Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
"You've changed outfits four times," Jane observed from her perch on Libby's childhood bed, her medical journal abandoned as she watched her sister's fashion crisis escalate. "The sweater was fine. The dress was fine. The jeans were definitely fine."
"Nothing is fine," Libby muttered, checking her reflection again in the mirror that still had hockey stickers around its edges—Boston Steel, Team USA, and a Springfield Falcons decal she'd added just last season when they made their unexpected playoff run.
"Mom's probably practicing her mother-of-the-groom speech right now," Libby continued, abandoning the third sweater for the original one. "She's definitely already picked out her outfit for our fictional wedding. God, she might have already put a deposit down on the country club."
"The spring special is very reasonable," Jane said mildly. "She mentioned it three times at breakfast."
"Jane!"
"I'm kidding. Mostly." Jane's expression turned more serious. "Though I should probably remind you that I'm the only one who knows this is fake. Mom, Dad, everyone else—they think you're actually dating Liam D'Arcy. Of course she's excited, Lib. It's her dream come true."
"I know." Libby sat heavily on her bed, crushing the rejected dress. "That's what makes this so complicated. They're meeting my fake boyfriend who I almost really kissed yesterday morning and now I don't know what we are."
"Do you want to know what I think?"
"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—"
"Won't be ready for at least thirty minutes, knowing your timeline," Robert said fondly. "You'll fret less with us out of your hair."
As the men disappeared, Linda immediately grabbed Libby's arm with the grip of someone who'd waited years for this moment.
"He's even more handsome in person! Those shoulders!
That jawline! And so thoughtful with the gifts—do you know what peonies cost this time of year?
" She was already leading them toward the living room where family photos covered every available surface.
"Come, you can show him your hockey photos while I check on dinner. The good albums are in the cabinet."
"Mom, no—"
"Oh! I should warn you, Calvin Middleton might stop by. He heard you were coming for dinner."
"What? Mom, you didn't invite him—"
"I might have mentioned it when he called earlier." Linda had the grace to look slightly guilty. "Why, as soon as he heard the name D'Arcy I would've had to hire security to keep the man out, and you know he's always been sweet on you, darling—"
"Mom!"
"What? Options are good! Not that Liam isn't wonderful, but we have to be realistic here..."
Libby wanted to dissolve into the floor. "Please tell me you didn't actually suggest he was an option."
"I may have implied that things were getting serious between you and Liam." Linda patted her cheek. "Competition is healthy in relationships! Keeps men on their toes!"
Before Libby could explain the seventeen different ways this was mortifying, Jane appeared from the kitchen, flour in her hair.
"Mom, your béchamel is doing something weird."
"Oh God, not again." Linda rushed toward the kitchen. "Libby, set the table! And use the cloth napkins from the dining room drawer!"
Left alone in the living room shrine to Bennet-Cross family history, Libby contemplated escape.
Every surface held photographic evidence of their chaotic, loving, decidedly unglamorous life.
School photos with unfortunate haircuts, family vacations to decidedly non-exotic locations like Lake George and Cape Cod, and so many pictures of her in various stages of hockey obsession it looked like a sporting goods catalog had exploded.
"Mom's lasagna's trying to escape," Jane reported, returning from the kitchen. "She's wrestling it back into submission."
"Please tell me you're joking."
"The cheese made a break for it. Very dramatic. Also, Lydia just texted that she'll be late because—and I quote—'something AMAZING happened with my fitness brand that requires immediate documentation.'"
"Of course she did."
"And Mary's upstairs recording her podcast episode about statistical probability in professional sports relationships."
"Naturally."
Jane studied her with those too-perceptive eyes. "You okay? You look like you're about to vibrate out of your skin."
"I almost kissed him, Jane. Yesterday morning at the rink."
"You told me. Proximity and cold air, you said."
"I lied." Libby sat heavily on the couch. "It wasn't proximity. We were about to full-on kiss on the TD Garden ice because we wanted to. Because I wanted to. Because he definitely wanted to."
"I know," Jane said gently.
"And now he's here, charming Dad with expensive scotch he researched specifically for him, and not batting an eye at Mom's insanity, and being just likeable in general and..."
"Want my professional medical opinion?"
"That I need to breathe into a paper bag?"
"You have a lot in common. Shared interests. Shared values." Jane's smile was gentle. "More than you think."
"But I have so much more to lose," Libby said quietly.
"You don't know that, Libs."