Chapter 6
SIX
MOLLY
Bess is what they call in society circles “new money.” Second generation, her father is the hair-removal king of Astipia, having patented technology back before the boom.
He expanded into medical tech and quickly amassed an extensive portfolio, shooting the family into a sphere of influence not previously experienced.
Mrs. Kirkson had been Miss Chars back in the day—signature big hair, hoop earrings, and a thick Lower-East-Side accent. She’d since shed the accent, toned down the hair, and upgraded to Cartier.
Bess cut her baby teeth on backstabbing nannies and gossiping groups of deadly divas. In the circles she’d grown up in, little girls were weaponized as tools for scheming fathers trying to schmooze with her parents. And it only got worse as she grew older.
Finding me, she’d once said, had been like finding an ally in a field of enemies. Our friendship was built on mutual respect, trust and honesty. I loved her with all my heart and have never thought ill of her—until today.
Today is the day I kill her.
We are up to venue eighteen. Eighteen. Eight. Teen. As in… one-eight. As in the number that comes after seventeen.
By this stage, it must be justifiable homicide. No judge could blame me—not after the horrors of this outing are revealed.
I innocently assumed I’d be accompanying the happy couple plus Josh.
Oh no. No, no, no, no, no. How na?ve of me to think such a thing.
They hired a stretch Hummer.
The Greenfeld clan, the Kirkson family (complete with Grandma Kirkson and her three chihuahuas), two feuding wedding planners, a videographer (actively recording this horror show), and a makeup artist all piled into the Hummer to tour venue after venue in some kind of Groundhog Day-esque nonsense.
We stand now in the entry of Airlie House, a grand residence named after the woman who designed it.
Built in the early 1700s, the beautiful manor home was originally constructed for a lesser noble upon his marriage.
It took five years to complete and was repurposed into a function venue about a decade ago.
The grounds sit only a few streets over from the Queen’s palace, and a street behind the Royal Botanic Gardens. Perfectly situated if anyone asks me—which they don’t.
I lean into Josh, my polite smile firmly in place as Grandma Kirkson slips on her dust glove.
“Please tell me this is a horrible dream I’ll wake up from shortly,” I say through gritted teeth.
Josh leans in, his teeth bared in what could loosely be called a smile if said person was being tortured. “Nope. You’re in this nightmare with me, Pahe.”
I glance up at him. I’m about to ask him what Pahe means when there’s a screech from Grandmother Kirkson.
She raises her gloved finger holding it out to us for all to see.
“Dust!” She whirls, pinning the venue coordinator with a frosty glare. “What kind of garbage joint you runnin’ here? Dust? Really? Get in the car, Bessie. We’re leavin’.”
And that’s how we end up at venue nineteen.
God help us.
“It’s justifiable homicide by now, right?” Josh whispers as we pull up.
“Hundred percent,” I whisper back. “You got any arsenic on you?”
“Nope, but I’m good with my hands. You take the grandmother, I’ll take Pete. Just watch for Bess—my money says she’s a biter.”
I glare at him. “You know full well Grandmother Kirkson conceal carries. I’m not taking that on, you do her over. Pete will never see me coming.”
Josh shoots me a grin and a wink as we climb out of the Hummer.
We step through the doors of the venue, and Bess’s body language shifts immediately.
My hand snakes out, nails digging into Josh’s bicep.
“This is it!” I hiss, bouncing on my toes. “She loves it.”
Josh’s head swivels, taking in Bess’s starstruck expression. “Thank fuck.”
A hand smacks the back of his head, sending him pitching forward.
“Language,” his mother barks, striding past us.
Mr. Greenfeld shakes his head, shooting us a sympathetic grimace. “Your brother owes me a case of beer. I didn’t sign up for this nonsense. Nineteen fuc—” He catches his wife’s warning glare and swallows the curse. “—er… fudging venues.”
Josh and I exchange an amused look.
The venue is a rooftop fairy garden combined with a towering Cinderella ballroom, complete with a pure crystal chandelier. Ostentatious and over-the-top, but just this side of classy—and practically screams Bess.
“This is it,” she whispers, slowly circling under the chandelier as the videographer captures the moment. “This is where we’re getting married.”
Pete pulls her in. “Book it, ahfila.” He presses a kiss to her forehead. “Anything you want.”
I grin, watching Bess throw herself into Pete’s arms. They’re truly adorable. Any angst I’ve had about their engagement melts away, leaving only warm affection.
“Ah, my loves!” Josh’s mother purrs, pulling them both into a hug. “This will be the most beautiful wedding!”
I glance away, taking in the gorgeous room.
“Oh, ahlemna,” Josh chokes out, raising a fist to his mouth.
“What—oh crap.”
Off to the side, one of Granny’s chihuahuas squats on the carpet, leaving behind a little gift.
“Do you think,” Josh chokes out, his shoulders shaking, “dog poo is the new pigeon poo?”
“What?” I ask, giggling uncontrollably. “Lucky?”
“Either that or we’re in deep shit.”
We both roar with laughter.
JOSH
Molly raises the coffee mug to her lips, her eyelids fluttering closed as she pauses to inhale the roast before taking a sip.
I’ve never considered coffee erotic before, but all signs point to the fact I have a boner. I shift in my seat, thinking of baseball stats, raw eggs, and chihuahuas who don’t know better.
She sets the mug down and glances at her watch, letting out a sigh.
“You have plans?” I ask.
She wrinkles her nose, reaching across the table to fork a mouthful of the brownie we’re splitting. After the horror of venue shopping, we deserve it.
“I have a… thing. It’s not for another hour though,” she says.
I lean in, lifting an eyebrow. “A thing?”
A thought strikes me: what if that thing is a date?
I know Bess has been pushing her to get back out there, but Molly hasn’t given any indication she’s ready.
Still… what if?
She huffs, blowing hair away from her face. “A thing.”
“Does this… thing have a name?” I ask, keeping my tone casual.
Her mouth quirks up, her eyes sparkling. “It’s not that kind of thing.”
“Is it a family or charity thing?”
“No, not that,” she says, now smiling.
I tap my fingers against the table. “Let’s see, it’s not a person, it’s not an event, that leaves…” I lean in, waiting for her to meet me halfway. “A speed dating event.”
She blinks once, then throws herself back, roaring with laughter. Her hand comes up, finger pointing at me as she shakes her head. “You knew!”
I grin, neither confirming nor denying.
“Oh God,” she groans, throwing an arm over her eyes dramatically. “If you know, that means Sam knows.”
“Your secret is safe with me, Pahe.”
She drops her arm, tilting her head slightly. She’s done that since she was thirteen—when she’s curious or unsure. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” I mutter, standing abruptly. I pull a few notes from my pocket, dropping them on the table. “Come on, you’re going to be late.”
“I have an hour!” she protests, but she lets me pull her up.
“You’re wearing a turtleneck and jeans.” I help her shrug into her coat. “While I have no issues with this and think you look milhika, you’re speed dating. Your knight could be waiting.”
I ignore the voice in my head yelling at me to sweep her up and lock her away in a tower.
She grumbles, slipping her hand into mine as we exit the café. “My knight shouldn’t care what I wear.”
I throw her a grin. “And he won’t. Once he gets to know you. Haven’t you ever watched a rom-com?”
She bumps her shoulder into mine. “You’re romance crazy.”
“Probably.”
“Did you start writing?”
I like the way her hand fits in mine. Her fingers are cool, soft, but a little callused. They fit perfectly in my own.
“Josh?”
“Hmm?”
“Writing. Did you start a script?”
I make an affirmative sound in the back of my throat and stop us, lifting a hand to flag a cab.
Holding the door open, I slide in after her and call directions to the driver.
“And?” she prompts as the cab pulls away from the curb.
“And?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Is it a rom-com?”
“Of course. One doesn’t watch every Netflix Christmas special for no reason.”
She claps her hands together, shimmying in her seat. “A Christmas movie?”
I shake my head, lifting a hand to my mouth to mime zipping it shut.
“Hmf!” She punches me gently, crossing her arms. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet you’re in a cab with me.”
“Some things are unavoidable.” The cab stops at her address. “And you’re paying.” She kicks the door open and dives out.
The driver turns in his seat, hand out, offering me a sympathetic, “Women.”
I loathe Molly’s apartment. I’ve been here a handful of times for various family events, birthdays, and whatnot. Each time I walk in, I’m overwhelmed by a sense of wrongness.
The apartment itself is bright and airy, modern. Full of clean lines and minimalistic furniture. She moved in here after her divorce—and it screams settling rather than thriving.
Nothing about this space represents the beauty of Molly. It doesn’t suit her, and therefore I despise it.
Molly is warm tones and light that dances across earthy textures. Molly is nights curled up reading by a fire, she’s hand-knitted blankets, and oversized scarves. She is warmth and comfort, mixed with romantic whimsy in a package as earthy and raw as it is stunning.
“I’ll be right back,” Molly says, disappearing into her bathroom.
“Take your time,” I call, shrugging off my coat and settling into a seat at the breakfast bar. I pull out my phone, answering emails and getting into a text war with a friend while I wait.
“How’s this?”
I look up and immediately get hard. “No.”
Molly’s face falls. “No?”
Fuck. No.
She’s wearing black jeans paired with knee-high boots, and an emerald deep-V, long-sleeved top that shows more than a little cleavage. Her hair is pulled back, but she’s left it loose.
She’s gorgeous and I want to eat her up.
“I mean,” I cough, trying to pull my shit together. “Yes.”
Make your move, stupid.
“Wait—what?” She tilts her head slightly. “Yes or no, Josh?”
I can’t. She needs to be wooed. Damnit.
“Yes.” I stand abruptly, unreasonably agitated. I can’t let Molly think she looks anything less than delicious. Stripping away her confidence isn’t how I want to win her—just because I’m losing my grip.
Act Two: The hero makes his move. Beginning with eliminating the speed dating competition.
I grab her coat from where it’s draped over the back of the breakfast bar stool. Walking up behind her, I hold it open, helping her into it. My head dips low, catching the spritz of her perfume, the scent of her hair.
My voice lowers, my breath stirring the baby hairs on her long, graceful neck. “You look exquisite.”
The pleasure I feel when I see her skin break out in goosebumps from my proximity and my words almost suffocates the possessiveness she incites in me. “Now, let’s go.”
She stiffens. “You’re coming?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “Call it research.”
She groans, slipping out of my arms and leaving me feeling strangely bereft.
Pull it together, man.
She places a hand on my chest, halting me. “You can come on one proviso.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“You do not mention me in this retelling.” She quirks a smile. “Particularly if any of this makes it into your script.”
“You got it, Pahe,” I lie, knowing this is just the start of our love story.