Second chance romance, p.21
Second Chance Romance, page 21
“Okay.” Molly’s pen tapped against her notepad as she thought for a moment. “From my perspective, here’s the fundamental story you just told me and how I interpret it.”
He braced himself. Accidentally ripped up a patch of grass in the process.
“You started dating a girl in high school,” she began, her voice maddeningly neutral. “You dealt with her honestly, treated her well, and loved her as best you could, even during tough patches. She ended the relationship after a major life change, most likely because she was changing too, and did so in an unkind way. Knowing Becky, she maybe didn’t even realize she was being unkind. Nevertheless, you were hurt and embarrassed and didn’t want to talk about the circumstances of the breakup, which I can understand.”
Somehow, it didn’t sound so embarrassing when Molly explained it like that.
“But, Karl . . .” She leaned forward then. Laid a warm hand over his socked foot. “You had nothing to be ashamed of, either then or now. I hope you know that. You’re”—air quotes—“‘good enough’ for anyone, and you always were.”
He ticked off his counterarguments on his fingers. “No college degree. Barely ever left the goddamn state. Bad with words. Not exactly an athlete or supermodel.”
And if who and what he was hadn’t been sufficient for Becky or the other women he’d dated, how the hell could he possibly be enough for Molly fucking Dearborn?
Her hand left his foot, and she sat back against the tree with an audible thump.
Dramatically, she raised her own right thumb. And when she spoke again, her voice sounded less neutral and more pissed off.
“Through sheer stubborn determination and hard work, you’ve expanded the bakery to twice its size and made it a central business in Harlot’s Bay.” Her index finger went up. “You’ve gathered a fantastic crew of workers, whom you pay well and help however you’re able.” Middle finger. “You’ve taken a vulnerable young woman and her children under your wing, when absolutely no one asked you to do so.” Ring finger. “As today showed, you can communicate effectively when desired.” Pinkie. “You can always travel if and when you choose to do so. And having a passport doesn’t somehow guarantee good character or a good life, Dean.”
Abandoning her finger count, she threw her hands in the air. “I mean, Rob has a damn passport! From what I heard, he and his fiancée celebrated their engagement in St. Barts!”
Point made. “Yeah, but—”
“You’re an amazingly talented baker,” she declared, with zero acknowledgment of his attempted interruption. “Not to mention a successful business owner, a hardworking member of the Harlot’s Bay community, a committed Nasty Wench, and a loving son and brother.”
Mingled pleasure and discomfort had him flushed and shifting uncomfortably. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because she kept going.
“Plus, you’re hot.” Sounded like an accusation, which was weird, but whatever. Only a total dunce wouldn’t take that compliment from a woman like her. “Like, really freaking hot. If a supermodel or athlete tried to get his hand inside my pants, I’d break his arm. Yours is still intact, Karl. There’s a reason for that. And that reason is your undeniable hotness. I thought I’d already made said hotness clear, so start paying attention, will you?”
Her lips-pursed, disapproving headshake would’ve done a schoolmarm proud.
Coincidentally? He kinda felt proud too. Less inadequate. Way more confident.
“You’re also really good with your hands, so I had high freaking hopes when it came to your fingering skills,” she added. “Hopes that—to be clear—were fully realized.”
At that, his dick basically stood up and saluted her. “Yeah?”
“What did you think, Dean?” Her eyes rolled to the wispy clouds above. “That I poured a gallon of lube down my jeans before going to your bakery? Then proceeded to fake coming so damn hard, my abs actually hurt the next day?”
He snorted, amusement battling abject horniness. “A gallon, huh?”
She raised a superior brow. “Ever heard of hyperbole?”
Using his own words against him. She was a damn delight.
“A good life—a worthwhile life—doesn’t require moving somewhere else, and it doesn’t require a college diploma. Becky should have realized that, and the breakup was her loss. Not yours.” Her cheeks flushed with sun and conviction, she stabbed a finger in his direction. “There’s no way she found a better man than you, no matter where in the world she roamed. And as someone who’s lived in a dozen different places, I would freaking know.”
They were in public. Five feet to the left? Two hairy, overgrown rodents with fluffy tails eyeing his duffel bag way the hell too curiously. Straight ahead? A couple of gap-toothed elementary schoolers skipping around the pond in dorky tricorn hats.
Good thing she kept lecturing him before he could jump her anyway.
“Here’s the last thing I’ll say: Twenty years ago, you should have trusted me not to be as shallow as Becky and explained the situation before asking whether I found”—the woman truly loved air quotes—“‘big motherfuckers’ attractive, Mr. Your-Lack-of-Trust-Is-a-Mortal-Offense.” Looking triumphant, she set aside her notebook. “See the irony? Because it’s glaring.”
Another point: hereby made.
His phone beeped with a text. Grateful for the reprieve, he snatched his cell from the blanket and held it directly in front of his face.
Communicate like the wind, Special K! While he was still reading Athena’s first text, another popped up. Only with actual words instead of howls or groans! Just to clarify!
Dammit. How did Greydon know? She invent some sort of sensor that activated whenever he got too tempted to stop talking and start sexing?
After sending a middle-finger emoji in response, he tossed his phone aside. “I get your point, Dearborn. Sorry.”
“Which one?” Molly immediately asked. “Because I made many excellent points.”
He paused a beat too long. “All of ’em?”
“Really?” Challenge lit her eyes, turning them an incandescent blue. “Name them.”
Challenge damn well accepted. “Should’ve trusted you to be kinder than Becky.”
“And?”
She was going to make him say it? Fine. Fine.
“Shouldn’t’ve thought you and Becky were too good for me.”
“And?”
Why the hell did her relentlessness turn him on so much? Along with every other goddamn thing about her?
“You think I’m hot.”
“And?”
If she pushed him, he’d gladly push right back. “My hand between your legs makes you incredibly fucking wet.”
A sly, sexy smile dawned on her gorgeous face. “It certainly does.”
Those round, strong thighs of hers rubbed together as she shifted. Her hard nipples pressed against the smooth cotton of her shirt, her bold stare tractor-beamed him closer, and he gave the hell up. Surrendered to their mutual horniness. Clambered to his knees and—
His phone dinged a third time.
He froze. Groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face, then painstakingly got his shit together again.
“Better . . .” Dammit, Greydon, you cockblocking pain in my ass. “Better keep doing the exercise. Getting off track here.”
“Not in my opinion,” Molly said wryly.
“Run out of daylight before too long, and I go to bed early.” Avoiding temptation, he glued his eyes to his remaining stack of index cards. “Gotta hurry with the other two activities.”
Her chest rose and fell on a silent sigh. “If you want to end before sunset, we probably have time for one more game. Not two.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right. Second game will be quicker, so . . .” Were those goosebumps on her forearms? “We’ll do Secret Exchange. Exactly what it sounds like. You tell me a secret, I tell you one.”
Definitely goosebumps, dammit. He shuffled off the quilt, still on his knees, then tossed his half over her legs. Would give a month’s profits to warm her himself, but no way they’d finish the game if he did that. They’d be lucky to make it to his car.
“You go first,” he told her.
Because if she shared some piddling shit, he’d follow suit. But if she confessed something meaningful . . . yeah. He knew what he’d finally confess in return.
“If my secret’s big enough, will that finally get you into bed with me?” Cool, composed Molly sounded impatient as hell. “Because I’ve been waiting for two decades now, Karl. I can see your erection through your jeans—again. And these past two weekends, I’ve been telling you a whole crapload of things no one else knows. Please tell me that’s enough for you.”
She flicked the edge of the quilt. “Also, thank you for this, but I’d rather be underneath you.”
Jesus H. Christ. Did she want him to die from thwarted lust?
And even apart from that—what she’d just said? It implied things he didn’t like. At all. Troubled, he scratched his beard. Forced himself to think through his response.
He’d never intended to use his stupid dick as leverage. Never intended to dangle sex in front of her to force confessions she’d rather not make. He just hadn’t wanted to make it easy for her to explain away everything between them as simple sexual chemistry, then promptly peace out for good. And he’d worried about the aftermath if she fucked him and ran.
From that day on, every time he had sex with someone else, he’d have to battle his memories. Try not to compare. The task? Already hard enough. Long before her return, before they’d even kissed, she’d haunted his most intimate moments. Sleeping with her would only make things inconceivably worse when she was gone.
Only . . . that explanation wasn’t the full story, was it? Wasn’t the main reason he’d shied away from sex with the woman of his literal dreams.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Blew out a hard breath.
The rock-bottom truth: Deep in his Cadbury Creme heart, he hadn’t just been worried about what might happen if they tumbled into bed together. He’d been scared. He was scared, and not only for his future sex life.
Sleeping with Molly would mean surrendering even more of his heart to her, along with his body. Which—if she left afterward—would mean even more of that stupidly fragile heart shattered. So he’d put her off. Denied himself what they both wanted.
He was doing the same thing he’d done twenty years ago. Hedging his bets. Protecting himself. Probably screwing up the same way he had twenty years ago too.
How much of his heart was still his, anyway? At this point, couldn’t be a lot. Maybe none at all. And wasn’t having Molly goddamn Dearborn—if only for a couple weeks—worth the risk, no matter what?
“Karl? Are you all right?” All the impatience had vanished from her voice, replaced with sincere concern. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pressured you. It’s your body. Your decision. I’m being a jerk, and I hope you can forgive me.”
Huh?
Opening his eyes, he waved that off. “I fucking love that you want me, Dearborn. Makes me feel like . . .” What was the comparison he’d come up with the other day? “Like Godzilla.”
She blinked at him. “Poised to destroy downtown Tokyo?”
At that bit of deliberate obtuseness, his middle finger made a reappearance. “Powerful. Taller than a skyscraper. Ready to beat my chest.”
“Beat your . . .” Her forehead smoothed, and she shook her head at him. “You’re thinking of King Kong. Who’s a primate, not a lizard.”
“Reptile.”
“Whatever.” She poked him with her quilt-covered foot. “Get to the point, Dean.”
“You’re the one who questioned my Godzilla comparison, woman.” He captured her ankle. Tickled her toes until she squeaked. “Anyway, as I was trying to say before some nitpicky asshole derailed me—”
“Your train jumped the tracks long before you met me, and we both know it.”
“—I don’t feel pressured by you. I feel desired. Different thing entirely.” He shook his head. Tickled her arch some more. “That’s not the issue. Not why I was thinking for so long.”
“Okay, then.” She jerked her foot free. Lightly kicked him, for good measure. “What is the issue?”
These days, he had more damn issues than Corporations Monthly. But right this very second—“I’m worried you think I’m using sex to pressure you. I’m not, Molly. Swear to Christ, I’m not. You don’t have to somehow earn it by telling me shit you don’t want to.”
This was the most ridiculous conversation of his entire life. In what universe was access to his dick something he could use as a potential bargaining chip? Even inadvertently?
He was a small-town baker, for fuck’s sake. Not the world’s crankiest gigolo.
“I know that, Karl. Don’t worry. I’m just being dramatic.” She considered that for a moment. “Which isn’t something I do often in real life. Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”
“Nope. I’d remember.”
“Figuratively rubbing off on me.” She side-eyed him while he snickered at his own joke. “Okay, then. Let’s get this over with. Give me your dick, withhold your dick, do whatever you want with it. No matter what, I’m telling you my secret, so shut up and listen, Dean.”
Long as she didn’t feel coerced? He’d listen to whatever she wanted to tell him. Gladly.
The breeze blew her hair across her cheek, and she tucked it behind her ear. Nodded to herself. Started talking, her tone blunt and matter-of-fact.
“My doctor is worried about me. Worried about my health. Mental. Physical. All of it.” Her fingers plucked at the edge of the quilt, although she held his gaze. “The only other person on this planet who knows that is Rob, but he hasn’t gotten any updates for years now, so he doesn’t realize the full scope of the problem.”
She paused. “Problems, rather. Plural. Insomnia. Rising blood pressure. Headaches.”
Shit. That sounded fucking serious.
The phone conversation he’d overheard last weekend came back to Karl. Your health is suffering, the asshole had told her, then blamed everything on her house. Which was very fucking convenient, since the bastard wanted to snatch it from her.
“And it’s not just my doctor,” she added. “I’m worried too. Scared about what might happen if I don’t lower my stress level. But I can’t seem to do it.”
If Molly and her doctor were anxious about her health? That made three of ’em.
“What the hell’s causing all your stress?” He leaned forward. Claimed her foot again, wrapping his hand around her arch and feeling its warmth, its strength. “Work? Family? Where you live?”
“I love my job. My house too, even though it needs a lot of maintenance.” Her mouth twisted. “I think part of the issue is isolation, even after so many years in LA. I didn’t grow up there. My college friends are scattered all over the country. I’m divorced, I work from home, and . . . you know how I am. I tend to keep my distance from everyone.”
For some stupid reason, it’d never occurred to him before: He and Dearborn both did that. In very different ways, but . . . yeah. Main difference? Karl had people who’d forcefully shoved their way into his life in Harlot’s Bay. Not to mention—
“What about your family?” Matthew and Athena were right: He should know this already. Why hadn’t he asked long before now? “You have one set of grandparents in Arizona, but where’s everyone else?”
Sure, Karl lived in his parents’ old house, but they hadn’t moved far away. Just to a little single-story duplex on the outskirts of town, one they could easily maintain. All his siblings had settled somewhere between Harlot’s Bay and DC, and Emily—the youngest Dean kid—had her CPA office just down the street from Grounds and Grains and did the bakery’s books.
He might not see them every day, but they were always there. Even when—frankly—he didn’t want them to be. They were great. Loving, funny, smart, hardworking. But chatty as hell. And loud. So goddamn loud. The knob on his family’s volume control had broken off at birth.
Couldn’t complain about that to Molly, though, or she’d respond with some pithy bullshit about irony.
Normally, his parents and siblings swarmed the bakery every day or two. She’d have run into them long before now if they weren’t currently driving an overcrowded RV across the damn country. Excellent timing on their part, since meeting the Zero-Sense-of-Personal-Space Dean family would make Dearborn feel even more pressured. Which, in turn, might launch her toward the nearest Cali-bound plane, so thank fuck they were gone. At least the endless nosy phone calls from Mom and Dad and the steady stream of taunting texts from his pain-in-the-ass brother and sisters didn’t require Molly’s active participation.
“Mom and my stepfather live in Oregon. I don’t have siblings, and my other grandparents died while I was still in college. Dad and his”—her lips pressed together tightly for a moment—“family are somewhere in NorCal, last I heard. So no one’s close to Los Angeles.”
His family, huh? Like she didn’t count?
And why the hell didn’t she know where her father lived?
Another crucial issue to cover first, though. “You lonely out there?”
Would be good for his cause, but he hated the thought anyway. Wanted her happy, even if he wanted her happy with him even more.
“Sometimes.”
Her guarded tone tipped him off. “That an understatement?”
She didn’t answer the question. Just stared at him, expression cool and smooth as a polished rock. Which answered the question.
Yeah, she should definitely stay in Maryland. For his sake, obviously, but hers too.
Here in Harlot’s Bay, she’d have a real community, even apart from him. He already knew his family would swallow her whole, adopt her into the Dean clan, and smother her with affection, regardless of whether she asked for any of it. And she’d gain friends and neighbors too, all of ’em ready to offer help or company whenever she wanted either. Which was something he’d tried to show her at the Nasty Wenches meeting, even before he’d understood how badly she needed that kind of in-person support.
