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“I hope so,” she says earnestly. “Mommy hates it when he’s sick.”
“You could almost believe he’s going bald with the amount of shedding he does.”
What celeb news channel are these people watching?!
“Are you excited to meet Harry, Annie?” Legs asks sweetly.
“Uh, sure,” I say slowly. “I’m more of a Swiftie myself, but I wouldn’t turn down an opportunity to meet Harry. Is he coming to Atlanta or something?”
Liam makes a noise that sounds remarkably like the beginning of a laugh. “Aren’t you a little old to be meeting teenage boys?”
“Teenage boys? Harry Styles is, like, twenty-eight.”
Liam’s eyes shoot wide open. “That doesn’t seem possible.” He gives me a side glance, then seeing I’m serious, his expression becomes horrified. Which makes me smile. “I’mtwenty-eight.”
“Well, then,” I tease, strangely glad to learn how close in age we are. “Aren’tyoua little old to be singing along to music by men who you thought were teenage boys?”
“Yes,” Liam replies gravely. Apparently, my excellent humor was lost on him there.
“Uncle Liam was a teenage boy once! He told me. He liked math class and played baseball and he had a girlfriend. But now, he doesn’t have a girlfriend,” Legs announces.
A slightly awkward silence falls over the vehicle.
Liam drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Legs, honey, Annie doesn’t want to talk about me. I’m old and boring. Why don’t you tell us what you learned today in dance class?”
“My mommy was a teenager once, too,” Legs motors on, ignoring Liam. “And my daddy. Then Mommy had me and Daddy went away and now I’m eight and she’s not a teenager anymore. She’s a grown-up, like Uncle Liam, and she says I’m going to make her hair go gray early.”
I hold my breath as I ingest all this information, provided so innocently, so casually, from the mouth of a child. Personal information about Liam’s family.
“That would be cool!” I tell Legs. “Gray hair is trendy now. All the fashion bloggers are doing it.”
Legs smiles, then busies herself with her backpack, pulling out a little Tupperware full of apples. They’re neatly cut, and lined up in straight, even rows. I know immediately that Liam was responsible for that snack prep.
The thought warms my heart. Or it would, if I was allowing myself to feel these things.
Which I’mnot.
Liam catches my eye. “Lana Mae had her young. Her dad isn’t… involved,” he says quietly.
A pang of sympathy hits me. I’ve always considered myself lucky to have two loving parents.
My thoughts must be clear on my face, because Liam gives a little nod. “She’s the most incredible kid.”
His face visibly softens as he speaks about his niece. It’s the most handsome he’s ever looked.
I swallow thickly. “You seem really close.”
“I’d do anything for her.”
I sit back against the seat and let out an exhale. This short conversation felt so personal, so vulnerable. I feel like I understand Liam a little better now.
He would make an excellent dad.
The thought comes out of nowhere, but with a blinding, aching certainty. I hurriedly stash it away. That is absolutely, positively, no business of mine. I’ve known the guy precisely one week—who am I to be judging his parenting abilities?
At that moment, we pull into the driveway of a pristine duplex with brightly-colored planter boxes and windchimes on the porch. The kind of place that screams “welcome home!”
“We’re here,” Liam says, looking at Legs in the rearview mirror.
