“Cupcake,” Liam suggests.
“That’s what 1950s businessmen called their secretaries,” I retort.
“Sweetheart.”
“That’s what Wall Street finance bros call their New York–10 girlfriends.”
“Honey.”
“That,” I say, “is what my grandfather called my grandmother.”
“Darling.”
“Do I really need to explain why I don’t want you to call medarling?”
Liam belts a laugh. “Yes, darling.”
“You’re not an Old English cabbie and I’m not a virginal debutante. Next.”
“Bear. Lovebug. Bunny.”
“I am neither a furry creature nor an insect, Liam.”
“Pumpkin.”
“Now I know you’re fucking with me.”
He pushes his lips together, quieting a laugh. After a moment he softly says:
“Baby.”
My blood races, and I swallow thickly. It’s news to me, my body’s reaction tothatterm of endearment.
“I never saw myself as ababyperson, but…”
From his side profile, I can see the muscles of his jaw work. “You used to like it. When I called you Bristol baby.”
I cough. “Mm. Yeah.”
Liam smirks. “Maybe I’ll test it out when you’re least expecting it.”
“A jump scare?” I joke.
“A baby scare.”
“Did you miss your period?”
He rolls his eyes, fighting a full-blown smile.
We pull into the lot for Catalina State Park, a perfect showcase of the Sonoran Desert that sprawls across Tucson. It’s a dry, thirsty heat in the air today with motifs of red-brown and muted green everywhere I look.
Liam chooses a doable hiking trail off the map at the trailhead, and we set off.
“Do you ever hang out with the band or crew on your off days?” I ask.
“Sometimes. But it’s nice to have a break from your coworkers every now and then.”
I wonder if now’s the time to ask about Liam’s history withPenelope. I’ve been putting it off, especially the more I get to know her.
