“About an hour drive.”
“How’d you end up there?”
“I’m getting my master’s through a graduate program at the state university in Durham, so I got an apartment a few towns over for my first year there when my classes were in person, but I couldn’t bring myself to move when I switched to online classes.”
Liam’s voice dips when he mentions his master’s like it’s not something he particularly cares for.
“Do you like what you’re getting your master’s in?”
His shoulders rise in a shrug. “It doesn’t really matter. My dad’s done more for me than I could ever ask. I owe him. He didn’t want to work at the creamery. MIT was starting to talk to him when he dropped out. I thought in college maybe I could make it to the pros and pay them back, and he could retire early, but then I didn’t recover right from the ACL injury.”
My heart squeezes. Why did I ever think everything was easy for him, and he lived a charmed life? “You don’t owe Harry anything for loving you. You know Nana’s mantra about love.”
He sighs. “It’s freely given, or it was never love at all.”
“Exactly. I’m so sorry your biological dad was an asshat who ... asshatted...” Oh, my mental faculties are depleting exponentially now. “But that doesn’t mean you have to live a life in service of someone else because they chose to love you. That was gifted to you. It wasn’t a loan. And I know I’ve never gotten to know your dad well, but I think he’d want you to do what you want to do with your life. If this business stuff isn’t what makes you happy, we’re still young, there’s still time to figure something else out.” I yawn, drifting closer and closer to sleep.
“I’ll think about it, Peaches. Get some rest.” He kisses the top of my forehead, and I feel the nickname bloom in my chest, knowing he’s connecting me to Nana somehow. He always has.
18
Sprinkle Kind of Life
“Howmanycupsofcoffee do you think I can order before the barista thinks I have a problem?”
I lean into Liam’s shoulder, dangerously close to using his hard chest as a pillow for a quick vertically inclined power nap in this quaint coffee shop. The curse of the last-minute flight sags heavily on my shoulders. Over the past twenty-four hours, I flew from Paris to London, to Iceland, to Toronto, then finally to Boston, where Liam was a saint and picked me up at five this morning, bringing me the rest of the way up to this seaport town in New Hampshire—Portsmouth. Which so far, is so cute I want to pinch its cheeks.
Liam’s been back in town for two whole days, most of which I was traveling for, but he stupidly took Caleb out for his bachelor party last night while still being terribly jetlagged because, apparently, he has zero chill when it comes to saying no to the O’Sheas and has heavy lids, harrowingly like mine.
“I don’t know, but whatever that number is, I think we should double it,” he whispers.
Shivers at his mouth’s proximity to my skin shimmer down my spine, right on schedule, and I happily soak them all in. My body suffered through drastic withdrawals the past few days without him.
Inhaling, coffee and cocoa swirl around us. Brick adorns three of the four walls, with a big picture window open to the small street of restaurants and shops.
“We could always pretend that we’re buying a bounty of cups for friends or something.”
“Wouldn’t work. They know I don’t have friends.” Liam points his chin at the blonde barista sporting space buns behind the counter.
My mother, in her haste to show off that despite my many deficiencies I’ve somehow managed to keep the attention of a man for longer than two weeks, has planned a party in our honor today, which means there will be no sleep, and a coffee scheme is needed.
“I find that hard to believe. You’re so likable—who could ever have a problem with you?” My brows dance in jest. In the car ride when I said I missed him and kissed him senselessly, I realized something I had overlooked in our time at each other’s throats. Liam Kelly is terrible at receiving a compliment. He turns red, sputters, deflects, squirms, whatever he can to not acknowledge it.
And because I am tired, and nettling Liam is my favorite pastime, especially when he’s tired and grumpy, I’m now showering him with them.
He snorts, shaking his head. “I’ll be right back.” Liam’s hand leaves the small of my back as the barista finishes the order before us and welcomes me with a broad, affectionate smile.
It’s natural and kind. A smile I, in desperate need of coffee to resurrect me, cannot return.
“Hey there, what can I get you?” she asks, leaning over the maple countertop.
I blink at her. I’ve been navigating public interactions in a second language for so long that this reprieve is alarmingly comforting.
“Whatever your biggest cup of coffee is, can you fill that with espresso shots, please?”
“An extra large coffee with an espresso shot? Sure, coming right up.”
I shake my head, beckoning her to draw closer. Same language or not, something was lost in translation. “No, I’m sorry, what I meant was, can you take that large cup over there”—I point to the stack of white paper cups behind the counter—“and fill it up with espresso.”
