Author: Kristan Higgins

This morning, she’d had a panicked call from the owner of the barn in Chelmsford—the historic district had decided at the last second to be interested, and the owner needed Posey to give a statement to his lawyer, which was why she was at the Mirren Building in the first place.

Then she’d broken God’s Gift, which, despite her intentions of saving his life, was not a happy feeling.

Well. Time to get the poor lad home. She pulled up to the entrance of the ER, and the orderly helped Liam in. Shilo, accustomed to riding (or sleeping) shotgun, whined from the truck’s small backseat.

Liam fell asleep yet again on the way home. His hand was just inches from her thigh…that nice, masculine hand. Dante’s hands had been soft—softer than hers, that was for sure. Dante was a good-looking man, that was certain—but it was a polished, put-together attraction, rather than the raw appeal Liam possessed. She glanced at him again. Sooty lashes. Ridiculous. He was much prettier than she was.

“Stop staring,” Liam muttered, not opening his eyes, and Posey jerked her attention back to the road.

When they reached his place, she got out and opened Liam’s door. “Time for bed, tough guy,” she said, and he got out carefully. He stood there a minute, not quite steadily, and she slid her arm around his waist—his lean, warm waist.

“You doing okay?” she asked, trying not to think dirty thoughts.

“Mmm-hmm,” he said, leaning into her, and those dirty thoughts surged. Even through her layers of flannel, she could feel the heat of his skin. Glancing down, she saw that beautiful torso again. Perfection. Utter masculine perfection. Except for the rib she’d cracked.

“Back in a few, Shilo,” she said, her voice a bit unsteady. Shilo gave a snore in response. Liam seemed to be getting heavier as they rode up in the elevator. “Your hair smells pretty,” he said, and her girl parts gave a warm squeeze.

Mrs. Antonelli’s door remained mercifully closed, though Posey could well imagine her on the other side, watching through the peephole. “Got the keys, Liam?”

“In my pocket,” he said. His eyes were closed.

Feeling quite perverted, she reached into his pocket. Do not cop a feel, she warned herself. It was difficult to avoid, but she tried. She unlocked the door. Déjà vu all over again, except this time, Liam was the one who was, er, incapacitated. She steered him down the same hallway he had carried her a few weeks ago, into a different room this time. His room.

The bed was covered with a dark brown comforter, very manly, and you could tell it was a guy’s room because it lacked all those touches a wife would’ve given it. On the night table was a photo of Nicole, a gorgeous black-and-white shot of her on a swing. Another black-and-white photo of Nicole on the beach sat on top of the dresser. Aside from that, the room was pretty stark.

Liam pulled back the covers and collapsed on the bed with a groan. Posey pulled off his shoes and covered him up. She was tucking in Liam Murphy, the stuff of many a teenage fantasy. Maybe she’d go home and write about it in her Hello Kitty diary, then watch Luke Perry movies…or she could remember that she was thirty-three years old and wise up.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked. “Want me to call your daughter or leave her a note or something?” She paused. “Or I could stay and tell her when she gets home.”

“You can go. But don’t tell Nicole.”

“Tell her you cracked a rib? Because I think she’ll be able to see that you’re uncomfortable, Liam. Since you’re such a baby and all.”

He smiled faintly, not opening his eyes. “I’ll tell her about the rib. Maybe. Just not the panic stuff.”

“Have you always been scared of elevators? My brother’s afraid of cats.”

“I’m not scared of elevators,” he said, eyes still closed. “I’m scared I’ll die and she’ll be all alone.”

The words caught her heart by surprise. Posey opened her mouth, closed it, then tried again. “You won’t die, Liam. I mean, you will, of course, we all will…but not for a long time.”

“Except I almost did. I laid down my bike last fall.”

“You… Does that mean you were in an accident?” He nodded. “Were you okay?”

Liam finally looked at her, his eyes bleary. “Yeah. But it was close, you know. The cop said he expected a… What’s that word? When people die?”

“A fatality?”

“Yeah. ’Cause my bike was all…you know. Wrecked.”

“What happened?”

His eyelids were apparently too heavy to keep open. “I was on the freeway. Some guy in a Porsche tried to…” His hand flopped. “You know.”

“Pass?”

“Yeah. That’s it. Pass. And next thing I knew, I was lying on the ground in the breakdown lane, and my bike was all—” he made a twisting motion with his hands “—crushed. But I got…” Another hand gesture.

“Thrown?”

“Yep.”

“Were you wearing a helmet?” she asked.

“I’d be dead without a helmet,” he murmured. “Even so, concussion and stuff. But I’m not gonna tell you that, because I’m not telling anybody about that.”

Posey bit her lip. “Okay. I won’t know about it then.”

“Good. Because it’s a secret.”

Or it would be without the truth serum that had apparently been administered along with the painkillers. He shifted and winced a little.

Crikey. Imagine being in a near-fatal accident and not telling anyone. Maybe—just maybe—he didn’t have anyone to tell.

That thought sat in Posey’s brain for a beat or two, throbbing. Imagine living with the fear that if anything happened to you, your child would have no one. He’d said that’s why they’d moved back to New Hampshire…to be closer to Nicole’s grandparents. He just hadn’t said, “in case I die.”

There was a strange ache in Posey’s chest.

“Can you get me a pillow?” the patient asked.

“There are two right next to you.”

“You have to be nice. You broke me.”

“I’m very nice, Liam, and I didn’t break you, I cracked you. Just one bone, too, so let’s not exaggerate. You have two hundred and five other bones that are perfectly fine.” Nevertheless, she walked over to the other side of the bed and got a pillow.

“Oh, so now you’re a doctor? How come you didn’t know I wasn’t having a heart attack, then?”

“Shush. Here’s the pillow, Princess Precious.”

“Can you tuck it under my rib? The one you broke?”

She sighed loudly and pulled the covers down—there was that beautiful, rippling torso again, hello, gorgeous—and leaned over him, as there really was no avoiding it. Tucked the pillow against his side, trying to channel an angel of mercy and not a lustful reprobate.

“How’s that?” she asked.

Apparently it was pretty good, because his hands were in her hair, and he pulled her face down to his, and he was kissing her—Liam Murphy was kissing her!—and it was so shocking and so warm and so utterly… His lips moved against hers, deepening the kiss. It was like being filled with light and heat and a melting weakness, oh, Elvis, it was amazing. Her hands were on his chest, his bare skin warm and perfect and so… God…it was so…so…

Over. It was over. Lips no longer on hers, hands no longer in hair.

Posey pulled back a little. His eyes were closed, lashes a dark smudge on his cheeks. “Liam?” she whispered.

There was a little smile on his mouth—the mouth that had been kissing hers. Otherwise, he was incommunicado. “Liam?” she said again, more loudly this time.

Nada. He was out cold. Down for the count.

She straightened abruptly. Face was burning, joints buzzing with adrenaline, chest filled with helium.

Liam Murphy had kissed her.

And he’d fallen asleep in the middle of it. She didn’t know whether to burst into song or kick something.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“COME ON, COME ON. This way. No time to lose. We don’t want the blue-hairs to take our spot,” Steve said.

A bit unclear on what that meant, Posey followed her date. That’s right, a date. She wasn’t about to sit around and wait for Liam Murphy to remember that he’d kissed her and either apologize or ask her out. It had been five days since The Kiss. Once his unconsciousness had been verified with a poke to the uncracked set of ribs, Posey had given him maybe thirty seconds to rouse, debating on kissing him again (because, man! That had been quite a kiss!) or smothering him, because obviously it hadn’t been quite a kiss for him…just a reflex or something. Whatever. Their paths hadn’t crossed since, and that was fine. Because even if he was worried about his daughter being left alone, and even if Posey couldn’t deny that he had the thickest eyelashes she’d ever seen, and even though her girl parts still yowled like her cats during a full moon at the thought of that kiss, it didn’t mean that he wasn’t a jerk. He was. Because only jerks went around kissing women in medicated stupors and then did nothing.

“Oh, fantastic. Here we go.” Steve steered her to a row of slot machines and pretty much shoved her onto a seat. “Good luck.” With that, he spread his coat, her coat and her backpack onto three other slot machines, swiped a card and began punching buttons.

“Okay, so I just…” Posey’s voice trailed off. Steve was engrossed already, muttering, staring at the screen.

Steve was Elise’s cousin—Elise had dozens, apparently, and Steve had moved back to the area recently. “You might like him?” Elise had suggested in her sing-song voice. “Right?”

“Is he a good guy?” Posey’d asked. “He’s not a serial killer or anything, is he?” Such high standards. But that kiss had solidified her resolve to stop being distracted by Liam Murphy. And given the number of times she had relived that bleeping kiss, she needed distraction. Quickly.

“Um…no? Not a serial killer, of course not. He’s a good guy…I think. It’s been a while since we really hung out? Like…when we were twelve. But yeah. I guess?”

It wasn’t exactly the glowing recommendation Posey was hoping for…but heck. Everyone had flaws, right? One date. What harm could there be in that? Elise had found a picture of Steve, and he was very cute, and what more could Posey want, right? Not a serial killer, quite cute. Someone, call a priest.

She and Steve emailed, then talked on the phone. She’d been hoping for a walk or a meeting in the park—the weather was gorgeous, and Posey had been weeding at The Meadows for two hours that afternoon, but Steve suggested something else. So here they were at the new Indian casino—Revenge on the White Man, as Posey thought of it. They’d exchanged the briefest of pleasantries, but it was now clear Steve wanted to get to work.

The casino was filled with a strange, discordant melody as hundreds of slot machines were played at once. There was a bitter smell in the air, too, from the smoking section. No one was dancing, not like on the casino commercials, and there didn’t seem to be a lot of happy, well-dressed younger people. No. A woman with pinktinged hair sat to Posey’s left, her oxygen canister taking up another slot machine. Apparently you could play more than one at a time.

“Hi,” Posey said. The lady didn’t answer, simply adjusted her sweatshirt, sucked in a deep breath of oxygen and swiped her card, which hung around her neck like an ID badge. Clearly, she was experienced. Four or five seats down was a tiny, ancient man with a walker, and next to him, a woman wearing a thick red wig, her gnarled hands punching the buttons with surprising force.

Posey reached into her pocket for a quarter, inserted, pulled the crank and lost. Six minutes later, the twenty dollars she’d brought for gambling purposes was gone. “I guess I’m done for the night,” she said aloud. Neither her date nor the old lady replied.