"That I'm overthinking everything and should just see what happens?"
"That you're both disasters who clearly want each other and should stop pretending otherwise." Jane's directness was unusual enough to make Libby look up. "But yes, also the overthinking thing."
A car door slammed outside. Libby's heart attempted to exit through her throat.
"That's him," she said, frozen. "He's here. At our actual house. Meeting our actual family. What if Dad goes full protective mode and questions his intentions? What if Mom mentions that Falcons player who kept asking me out? What if Lydia hits on him? What if Mary calculates our statistical incompatibility to his face?"
"All of those things will definitely happen," Jane said calmly. "But he agreed to this, remember? And after yesterday morning, you know this isn't just about the fake relationship anymore."
"It was just proximity," Libby said quickly. "Ice rinks are weirdly intimate. All that cold air and..."
Jane gave her a look.
"Fine. But still."
"Liam!" Their mother's voice reached pitches typically reserved for boy band concerts and Black Friday sales. "Oh, you shouldn't have! Robert, ROBERT! Come see these GORGEOUS flowers! Peonies! In April! Do you know what these must have cost?"
Libby closed her eyes, gathered what remained of her composure, and headed downstairs to face whatever fresh chaos awaited.
She found Liam in the entryway, looking unfairly good in dark jeans and a steel-blue button-down that made his eyes even more devastating than usual. Her mother was clutching an enormous bouquet of peonies like they were made of gold, practically vibrating with excitement.
"—and I was just telling Robert that we know absolutely everyone worth knowing in Springfield—the mayor comes to our Fourth of July barbecue, you know, and the country club practically begged us to join—but it's so wonderful to expand our circle to Boston's elite?—"
"Mom," Libby said, but her voice came out breathless because Liam was looking at her with an expression that made her forget why she'd been anxious.
Their eyes met over her mother's animated gesturing. The greeting hug was meant to be quick, casual, maintaining their public performance. Instead, Liam pulled her close, his hand warm and steady on her lower back, her face pressed against his shoulder where she could smell his soap and that expensive cologne that had haunted her since Portland. When they pulled apart, she caught the slight dilation of his pupils, the way his hand lingered on her waist a beat too long.
One day since the almost-kiss, and the space between them practically crackled with awareness.
"—coached at Westfield Prep for fifteen years," Linda was continuing, apparently unbothered that neither of them was listening. "Absolutely legendary record before those horrible Whitman parents got involved?—"
"Linda," Robert appeared from his study with perfect timing and his characteristic dry humor. "Perhaps we could save the full enemies list for after introductions?"
He extended his hand to Liam with an expression that managed to be both welcoming and mildly assessing—the exact look he'd perfected over decades of five daughters bringing home various suitors. "Mr. D'Arcy. Welcome to our home."
"Mr. Bennet-Cross," Liam replied, presenting an expensive-looking bottle. "I understand Highland Park was your victory drink of choice during the '08 championship season."
Libby watched her father's entire demeanor shift, his eyebrows rising in genuine surprise. "That's... very specific information. Might I ask your source?"
"Anders Lindqvist mentioned it," Liam said. "He said you were the best coach he ever had, and that you celebrated every championship with exactly two fingers of Highland Park, neat."
Libby's heart did something complicated in her chest. She'd only mentioned her dad coached hockey. How much time had he spent piecing together her clues to not only discover the school but make the connection with a former player? He'd gone out of his way, not only to find the perfect host gift but to show her he was listening. That he cared.
"Anders." Robert's expression softened noticeably. "How is that Swedish nightmare?"
"Playing in the German league. Married with twins."
"Good for him." Robert examined the bottle with clear appreciation. "This is a thirty-year. Mr. D'Arcy?—"
"Please, call me Liam."
"Liam. This is excessive."
"It's appropriate," Liam replied simply. "Anders said you were the reason he didn't quit hockey at seventeen. That deserves good scotch."
Something passed between the two men that Libby couldn't quite read. Her father nodded once, decisively. "Well then. Let's open this and you can tell me how you and Anders crossed paths. Linda, we'll be in my study."
"But dinner?—"
