Until There Was You(38)

“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.

Bad enough that his daughter wasn’t four years old anymore, a time Liam always thought of as kinda perfect…old enough to walk and feed herself and go to the bathroom alone, young enough to still worship him. Alas, the time machine was out of service, and Nicole was home with a hot-water bottle clutched to her abdomen and a box of tissues next to her on the couch.