6. Chapter Five
Chapter Five
Molly
I wake up in my sister's guest room to the sound of muffled laughter and what I'm pretty sure is her using her "sexy phone voice".
It's the one that means she's talking to her husband. And being inappropriately flirty. At eight in the morning.
Sunlight streams through the lace curtains, and for a moment, I feel almost... peaceful.
When was the last time I woke up without that knot of anxiety in my stomach? Without wondering what mood Riley would be in, or what I'd done wrong, or whether today would be one of those days where he'd find new ways to make me feel like I was failing at being a human being?
I stretch in the luxuriously soft flannel sheets, thinking that this is what mornings are supposed to feel like.
Calm. Relaxed. Slow.
I slide out of bed and pad over to the dresser where I've hastily dumped my clothes every night since I crashed my sisters door unannounced. My only sweater sits on top of the pile, and I pick it up to pull it on.
It still smells like him .
I hold the fabric to my nose and breathe in, and suddenly I'm right back in that truck with Beau Callahan. His massive hands on the steering wheel. The way his jaw clenched when I mentioned Riley. How he looked at me like he was seeing straight through to my soul.
Oh God.
I'm standing in my sister's guest room sniffing a sweater like some kind of fabric-obsessed weirdo.
This is not normal behavior. This is not—
"Mmm, yes, I'm definitely thinking about that thing you do with your hands... God, I miss you."
Sienna's voice drifts down the hallway, followed by a giggle that tells me her and her husband are getting way to into their phone 'conversation' again.
"Stop, babe. I'm going back in the kitchen."
I pull on the sweater, trying to ignore my sister's phone sex and how the scent of my ex-fiancés brother's scent makes my pulse quicken, then follow the sound of sizzling and the heavenly smell of pancakes toward the kitchen.
It's been three days since Beau stomped down the driveway without a backward glance.
Three days of me trying not to stare out the window like some lovestruck teenager as he drove away into the wild storm.
The snowstorm turned Stone River Mountain into a ghost town, everything suspended in white silence, including the mechanic who's yet to call about my car.
But this morning, the clouds have finally retreated, and sunlight sparkles across untouched snow like someone scattered diamonds everywhere.
I move towards the delicious smell creeping up the hallway, and when I get to the kitchen, I see Sienna standing at the stove, phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, expertly flipping what appears to be Mickey Mouse-shaped pancakes.
Sunshine streams through the window, illuminating the cheerful chaos of family life inside the kitchen. Coffee mugs with cartoon characters, a vase of wildflowers Maisie tells me she picked over two weeks ago, and a refrigerator covered in crayon masterpieces held up by mismatched magnets.
The air smells like butter and vanilla and my chest aches with longing at how cozy this all is.
My sister has that glow that only comes from being truly, deeply happy. Happy in life, happy in marriage and motherhood.
I'm happy for her.
And totally not jealous. Not at all.
Maisie is perched at the kitchen island, surrounded by a colorful explosion of crayons, markers, and what looks like architectural blueprints drawn by a very enthusiastic six-year-old.
Sienna is still on the phone to David, her husband of over ten years. She's grinning wickedly, unaware that I've stepped into the room.
"Well, I always start with something hot and steamy... baby. Yes!" She laughs and tosses her head back, flipping another pancake to the steaming stack beside the stovetop. "I'm talking about coffee, obviously. What did you think I meant, babe?"
I shudder, glad I can't hear the other side of that conversation.
"Aunt Molly!" Maisie looks up from her artwork, beaming. "Look! I made new treehouse plans!"
I slide onto the stool next to her, accepting the coffee mug Sienna slides my way when she finally catches on that I'm in the room.
"Wow, Maise. These are getting really elaborate."
And they are.
What started as a simple platform in a tree has evolved into something much more. Mainly with thanks to three days of boredom from yours truly.
Beau will be impressed.
There are multiple levels now, a rope bridge, what appears to be a slide—an excellent addition I hadn't thought of yet!
"This is the main house," Maisie explains, pointing to the largest rectangle. "And this is the secret escape room, and this is where I'll keep my treasure, and this—" She points to a structure that looks suspiciously like a hot tub. "This is the relaxation zone."
"The relaxation zone?"
"Beau says everyone needs a place to relax. Did you know he has a hot tub on his deck?"
My coffee cup freezes halfway to my lips.
Beau has a hot tub.
And now I'm picturing him in it. All those muscles, steam rising around his broad shoulders, his head tilted back against the edge as he looks up at the night sky...
"Do you think he'd like pink flowers in the treehouse?" Maisie continues, oblivious to the fact that she's just sent my brain spiraling into very inappropriate territory. "Or do boys not like pink? What do boys like, anyway?"
I open my mouth to answer, but no sound comes out.
"Is Beau married?" Maisie asks, cocking her head like a curious puppy.
"I—no, I don't think so," I manage.
"Does he have a girlfriend?"
"I wouldn't know."
"Why not? He's really strong! And he smells good."
He does smell good. He smells incredible. He smells like—
"He's also really tall," Maisie continues. "Like, REALLY tall. Taller than Daddy. Do you think tall people need bigger beds, Aunt Molly? I bet Beau has a huge bed. Do you think it's comfortable? Do you think—"
"Maisie, honey," I interrupt before she can continue down this dangerous path. "Maybe we should focus on the treehouse plans and not the man promising to build it for you?"
But the damage is done.
Because now I'm thinking about Beau's bed. How big it might be. How he'd look in it. Naked.
I shake my head and startle myself to focus so hard that my fork flies out of my hand, launching the bite of pancake I was attempting to eat in a perfect arc across the kitchen.
It lands with a wet splat on the floor.
"Oh my God," I mutter, jumping up to clean it up, but I move too fast and somehow manage to knock over the syrup dispenser in the process. Sticky maple mess cascades across the counter and somehow… directly into my hair!
"Shit. I gotta go, babe." Sienna laughs, finally hanging up the phone. "Molly! What in the world—"
"Mom said shit!" Maisie announces proudly.
"I'm fine!" I insist, frantically grabbing paper towels while syrup drips down the side of my face. "Totally fine! Just clumsy! Very, very clumsy!"
Maisie is staring at me like I've lost my mind. "Are you sick? Your face is all red and weird."
"I'm not sick," I say, still dabbing at the syrup. "I'm just... adjusting to the oxygen levels up here. You know… the mountain air."
Sienna's eyebrows climb toward her hairline. "Mountain air. Right ..."
She hands me a damp cloth and watches with obvious amusement as I attempt to de-syrup myself.
"So," she says casually, refilling my coffee like I didn't just deface her kitchen. "That was David on the phone. He says hi, by the way."
"How is he?" I ask, grateful for the subject change.
"Oh, you know. Missing his girls. He's stuck in Denver for another week, but he's making it up to us when he gets back. He has very... creative ideas about how to show his appreciation."
The way she says it makes me almost vomit, and I focus intently on wiping syrup out of my hair to rid the thought of my sister and her husband and their 'creative ideas'.
"That's... nice."
"Mmm." Sienna's smile is totally feline right now. She's practically purring. "We are very connected. In many different ways. Some of which are not appropriate to discuss in front of small ears."
Maisie looks up and holds a pink crayon to her lips. "Are you talking about sex again?"
I choke on my coffee.
" No !" Sienna and I say in unison.
"Maybe…" I say carefully, downing the rest of my coffee. "I should go take a shower. Get this syrup out of my hair."
"Good idea," Sienna agrees, waving me away from the mess I've created and down the hallway.
The guest bathroom is small but perfect, with fluffy white towels and fancy soap that smells like lavender. I strip off my clothes and step under the spray, letting the hot water wash away the syrup and, hopefully, some of my mortification.
But as the steam builds around me and the heat relaxes my muscles, my traitorous brain decides this is the perfect time to replay every single moment with Beau Callahan from a few days ago.
The way he filled that doorframe at the café. The careful competence as he hooked up my car. How he lifted me like I weighed nothing when I slipped on the ice.
And those hands. Yes, ma'am.
I reach for the detachable shower head, adjusting the pressure as the water cascades over my skin. With Beau on my mind, I go lower and lower. Soon the sensation is immediately intense, and I bite my lip to keep from making a sound.
I gasp as the water pressure hits exactly the right spot, nudging my clit and washing heat over my sensitive core.
In my mind, it's not the shower head doing all the work…
it's Beau's mouth. His tongue, those clever fingers that probably know exactly how to take apart engines and women with equal skill.
What would his hands feel like on me?
Those calloused fingers tracing down my spine. Gripping my hips. Sliding between my legs. He has the look of a man who knows exactly what he's doing down there.