All the while he looks at me like he wants to eat me for dessert or pokes me to get a rise out of me.
I can’t reconcile the many facets of Liam Murphy.
20
warm insides
Lorien
Done sulking, I wipe the tears from my face and reenter the house.
The island still holds the plate of cookies, but the paper is gone. In its place are platter upon platter of taco fixings. Steak and chicken, red and green bell peppers, pico de gallo, refried beans and black beans, grated cheese, sour cream, lettuce, and tomato. There’s a bowl of chips and three different kinds of salsas, along with guacamole and queso. Hard corn shells and soft flour tortillas round out the feast.
My stomach reminds me that it sounded good however long ago, and I’m no less hungry than I was when we arrived.
The room must know it because all eyes turn to me.
“Who are you?” The gorgeous teenager asks.
“Renée,” her mom scolds, all the while Liam studies my face.
“I’m Lorien. You must be Renée. Your mom and dad mentioned you were out with friends.”
She studies me before looking around the room. “What’s going on? This is so sus.”
“I’m your uncle’s—” I don’t know how to finish that sentence. As it stands, it’s vague and way too weirdly possessive.
“You met somebody?” She turns to him and gives him a high-five. Returning her gaze to me, she watches me. “You’ve been crying. Are you okay?”
“I will be.” I hope I’m telling this girl the truth.
She looks back to Liam before laying down the hammer. “She shouldn’t have been crying alone. Don’t make me put raisins in your cookies.”
He makes a face. “Don’t threaten me.”
“You don’t like raisins in your oatmeal cookies? I suspected as much. That’s probably because you haven’t had mine.”
He sputters a little and slices a smiling squint-eyed glare at his niece. “Traitor.”
“All’s fair in love and war.”
“Which is it?” he pipes back.
“Come on. It’s taco time.” She turns and bounces around the big island, opening the fridge and grabbing a fizzy water.
“Your White Claw got warm, so I pitched it.” A low gravelly voice whispers in my ear. “What do you want with your tacos?”
Tilting my head his way, I come face-to-face with the man still holding his nephew. How do I rectify the rough looking man with the sweet way he holds this innocent baby? “Beer. Or water.”
“You’ve got it.” He extends a hand, indicating I should go ahead of him, and rounds the island, just like Renée did for the fridge. He pulls out two bottles without Wills ever being jostled and sets them down in front of me, twisting off one top and then the other, all one-handed. “Grab a plate and get some grub.”
I realize the three other Murphys have plates full and are digging in. I wander the island, trying to decide, and grabbing a bit of everything. Except the corn shells.
As if I never had a meltdown, as if the previous conversation never happened, the five of us chat and joke, talking about the week behind us and the week ahead.
I don’t mention my trip to Peoria. I do groan when I get my first bite of taco. And my second. Damn this is good. I haven’t had a meal that hit the spot like this since… Since the chili.
I’m so screwed.
