Until There Was You(36)

“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 na**d 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.

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.