Chapter 3
THREE
MOLLY
“No!” Angela gasps on the other end of our video call. “You’re joking. There’s no way that happened.”
“Scout’s honor.” I hold up three fingers before resuming lining up vegetables and a pound of turkey burger on the kitchen counter. “The weight bar knocked right into his schlong.”
We both dissolve into peels of laughter. The sound startles Pigeon, my senior long-haired Siamese cat, who is curled up on my lap. With a whine of protest, she gingerly hops off my lap and stalks off to find her water fountain.
“Sorry, baby girl,” I call out. But I already have tears streaming down my cheeks, and I haven’t even started chopping the onion. I’m waiting to do that until the man with the bruised ego—and penis—arrives for our next resolution: make healthy home-cooked meals three nights a week.
When she can finally speak again, Angela asks, “Were you able to get a look at how big said schlong is? You know, to note for the official record.”
I snort. “You mean after he fell to the ground and curled up in a fetal position?”
She winces. “Okay, now I feel bad for laughing.”
“Don’t. Bradley laughed like hell about it. After he stopped crying.”
This sends us into a fresh round of laughs. Once we’ve recovered—again—she asks about the rest of the workout. I give her a rundown of my cardio and weight routine.
“Honestly, it went better than I would have thought. Bradley was surprisingly helpful.”
“Did you think he would try to sabotage you?”
“Well… no. Not really.” As much as I hate to admit it, that’s not his style. On some level, I knew that, even when I accused him otherwise.
“Well, it sounds like Kevin was on to something.”
“Wait.” I shake my head. “Who’s Kevin?”
She gapes at me like I’ve suddenly grown a third boob. “You know Kevin. He took us to the New Year’s Eve party.”
“Huh. Are you sure? Because I could have sworn his name was Chad. Or Thad.”
“Umm, I’m pretty sure I’d know. I went home with him.”
“Eww. You did? Why?”
“Because it was fun.” She shrugs. “Look, I know he may not have the best personality?—”
“—Try any personality?—”
“—But the man is really adequate in bed.”
“Adequate in bed.” I cluck my tongue. “That is a ringing endorsement.”
“I know. But I feel like he’s at least coachable.” Her sly expression tugs on her lips. “You know who I bet would be better than adequate in bed?”
“Please.” I hold up a phone to stop her. “Just because he was nice to me one time at the gym, it doesn’t mean Bradley isn’t still my enemy. I do not want to think about how well he would—or would not—perform in bed.”
“I guess that’s fair. It’s not like you saw the size of his dick before you tried to knock it off his body.”
We’re both still hysterically laughing when there’s a knock on my front door.
“Speaking of dicks…” I clear my throat. “I think he’s here for dinner.”
“Try not to make him cry again.”
Setting my phone aside, I open the door to find Bradley holding a bottle of red wine on the other side.
“You’re late,” I say.
His brow furrows. “Am I?’
“I don’t know.” I pull the door open wider and usher him inside. “I just thought that’s how we greet each other now.”
He flashes that signature smirk of his, and my heart skips a beat. Whoa. That was weird. My blood sugar must be low after all that working out today.
“I hope this wine is okay,” he says, following me into my small but tidy kitchen. “The lady at the store said it would go well in and with a bolognese.”
I accept the bottle and turn it over in my hands. “Nice. This is a great vintage.”
“Good. I know shit about wine. Or how to make homemade bolognese.”
“Have you ever made any kind of pasta sauce before?” I ask washing my hands.
“Oh, sure. I’m thirty-five. Of course, I’ve made pasta sauce before.” He joins me at the sink. “It came out of a jar, but for a bachelor like me, that’s fine dining.”
“Whoa. Look out, Gordon Ramsey.” I give him a playful nudge with my hip. “Do you at least know how to chop vegetables?”
“Sure. As long as they don’t need to be in even pieces.”
“Come on. Fair’s fair. You helped me at the gym.” I tug him to the island. “I’ll show you a few tricks in the kitchen.”
He eyes the knife in my hand cautiously. “Do any of your tricks involve removing any of my fingers?”
“Who’s the untrusting one now?”
“You’re right.” He takes a deep breath and straightens his shoulders. “Show me what you’ve got.”
Standing hip by hip, I tell him about mirepoix and show him the best ways to peel and dice the holy trinity for our sauce. Once I’m confident neither of us will lose any extremities, I leave him chopping carrots into small, precise pieces.
“You’re pretty good at this,” he says. “Where’d you learn to do this?”
“Honestly? Videos online.” I laugh to myself. “I do a lot of scrolling through social media when I can’t sleep at night.”
“And social media showed you how to do all this?” He gives a low whistle at my nod. “I might have to revisit my feelings on the whole social media thing if it means making food as good as this smells.”
“Honey, we’ve barely started. You should wait and see how this smells after it’s been simmering for a couple of hours.”
“My mouth is already watering.”
Something about the way he says that, with his voice all low and husky and his blue eyes smoldering, has my heart beating erratically again. And the longer I stand so close to him, his rich musky scent and the warmth of his body radiating through me, the more aware I’m becoming of a hunger inside of me.
A hunger that has nothing to do with the sauce we’re preparing or the calories we burned earlier at the gym.
Oh God.
I’m not attracted to Bradley in a fleeting way. I want him. Badly. This is… not good.
Suddenly weak in the knees, I grip the edge of the counter.
“Whoa.” Setting down the knife, he grips my elbows. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I just…” I lift my eyes to his and my breath catches at the intensity of his gaze. “I think my blood sugar is off or something.”
“Oh. Shit.” He strokes my upper arms. It’s so soothing. So natural. I wonder if he even knows what he’s doing.
Or the effect he’s having on my already thrumming body.
“Can I get you a glass of water? Or juice?” he asks. “Is there anything I can do?”
I can think of something. But I’m not sure how he’d respond to me asking him to take off his pants.
I rub my lips together. His gaze drops to them. Fire lights his eyes. It hits me. That fire I’ve always seen. It isn’t antagonism. It isn’t mockery. It’s desire. Red, hot desire.
For me.
Now, like a moth, I’m drawn to the flame. I lean toward him. His head lowers. My eyelids flutter shut.
The alarm on my phone rings.