“Nicole. She’s fifteen now.”
“Wow. Fifteen. That’s… Wow. Fifteen.”
Liam didn’t answer, but his look was loaded with that same disdain Posey so well remembered.
Once upon a time, when he was channeling Bono, Liam had worked right here in Guten Tag, a miraculous and agonizing time for Posey. The fact that the Osterhagens had given Liam a job at a time when his reputation was questionable (and fascinating) hadn’t caused Liam to warm up to Posey, however. Nope. He always treated her with the same interest he might give a speck of dust.
At first, anyway.
Whatever. Mom was gabbling away. “Liam, sweetheart, you haven’t changed a bit! You have to stay for a drink! You have to! Did you eat? We’ll feed you. I insist. Max, you insist, too, don’t you?”
“I also insist,” Max said, smiling.
“Just a drink,” Liam said. “I have to get back to my daughter.”
Just then Otto, a longtime waiter and accordion player at Guten Tag, poked his head through the door to the dining room. “Max, Stacia, the Schmottlachs are leaving.”
“Posey, make Liam at home, would you? Liam, this will just take a minute. Bruce and Shirley are our best friends. You remember them, don’t you?”
Liam’s mouth pulled into a reluctant smile as Stacia grabbed Max by the hand and towed him into the dining room. Said smile caused Posey’s girl parts to clench in a warm, strong squeeze. Hello! Her stomach began flipping like an overexcited dolphin. Alone. She was alone with Hottie McSin, widower. Oh, crikey, that wasn’t nice. She shouldn’t be lusting after the poor guy. Except the words poor guy didn’t seem to apply to Liam Murphy. She swallowed, the sound louder than a gunshot in the now-quiet kitchen.
Meanwhile, God’s gift to women—because, yes, he was that good…all smoldering male beauty made all the more inaccessible by that touch of disdain—folded his arms and looked around the kitchen.
It was hard to fathom that bright, bouncy Emma Tate was gone. Posey swallowed again, her throat thick. “How’s your daughter handling things?”
“Pretty well.” He allowed her a brief glance.
“So, what brings you here? Just visiting?”
“No. We moved to be closer to Emma’s parents.” He was back? Staying? “Oh. Um…that’s nice. Good. I mean, it’s good to be close to family. Good for children, I mean.”
He didn’t answer. Didn’t ask what she’d been up to, if she was married, if she had kids. Of course not. Apparently he was still way too cool to care about—
“So, what have you been up to, Cordelia?”
Oops. Strike that. “Oh, I’m just filling in tonight. I own an architectural salvage company,” she said, well aware of the pride that tinged her voice. He didn’t respond, just gave a half nod. “What about you?”
“I’m a mechanic. I build custom motorcycles.”
Of course he was a motorcycle mechanic. This would enable him to wear leather and smell like oil and have large throbbing machines between his thighs. At the image, Posey’s legs weakened. Down, girl. It wouldn’t do to wrestle him to the floor here in her parents’ kitchen. But he’d always had that effect on her—and every other female. He was like the Death Star’s tractor beam, pulling in whatever the heck it wanted. “Motorcycles. Neat-o,” she managed.
Liam’s glance bounced around the kitchen once more. He sighed, perhaps irked that there was no one else to talk to, then looked back at her. “You married?”
“Um, no. Nope. Not married. Not yet, I guess I should say. I, um…well, you know. Haven’t met the right guy.” Oh, bieber. That made her sound…unwanted. “Not yet. I mean, actually I’m seeing someone…um, and, you know, I came close once or twice, but—”
“Came close to what?” Stacia asked, banging through the kitchen doors once more.
Posey jumped. “Nothing,” she muttered, tugging at her dwarf-embroidered vest.
“Cordelia was telling me about when she almost got married,” Liam said. Was that derision in his voice? Probably.
“What? You almost what?” Stacia pressed a large hand to her ample bosom. “My own child, and I don’t know this—”
“Mom, stop. It was…you know.” Posey took a deep breath. “Ron. You remember.”
“The one with the rash?”
Posey grimaced. “It cleared up very quickly.”
“He was the one who turned gay, right? Liam, honestly. Posey just cannot find a normal man, not that she tries very hard, working out at that junkyard—”
“It’s not a junkyard. It’s architectural salvage.” And I am seeing a normal man, I just don’t want you to keel over if I tell you who.
“I always say, if she’d just clean up a little, some man would see what a beautiful, sweet—” Stacia broke off, a religious gleam beginning in her sky-blue eyes. Ruh-roh. Posey knew that look. It was the look of Matchmaker, one Posey had seen far too many times over the years. Ron the Gay with the Rash had been one of Stacia’s better picks, actually. There’d been Carol Antonelli’s nephew, who’d taken her to McDonald’s on their first date and didn’t even pay for her Big Mac. The restaurant-supply guy who’d turned out to have two families, one in New Hampshire, one in Delaware. And now, the look of Matchmaker with Liam.
Don’t do it, Mom, Posey begged silently, hunching her shoulders to ward off the blow.
The blow came, though not the one she expected. “You’ll have to come back and meet my niece, Liam,” Stacia said. “Gretchen? From The Barefoot Fraulein? On the Cooking Network? She’s my late sister’s daughter. We’re so proud of her! Have you ever seen her show?”
“Can’t say that I have,” he murmured. He glanced again at Posey, eyes dropping to her costume. Just in case she forgot that she looked like an idiot.
“Well, you’ll have to come by,” Stacia said. “We were just thrilled when she told us she wanted to come work here! And she’s such a sweet, sweet girl.” Mom paused cunningly. “Very pretty, too.” Gretchen was very pretty, Posey would give her that. She looked much like Stacia—tall, blonde, blue-eyed, voluptuous—German beauty at its finest. Posey, on the other hand, was adopted—five foot three (five two and a half, why lie?), a hundred and seven pounds, dark, short, difficult hair and brown eyes. As for Gretchen’s sweetness… Posey stifled a snort.
“We could use a little help, to be honest,” her mom continued. “Ever since that—” Stacia took a meaningful breath “—that Italian restaurant moved in down the street, business has been a little slow.”
Business had been slow well before Inferno opened, though Posey knew her mom would never admit it. Guten Tag’s food wasn’t bad, if you liked old-school German cuisine (which, it must be said, most people didn’t). The slogan—We’ll feed you till you’re stuffed!—didn’t exactly scream gourmet dining.
Inferno, on the other hand, was only six months old and had already been reviewed by the New York Times (four stars). They had a slogan, too, one that appeared on the local television stations and in swanky tourist magazines—Our life’s mission: to make the best meal of your life.