Chapter 14
Max
Coming clean to Molly about my body’s reaction to touching her could have been a spectacular error of judgement.
As could offering to massage her in the first place.
Instead, oddly, it’s flipped some kind of switch between us.
My being in her home has been a head fuck for both of us, and I think we both went with the same approach, initially.
Be polite. Considerate. Maintain a respectful distance.
Don’t ask awkward questions or dredge up the past.
Turns out, that phony polite strangers gig wasn’t working so well for either of us.
Like it or not, we’re two people who once knew each other inside out—both physically and emotionally.
And yes, we’ve had a long time apart. But that kind of intimacy doesn’t vanish for good like you think it might.
It’s like muscle memory. It lies dormant, and when the time is right, it rushes to the surface again.
It seems I’m comparing living with Molly Carter to riding a bike. I’m sure she’d love that analogy. But it’s not inaccurate.
It’s been three days since I gave her that massage, and it seems she’s come to the same conclusion I have. It’s less complex, and more enjoyable, to allow our old easy intimacy to surface to some extent.
Not, you know, to the extent that has a massage culminating in a happy ending for everyone involved. Not like the massages I used to give her all those years ago. No, they were basically all foreplay.
Come to think of it, pretty much everything we did was foreplay in those days.
Nor do I have the privilege anymore of taking my caregiving duties any further than a simple facial rub.
This week, I’ve run her a bath every evening and left her to it.
No bathing her. No wrapping a towel around her body, or holding her close in bed in a futile attempt to ease her pain.
The door has shut firmly on that aspect of our relationship.
But, honestly, it felt good to blurt out that combing my fingers through that fucking hair of hers had made me hard.
As had running my hands over the incredible, oiled-up contours of her beautiful face.
Relearning her bone structure. Feeling the knots in her neck and shoulders unravel under my touch.
A polite stranger would have tried to grab a cushion while her eyes were shut and get the hell out of that room before she noticed.
But what’s the point in pussyfooting around the truth?
I don’t want to make her uncomfortable in her own home, obviously.
Just as I don’t want to be a total sleaze bag when she’s suffering and merely looking for relief from her pain.
But it can’t come as a surprise to either of us, surely, that there’s still a physical attraction between us.
That was a key part of our relationship, right till the end.
Right till she took that agonising decision to walk away from something that was ninety-five percent fucking miraculous in the present to honour her own desires for her future.
So sue if me I got a boner the first time I properly touched the woman who still holds the position of being the love of my life.
A woman whose beauty has only ripened with age, if that’s possible.
And whose hair—hair I have fucking itched to get my hands on since I turned up on her doorstep—was settled in my groin like a pile of golden silk.
I don’t seem to have offended her. If anything, she’s got the same memo as me: that we know each other way too fucking well to be tiptoeing around each other with excruciating politeness.
As she’s shaken off her sinus infection, she’s got more casually physical with me.
Nudging me out of the way with her hip. Prying my mug out of my hands so she can refill it for me.
Allowing me to give her a thirty-second shoulder rub while standing by the AGA when she got home from work yesterday.
She even booped me on the nose with the tail end of her plait this morning as she thanked me for de-icing her windscreen again.
I’ll take it.
On a superficial level, I’ll take anything that means we can co-exist under the same roof for the next few weeks without things being awkward as fuck between us. It makes life more pleasant for all four of us.
But on a more profound level, a level I’m not sure I’m comfortable analysing too fully at this point, being like this with her makes me happy.
Being intimate. Relaxed. Touchy-feely. We’re back in each other’s lives in the most unexpected way—a way I definitely didn’t see coming when she walked out, all those years ago—and I’m grateful.
I just wish this increased closeness wasn’t making me feel certain things.
Want certain things.
Think about certain things far too much.
Like stepping up behind her when she’s cooking at the AGA and dropping featherlight kisses to the nape of her neck.
Or pulling her down on the sofa to watch TV in my arms.
Or following her shapely backside upstairs when she goes off to bed at night with just a mug of herbal tea to keep her warm.
I’ve been telling myself it’s only natural.
Last time we lived under the same roof we were fucking insatiable.
She gave me free rein over her body, and I returned the favour.
No wonder that most primal part of me, my dick, is confused when I fail to turn washing up into a make-out session.
When I bid her goodnight and head up the kitchen stairs to my own lonely room instead of following her hungrily.
My dick’s not the only body part playing close attention.
I have to admit, watching her with Toby and Daisy transfixes me.
She’s a wonderful mum, like I knew she would be, and I ache with a physical pain when I consider that she’s doing it all alone.
The good bits and the bad bits. The cuddles and the processing.
Seems to me that so much of parenting is logistics and manual labour and running to stand still that it would be easy to lose yourself in that shit and not have much time or energy left for the good bits.
But Molly is doing a brilliant job of mothering and fathering these two.
I’m watching closely. I notice the little things.
Like how she puts a smile on her face when one of them calls her, no matter how exhausted she is.
Or how she squats down to their level and really listens when they speak to her.
Or how, when they ask her for something, she doesn’t just come out with a knee-jerk no, but considers and explains her reasoning before letting them down gently.
I don’t know a thing about parenting, but I understand two things from my short stay here.
It’s utterly exhausting, especially when you’re doing it on your own.
And Molly’s really fucking good at it.
I got a chance to talk to her last night about Toby’s issues at school.
I didn’t want to bother her about it when she was ill, though I’ve been checking in with him each morning.
From what he’s told me, this Tristan kid has managed to keep his hands to himself this week.
Still. I want eyes on that little fucker every day.
‘Toby’s getting a hard time from some little dick in his class called Tristan,’ I said as we washed up after dinner. ‘He told me you were aware of it.’
She sighed. ‘Yeah. It’s been going on since the start of term—they were in different classes last year, so we didn’t have an issue.’
‘Have you kicked up a fuss? Can they not do something?’
Molly paused her scrubbing and looked up at me. ‘Believe me, it makes me sick to my stomach. I just want to go in and punch him, which is awful.’
I nodded and grabbed the wet colander to dry. I felt like punching the little shit too.
‘But it’s not as straightforward as that,’ she continued. ‘It sounds like Tristan has a tough home life. I think his dad is AWOL, and his mum is pretty young and struggling to cope.’
‘Toby’s dad is AWOL,’ I reminded her. ‘Doesn’t mean he goes around bullying smaller kids and generally being an arsehole.’
‘No, you’re right, of course,’ she said. She resumed her scrubbing, tackling the oven dish aggressively. ‘I just mean Tristan’s motivations aren’t crystal-clear. He acts out in other ways too. Toby says he’s very disruptive in class. God knows what kind of mental health issues he’s dealing with.’
‘You’re very rational about all this. I’d be going fucking mental.’
‘I’m trying really hard not to,’ she said. ‘Obviously, I just want to go full mama bear. But the school has asked me to trust them to deal with it, and I have, so far. Has anything else happened that I’m not aware of?’
‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But he mentioned it’s bothering him that they’re both shepherds. It seems to be putting him on edge, and I don’t like it.’
That earned me a smile. It was definitely a teasing smile, but there was some element of affection in there, too. ‘You do know it’s very sweet that you’re getting involved, right?’
I shrugged, embarrassed. I’d only known her kids a few days, and sure, they irritated the shit out of me most of the time I was in charge of them, but Toby’s air of vulnerability and anxiety was really getting under my skin, for some reason.
‘I feel responsible,’ I grunted. ‘If they’re going to tell me stuff, then I should be your eyes and ears when you’re not around. And I don’t see why Mr fucking Pratt can’t keep them apart for the nativity.’
‘Apparently there are about twenty shepherds across the year group, so I wouldn’t worry too much about their roles. But I’ll speak to him at pickup tomorrow to make sure Toby’s not having to sit anywhere near Tristan.’
‘Good.’ I nodded. ‘And, you know, if you want me to say anything to him in the morning, I can. Not a big deal. Just if it saves you time.’
She presses her lips together, amused. ‘I suspect I’d relay our concerns more diplomatically than you would, Max. What do you reckon? Besides, it’s not your problem. I really appreciate you bringing it up, but I can take it from here.’