“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.

Dante Bellini, the owner, had recently earned the undying wrath of her parents when a reporter asked about other restaurants in the area. His reply was, “There’s a kitschy institution down the street, but no real competition.” Stacia and Max found the words more offensive than if he’d burned their house to the ground.

The restaurants were indeed very different. Guten Tag was all about fun, not food—the costumes, the music, the cries of “Zicke zacke, zicke zacke, hoi, hoi, hoi!” every time someone ordered a beer. Inferno was sophistication incarnate. Its interior was gorgeous, as Posey well knew—Dante had bought more than ten thousand dollars’ worth of furnishings from Irreplaceable Artifacts, her very own business. This was still a sore spot (or a pulsating ulcer) with the elder Osterhagens. Nevertheless, Inferno boasted the fountain Posey had rescued from the old monastery in New York, marble columns from the public library in Lowell and four sculptures of Italian saints from a church in Vermont.

Yep, Dante Bellini knew how to run a business.

He was also pretty good in bed.

Of course, Posey would kill herself before telling her parents that particular nugget. Still, it made her stand up a little straighter.

“But come, come,” Stacia said, taking Liam by the arm. “Our son and his partner are here. Did you ever meet Henry? You must have, even though he was in medical school back when you worked here. Posey, don’t just stand there, sweetheart, come out and have a drink with us.”

“I have to run,” Posey said, grabbing her jacket from the hook by the door. “Mom, see you soon. Um, Liam…nice to see you again.”

Liam nodded, barely looking at her.

“Posey, wait,” Stacia said. “Let me get you some brisket. I don’t like you eating that garbage you buy from the store. I saw those pizzas in your freezer. You shouldn’t be eating that, even if you do want to fatten up a little. Liam, the girl just cannot gain an ounce! I wish I had that problem!”

Posey closed her eyes. “Bye, Mom.”

She pushed open the back door into the blessed silence of a Thursday night in Bellsford, New Hampshire. It was cold outside, the wind coming off the Piscataqua River. March hadn’t released its hold on New England, that was for sure. Posey shivered as she walked down the alley behind the restaurant to the street. Skirts in March…not practical. She hoisted herself into the truck, adjusted her skirt and started the engine, which took a moment to catch before coughing to life. As she drove down the street, Posey slowed in front of what had once been Kirby’s Auto Repair. There was a sign in the window. Coming Soon: Granite State Custom Motorcycles, Liam Murphy, Proprietor.

Time for that emergency Almond Joy in her glove compartment. Posey ripped off the wrapper and practically inhaled the candy bar.

Poor Emma. Posey was truly sorry about that, and felt a tug of sympathy for the daughter, poor kid. And for Liam, too. It couldn’t be easy being a single parent to a teenage girl who’d lost her mother at such an impressionable age. Not that he’d be single for long. Probably had a girlfriend already, maybe more than one, because who could resist a widower with a kid?

Liam Murphy, back in town. To stay. On the one hand, she had to admit that it was thrilling, in the same way that cliff diving might be thrilling…thrilling and often fatal.

“Try not to be an idiot this time around,” she said aloud. With that, she whacked the dashboard of her truck so the iPod would play, then selected Neil Diamond’s “Brother Love’s Traveling Salvation Show” to jump-start a better mood.

The thing was, once upon a time, Posey had fallen for Liam Declan Murphy, and fallen hard. She’d loved him with all the fervor a teenage girl could love a boy, would’ve gone to the ends of the world for him. But without so much as a backward glance, he broke her heart in one stunning blow.

And he still had no idea.

CHAPTER TWO

LIAM MURPHY CLOSED the door behind him and locked the door. Then he unlocked it. Then he relocked it, just to make sure the dead bolt was solidly in place. It was. At least, he thought it was. He unlocked it, then sort of slammed the dead bolt back. Maybe that was too hard, though, maybe he’d thrown something off, so he unlocked it again, then relocked it once more. Just to be sure that being sure was really sure.

He sighed, shook his head in self-disgust. Pretty soon, this…this obsessing…it had to end.

“Nicole? I’m home,” he called. There was no answer, which didn’t mean that his daughter wasn’t home. It could just mean she was in a Mood—and, yeah, the capital letter was definitely needed. Ah. The thumping of a bass guitar began. His daughter was home indeed, and had recently “discovered” the Ramones. At least her taste in music was improving. If Liam had had to listen to one of those prepubescent boys for another hour, he thought he might have to shove a screwdriver in his eardrums.

He went into the kitchen, turned on the water, counting to fifty-five as he soaped up. When Emma was dying—there was no reason to sugarcoat it, to say When Emma was sick or When Emma was in the hospital—when Emma was dying, the doctor had told him that thirty seconds almost always killed the germs, but forty-five would do it for sure. And so forty-five it was…until six months ago. Since then, Liam had started to worry about little things more and more. Case in point: hand washing. What if he counted too fast? What if there were a few really strong germs that could hang on for forty-five seconds? So, fifty-five it was. Nicole, watching him in this little ritual, had already told him he had OCD due to PTSD brought on by Emma’s death, which was close. In truth, it was his own brush with death that seemed to trigger the OCD—the lock-checking, the germ phobia. It tended to be worse in times of stress, and as the single father of a teenage girl, Liam was pretty much stressed as long as he was awake. But since Nicole didn’t know about his…brush…he let her think it was grief. Seemed safer that way.

Drying his hands on a paper towel (who knew what lurked on the dish towel?), he walked down the hall to greet his daughter.

“Hi, honey,” he said, knocking before he opened the door.

“Hi, Dad!” she said, sitting up on her bed. “I didn’t hear you come in.” She smiled, and Liam’s heart did that thing where it seemed to pull in a nearly painful way, same as it had the instant he’d first seen her, slimy and squalling, fifteen and a half years ago.

“How’s my girl?” he asked.

“Not horrible,” was her answer. “Want me to help with dinner?” And Liam felt such a rush of love and gratitude that his chest ached.

“Sure,” he said.

When Liam found out that his girlfriend was pregnant, he’d been surprised…and surprisingly thrilled. Emma wasn’t, which was understandable. She’d been a senior in college, already accepted at UCLA Law, and a baby was most definitely not on her list of things to do at that moment. Breaking up with him…that might’ve been on her list. But she’d said yes when he suggested marriage, especially after he promised he’d do the brunt of the childcare so she could continue with her plans for school.

A baby. At age twenty-one, Liam found himself reading books on childbirth and parenting, asking Emma what she thought about epidurals and sleep training. And when the great day came, it seemed to Liam that his purpose in life had finally been revealed.

To the surprise of everyone—Emma, her parents, the guys at the garage where he worked, and Liam himself—he was a great dad. He got up in the middle of the night and fed the baby, walking her back and forth or taking her for drives at 3:00 a.m., since Emma had to get up early for class. He didn’t flinch at changing diapers, figured out that red and white don’t mix in the laundry, bought organic baby food, cut back on his hours so he only worked when Emma was home or when her parents came out to stay for a week or two. The garage where he worked made custom motorcycles for the very wealthy, and the owner liked Liam. Even part-time pay was enough to cover the bills. When Emma started work as a corporate tax attorney, with its long hours and healthy salary, Liam was the one to take Nicole to school, the one to go to the parent-teacher meetings or pick up Nicole if she felt sick.

His own childhood had been bumpy—his mother died when he was nine, and his father was in and out of jail, so Liam became well acquainted with the foster-care system. He was a crappy student—a whopping case of dyslexia undiagnosed till he was ten didn’t help his attitude. Aside from a better-than-average knowledge of engines, thanks to his father, who ran a chop shop, Liam didn’t have much going for him. Once, a preppy, pain-in-the-ass kid in one of the schools he’d joined mid-year called him “no one from nowhere,” and Liam couldn’t help thinking that it was a little bit true. That hadn’t stopped him from punching the arrogant little dick in the mouth and getting a week’s suspension.

Then, around eighth grade, Liam discovered the power of sex appeal. Suddenly, females of all ages loved him. No one from nowhere was suddenly prince of the city, and he tomcatted around for a while until he met Emma Tate and fell. Hard. And she loved him, too, for a while, anyway, and when she told him—grimly—that she was three weeks late, Liam discovered what destiny felt like.