered with the things she couldn’t bear to part with, things that hadn’t sold at Irreplaceable. The Victorian birdcage. The statue of the elephant. The bishop’s chair.
Shilo, sensing his mistress needed some love, gave a bay of joy at the sight of her, and Jellybean, the largest of her triumvirate of cats, trotted over as well, as he seemed to be half dog. “Who are my good boys?” she said as Shilo head-butted her in the stomach and Jellybean pricked her with his claws (lovingly, of course). “You hungry? Want some Stouffers? Huh? Want some delicious French bread pizza? You do? So do I, pal.”
But even as she cranked the Neil Diamond (“Sweet Caroline,” because, come on, what else would you play in a bad mood?), the thought came to her that maybe ending her arrangement with Dante, flimsy though it was, might not have been the smartest move. Not because it was meaningful and special (not yet, though she’d thought they had potential), but because she’d just lost even a small barrier between her heart and Liam Murphy. Since the moment she’d laid eyes on him in Guten Tag’s kitchen, not an hour had passed without Liam crossing her mind.
And that was not good.
CHAPTER FOUR
“LIAM, YOU’RE SO wonderful to do this. Really, dear! I didn’t know what I’d do!” Stacia Osterhagen beamed at Liam, her eyes scanning him up and down like a farmer assessing a stud bull at auction. He was almost surprised she didn’t circle around him and ask him to open his mouth so she could check his teeth.
“It’s no problem, Mrs. O,” he said. “Happy to help. So, what seems to be the matter?”
“Something’s stuck in the drain,” she said. She glanced at her watch, then at the door.
“Okay, I’ll take a look.”
He’d been at the garage when Mrs. O had called about ten minutes before, and from the way she kept looking at her watch, the door and his ass, Liam suspected she was waiting for someone…someone for him. The niece or cousin or whatever. Older women had the tendency to either proposition him or offer up a younger relative. Nevertheless, she’d asked for help, and he hadn’t forgotten how good the Osterhagens had been to him back then, so here he was. Better get to it. He knelt on the floor, opened his toolbox, took out a wrench and put a dishpan under the pipe he was about to take apart.
“A prince. That’s what you are. Oh, if only we had a son who could do this. Well, Henry could, of course, but he’s a surgeon, of course, and his hands! So special, Liam! They’re insured, did you ever hear of such a thing?”
“Can’t say that I have,” he said, lying under the sink and loosening the pipe fitting. Whatever liquid was in the pipe gushed out into the pan. Liam took a flashlight and shone it into the pipe—something metal, something white, and some string. He poked it with a screwdriver, but it was stuck tight, the metal thing wedged in there real good. Jammed, really. Felt like a fork…maybe some raw potato…
A rush of cold air wrapped around his legs as the back door opened.
“I might have to leave early,” said a rather deep feminine voice. “I have a cyst. You don’t want to know where.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” That was Cordelia, if he wasn’t mistaken. The offering, perhaps. He didn’t look up.
“It’s just below my left nipple.”
Women. Was there nothing they wouldn’t talk about? Honestly, every time Emma had had friends over, talk turned to gruesome tales of childbirth or periods.
Then someone kicked him in the leg; there was a thunk, a yelp, and the next thing he knew, something with a lot of sharp angles had sprawled on top of him.
Liam pulled his head from under the sink. Cordelia was half across his lap, wincing as she touched her jaw. Her knee was about two inches from making sure Nicole would stay an only child, but no real harm done. Her sweater had ridden up a few inches, giving him a glimpse of some very white skin. Pretty. Nice to see flesh that wasn’t perpetually tanned, the way everyone’s seemed to be in Southern California.
And nice to have a woman on his lap, regardless of how she got there. The unexpected jolt took Liam by surprise.
“Baby! Are you okay? Who’s the president?” Mrs. O leaped over, the floor shuddering under her impressive weight. “Should I touch you? Is your neck broken?”
“Dang it!” Cordelia wiggled her jaw and patted her mother’s outstretched hand. “I’m fine, Mom.”
“No, you’re not! How could you be?” The floor thudded again as she bounded away, pretty fast for an older lady.
Finally, Cordelia turned and looked to see what had tripped her. Her face froze. “Oh, hi, Liam,” she muttered, jerking her sweater back down where it belonged. “What are you doing here?”
“Being trampled on by you, Cordelia,” he said.
She answered with the Slitty Eyes of Death. “Maybe you shouldn’t be flopped down on restaurant floors, ever think of that?” She hauled herself off the floor and touched her jaw again.
“Well, well, well, the return of biker boy,” her companion said. “Heard you were back in town, hottie.”
This warranted sitting up. Liam smiled. “Nice to see you again. Katie Ellington, right?”
“Kate now. And likewise,” she said.
She’d been a jock during his two years at Bellsford, he remembered that. Baseball or rugby or something. As he continued to look at her, some pink crept into her cheeks. Cute. He’d always assumed she batted for the other team, but maybe not. Liam grinned. Kate’s blush deepened. Cordelia glared.
“Here, honey. Do you know who I am?” Mrs. Osterhagen returned with an industrial-size bag of peas and pressed them against Cordelia’s face.
“Thanks, Mom,” Cordelia said.
“What month it is?”
“It’s March. Still.” Cordelia sighed and tilted her head so Mrs. O could palpate her spine, and Liam chuckled. “Ma, I’m sure I’m fine. I wouldn’t be able to stand if my neck was broken.”
“You never know,” her mother said. Then, with another significant look at Liam, she added, “Your cousin, Posey? She got in this afternoon. Very disappointed you weren’t there to welcome her home. But—” another meaningful look at Liam, complete with raised eyebrow “—she should be here any minute. Stay. You can see her. I know you’ve missed her.”
Liam picked up his wrench once more. Women would keep talking no matter if you stuffed a sock in their mouths, so if he waited for the conversation to end, he’d be here all night. Besides, Kate Ellington was clearly thinking dirty thoughts about him, because her eyes were fixed on his groin. She licked her lips. Yep. Time to go back to the clog. He half listened as he wedged the screwdriver against the clog and wiggled. Man. Getting a fork and a knife and half a potato down a drain took some serious doing. Mrs. O had worked hard tonight.
“Well, I’d love to hang out, Mom, but I didn’t realize Gretchen was coming tonight, and Kate and I have plans. Right, Kate?” she said.
“What’s that?” Kate said.
“Our thing? Tonight?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well, your brother’s in the operating room, so he can’t come, either. Liam, our son is a doctor. An orthopedic surgeon, just in case you break anything, dear.” Clearly, the son’s profession could not be stated often enough.
“Good to know,” Liam said. There. A chunk of potato fell out, nearly hitting him in the eye.
“Why is he here, Mom?” Cordelia whispered, the words easy to catch.
“He’s fixing the sink,” Mrs. O replied.
“He’s a mechanic, Mom.”
“So?” Stacia hissed. “He’s here, Gretchen’s single.”
Liam sighed. There. He got the knife free, then worked out the fork. Messy job, but not as bad as a carburetor, that was for sure.
Just then the back door opened, and Liam glanced up again. Ah. The niece. What was her television show? “The Naked Fraulein” or something? Naked would be A-okay. Wow. The woman. Was built. Kim Kardashian curves, long blond hair, blue eyes, ultra-white teeth, the same kind of perfection you saw in hordes in San Diego…but nicely done, by nature, it seemed, not a plastic surgeon.
“Posey!” she cried, beaming a thousand-watter, throwing her arms around Cordelia, her cl**vage practically swallowing the smaller woman.
“Gretchen!” Cordelia echoed back, her voice muffled.
“Oh, it’s so good to see you! There’s nothing like Verwandter!”
“Sorry, what does that mean?” Cordelia asked, pulling back. “No one in our family’s spoken German since World War II.”
“Oh, you! It means family. Just look at you!” She pulled a face. “Have you lost weight?”
“No, I haven’t,” Cordelia returned. “Have you gained any?”
Ah. A cat fight had to be looming. He’d put his money on Cordelia—scrappy vs. soft. Still, better to get while the getting was good. He finished tightening the washer around the pipe and stood up. The niece’s eyes slid to him…slowly. “Hello there,” she said, her voice dropping. “I’m Gretchen Heidelberg.”
“Hi. Liam Murphy.” He turned on the water and started washing his hands, counting automatically.
The woman’s too-long-to-be-real eyelashes fluttered. “Do I know you?” she asked.
“I used to work here. A long time ago.”
“We must’ve met, then,” she murmured.
“Maybe,” he said, drying his hands.
“Of course, I’m pretty familiar with this kitchen myself,” she said, giving a slight wriggle, in case he missed the mighty rack. “I filmed my audition tape here.”
Danger, my son, Liam told himself. Maneater in the vicinity. “Cool. You’re all set here, Mrs. O. Just a chunk of potato stuck in there and a few pieces of silverware.”
“I’m the Barefoot Fraulein,” the cousin went on. “Thursdays at five on the Cooking Network? Have you ever seen it?”
“Can’t say that I have,” he said, smiling to be polite. If he ignored her completely, she’d take it as a challenge, and God protect him from women who saw him as a challenge.
“Oh! Liam! You’re so clever! And so wonderful to help,” Stacia said. She glanced between Cordelia and Gretchen. “You girls should stay! You should all stay! I have some beautiful apple kuchen! Liam! Stay! Talk!”
“I’ll take a rain check on the cake, Mrs. O. My daughter’s home alone.” He turned to the cousin. “Nice meeting you. See you girls around,” he said to Cordelia and Kate, punching Kate lightly on the shoulder.
