Author: Kristan Higgins

Gretchen gave her a contemptuous look. “Dante and I are back together,” she said.

“Oh, let me break out the champagne, by all means.”

“Well, I thought you should know,” Gretchen sniffed. “Since it affects you.”

“No, it doesn’t, Gretchen. Dante and I had a two-second fling. In hindsight, I think he’s a superficial, shallow ass. Which makes him perfect for you, by the way.”

Gretchen crossed her arms, which made her boobage surge even more.

“Could you cover those up?” Posey couldn’t help asking. “They scare me.” Her stomach growled, so she walked past her cousin and went inside. Alas, Gretchen followed.

“Look. I’m sorry I ruined your precious little birthday dinner, okay? It was…bad timing. But you know what?” Her voice took on that familiar edge—the one she only used with Posey. “I couldn’t take it anymore. There you are, always having everything. Your parents fawning all over you, your brother telling you you’re going to be an aunt, and the godmother, too, of course, God forbid anyone else gets any recognition in this family.”

“Oh, please. You’re the prodigy, the television star, the Barefoot Fraulein, remember?” Posey yanked open the freezer, tore open a box and shoved the pizza in the oven.

“You need to turn it on first,” Gretchen said, condescension dripping.

“Thanks for the tip. It’s so great having a professional chef around.”

“Fine. I won’t say another word. Cook away.”

Posey slapped on the oven. “As for poor, ignored Gretchen, give me a break. Look around my parents’ house. There are more pictures of you than me. It’s not my fault you threw your career in the toilet, Gret.”

Suddenly Gretchen’s eyes flooded with tears. “That’s not what I’m talking about, Posey,” she said. “You don’t know what it’s like to be an only child. Or an orphan. All our lives, my parents compared us, right? I know that! I know I was the golden girl, and you were the ugly duckling.”

“Wow. We’re really bonding now.”

Gretchen wiped her eyes. “No, Posey. I’m serious. No one ever expected anything from you.”

“Can you please leave?”

Gretchen waved her hand dismissively. “I didn’t mean it like that. But Posey, come on. You…you could flush a toilet and your parents would be on the phone, telling everyone how wonderful you were. Whatever you did, no matter what it was, they acted like you’d just walked on the moon. What do you think my parents would’ve said if I told them I wanted to be a junkyard owner?”

“It’s not a junkyard.”

“Whatever. What if I wanted to be a doctor or a pilot or a park ranger! I had to be a chef, Posey. My parents owned a restaurant, and I was going to follow in those footsteps. They drilled that into my head from birth on. A German chef, no matter the fact that I love Italian food. Or French. Or Thai!” She flopped into a chair.

“Still not feeling sorry for you, Gret. Your parents loved you, and come on. They died when you were seventeen. You could’ve become a mortician and they wouldn’t have known.”

“The thing is, Posey, I had a role in the family. You and Henry…you could be whatever you wanted. The truth is, I’ve been jealous of you my whole life. You had freedom, you have a brother and you’ve always known exactly who you are.”

Posey’s head jerked back in surprise, but Gretchen kept talking.

“Me…I’ve been programmed since birth to be the Barefoot Fraulein, and that all came down in flames.” Gretchen’s face scrunched. “And your parents didn’t die! I don’t have anyone.”

“My parents love you like a daughter, Gretchen.”

Gretchen snorted. “No, they don’t, Posey. You’re their little girl. I’m just the niece.”

“Are you serious? They’re so proud of you.”

Gretchen wiped her eyes and gave Posey a pitying look. “Right. Only because they have no idea what’s happened to me. I have a gambling problem. My career’s dead, no network would touch me with a ten-foot pole, Guten Tag is the best I can do. My parents would be so ashamed.” She began sobbing in earnest, covering her hands with her face.

“Oh, Gret.” Posey went over and, after only a nanosecond of hesitation, hugged her. “I don’t think they’d be ashamed, not at all. You made some mistakes, that’s all.”

“I had to live with my cousin,” Gretchen continued, and Posey rolled her eyes and released her.

“I didn’t realize I was quite so repulsive, Gret,” she said. “So sorry you had to suffer.”

Gretchen sighed and wiped her eyes with her fingers. Then she opened the fridge—ever entitled—and took out a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. “Want one?” she asked.

“Sure,” Posey answered, sitting at the table. Shilo flopped at her feet with a groan and offered his belly, which she rubbed with her foot.

“So, here’s the thing,” Gretchen said quietly, handing Posey a glass of wine. “When I finally found something that was good and exciting and fresh… I mean, I can’t tell you how it felt, the first time Dante kissed me, Posey. Like the whole world was new. You have no idea.”

“Oh, I do.” At Gretchen’s dark look, she added, “Not with Dante, though. I never— We never had a real connection.”

“When I found out you were with him first, Posey, I just…lost it. I just felt like… I don’t know. The runner-up. Again.” She paused. “I’m sorry I outed you to Max and Stacia.”

“On my birthday,” Posey added.

Gret sighed. “Yeah. Bad timing.” She took another sip of wine. “It’s just been hard,” Gretchen whispered, tears falling once more. “My life came crashing down around me, and coming back here, seeing you so…adored, your parents, the boys, that chubby kid—”

“Brianna.”

“Whatever. You’re lucky, Posey. You love your job, everyone likes you, and you have that god in your bed at night.” She blew her nose.

“Actually, we broke up,” Posey said.

Gretchen’s face brightened. “Really?”

“Don’t look happy, you pain in the ass.”

Gret grimaced. “Sorry. I am, Posey. He seemed like he really liked you.”

“Well, not enough, I guess.”

Gretchen’s perfect nose wrinkled. “Your supper’s burning,” she said.

Sure enough, smoke was coming out of the oven. “Crap,” Posey muttered, looking in. Dang, she’d forgotten to take off the plastic wrap.

Gretchen grinned. “You said you didn’t want help,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll whip something up.”

A half-hour later, Posey was eating the best omelet of her life—herbs and some exotic cheese left over from Gret’s month here—laughing as her cousin told a story of her own cooking disasters on the air. “No wonder that stupid show didn’t get any ratings,” Gretchen said thoughtfully. “I just don’t think America really wants to know how to deep-fry pork rinds.”

“More for us,” Posey said. “Even if they do take ten years off your life per serving.”

Gretchen smiled. Then she gave Posey a long look. “Think we can be friends? Even if you are a weird little junkyard dog who dresses like a man?”

Posey smiled. “You bet, Gret. Even if you are a pretentious diva obsessed with her own boobs.”

They clinked glasses and sealed the deal.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“DAD? ARE YOU OKAY?”

Liam looked up from the strut he was installing. “Oh. Hi, Nicole.”

His daughter didn’t come down to the garage much…certainly not since the cold war that began when he grounded her. The past two weeks had been filled with Nicole either ignoring him or whining that, seriously, he had to lift the ban on Facebook, texting, cell phone and friends, which only made him more and more tense.

His daughter gave him that baffled look she’d perfected around age twelve. “Dad, I’ve been standing here for, like, ten minutes.” Her voice echoed off the walls of the garage.

“Sorry. What do you need?”

“I just thought we could hang out.”

He looked down, not sure he wanted her to know how much he’d missed her. “That’d be great.” Why the lessening of hostilities, he had no idea, but such was the way of the teenager. The knot that had been living in his gut lately loosened. “You hungry?”

“Not for any of that crap you have in the vending machine.” She gave him a pitying look—fathers, such idiots—and took an apple out of her backpack, along with a thick red book and a notebook.

“Geometry?” he asked.

“Physics. It’s easy, though.”

“Because you’re smart.”

“Thanks, old man.” She smiled—Emma’s smile—and it caught him in the heart. When Nicole had her first fever at four months old, she would only sleep if he rocked her, and even so, only in fifteen-minute installments. On the third day, Emma had come in from school, seen them both dozing in the rocking chair and said, “That baby is holding you hostage.”

Hadn’t stopped since.

Liam had received the letter from the Tates’ lawyer this week, gone to Allan Linkletter, who assured him that the odds of him losing full-time custody of his child, who was almost old enough to be emancipated in the eyes of the law, were very small.

They just weren’t small enough. The Tates had a lot of influence in the old-boy world around here. Liam could afford a good lawyer, that wasn’t an issue, but what if the judge was an old crony of George’s? What if Liam had slept with the judge’s daughter in high school?

Just last night, Liam had bolted awake from a recurring dream…Nicole calling him from far, far away, asking if he’d come get her. In the dream, he’d jumped on the Triumph and headed toward her, only to realize he didn’t know where she was. Then the dream changed, and it was Cordelia he was supposed to pick up. But she’d been waiting a long, long time, and by the time he got there, she didn’t remember who he was.

It felt like he hadn’t smiled in a lifetime. The slow evaporation of his wife’s love, the wasting sickness and endless, bleak months that followed, Nicole’s grief, then the accident and all its consequences…and now this. Now his damn in-laws and all their drama.

That little window with Cordelia seemed impossibly bright. The idea that a couple of weeks ago, he’d had someone to kiss, someone who made him laugh, someone who fell asleep against him as they watched a movie on the couch…someone who had told him not to sell himself short…that seemed like it had happened to someone else.

Best not to think of it.

“You have a game tonight, right, Dad?” Nicole asked.

Ah, crap. “That’s right.” A game against Cordelia’s team, no less. So much for not thinking about her.

“Can I come and watch?” Nicole asked.

“Sure.”

“Daddy, you seem sad,” Nic blurted, her own eyes filling.

“Oh, no, honey. I’m fine.”

“Do you miss Mom?” Her voice sounded so small.

“You bet.” He missed her, all right. He’d been missing her for a long, long time.

“Tell me something nice about her,” Nicole said.

It was something he’d done the first year or so after Emma died. Every day, he’d tell Nicole a story about her mom. The sweet things, the funny things, the normalcy that, before marriage, Liam had only ever seen on TV—pancakes on the weekends, family movie night, dinner together, every day. No matter how mundane the story, Nicole loved hearing about her mom—the way Emma insisted that they all floss nightly. The hot-water bottle on which she’d drawn a smiley face. The way she’d leave notes under Nicole’s pillow if she had to go away on business.