Chapter 10 #3
those motherfuckers never grow again. And then—”
“Hey, Karl?” Molly said in her calmest voice.
Karl stopped mid-profanity, swung his head her way, and—did mustache guy actually look disappointed by the interruption?
She carried on anyway. “Just FYI: Using a broken shard of glass as a cutting implement is dangerous.”
“Yes.” Karl narrowed his eyes at the customer. “To this prick’s mustache.”
“Well, yes, but also to you. You could seriously injure yourself during the barbering process.” Nudging her arm against his,
she tried to draw his full attention. “Also, as anyone who’s ever gotten waxed realizes—”
He snorted. “We both know you’ve never waxed even a square inch of that gorgeous body, Dearborn.”
“—ripping hair out by the roots might make it grow back more slowly, but it will grow back. For more permanent removal, you probably want to consider professional electrolysis.”
It was, as he’d guessed, purely theoretical knowledge. But she’d read enough women’s magazines in her own dentist’s waiting
room to feel confident in her information.
The pugnacious jut of Karl’s bearded jaw had softened a fraction. “What the hell is electrolysis?”
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Johnathan urging Mr. Track Pants toward the door. Good. Soon enough, the entire
encounter would be—
“This week’s Yelp review for your bakery is going to be scathing,” the customer called out, wriggling away from Johnathan and approaching the counter once more. “One star for customer service,
one star for—”
Molly gave up and left the man to his deserved fate. RIP, fancy mustache.
Before finishing her lunch, she needed to pee. Besides, the man and his facial hair weren’t truly in danger. Karl wasn’t violent.
Just very fond of impractical verbal threats.
With a nod at Bez and Charlotte—the former appeared amused by the ongoing confrontation, the latter resigned—Molly ducked into the work area again.
By the time she emerged from the bathroom, all the shouting had stopped, and Charlotte was standing by one of the stainless-steel worktables, shifting from foot to foot.
Her hands twisted near her waist, and she met Molly’s gaze with pained blue eyes.
Why in the world did the young woman seem so nervous and unhappy? Unless—
“Did Karl actually assault that guy?” Holy shit. She’d never, ever have predicted that. “Let me get my bag, and I can cover
bail or find a lawyer. Where should I—”
“No. Of course not.” The younger woman’s entire body had stiffened in affront at the very suggestion. “Karl would never hurt
anyone.”
Whew. Well, thank goodness.
“That was what I assumed, but when I saw your expression . . .” Molly stepped toward Charlotte. “Are you okay?”
Charlotte’s pixie cut only emphasized the delicacy of her narrow features, and she wore no makeup. In her tee and jeans, she
looked like the teenager she must’ve been not that long ago, vulnerable and heartbreakingly young.
“I don’t . . .” She paused. Seemed to gather her courage before continuing. “I don’t mean to interfere. I’m sorry if I offend
you, but . . .”
Utterly perplexed, Molly waited for her to gather the right words.
“Karl would never hurt anyone,” she eventually repeated, and met Molly’s eyes directly. “Please don’t hurt him.”
Why in the world would Charlotte worry about that?
Molly shook her head decisively. “I won’t. I couldn’t.”
“You could,” Charlotte insisted, her voice firmer this time. Even though she was entirely wrong, for very obvious reasons.
Molly had seen the man maybe a half-dozen times in two decades, all within the past few days. Yes, he wanted her. Yes, he
cared about her good opinion—enough not to act on that wanting until and unless she trusted him. But she couldn’t truly hurt
someone who barely knew her. More importantly, she couldn’t truly hurt someone who wouldn’t open himself up enough to be hurt. All that distance he kept between himself and the world, the buffer reinforced by his gruff, vaguely homicidal manner,
surely protected him from emotional damage. From her. From anyone.
Unless . . . that was why he’d donned his armor to start with. Because he was so easily injured. Because he had a heart too
big, too fragile, to keep exposed to the world.
Maybe . . . maybe she’d misjudged him.
She’d concluded that he wouldn’t be willing to change his life in fundamental ways, even for the people he cared about. But
wasn’t Charlotte evidence to the contrary?
Her little family could barge into his workspace in the middle of the day, no matter how busy he might be, without worrying
about his reaction. A child could vomit down his back, and he’d only sigh in response and rub the kid’s back to comfort her.
Even with his horrifying schedule, he made time to babysit Charlotte’s children. In short, he’d changed his life enough that
she’d felt it fitting to name her son after him.
Sure, Karl hadn’t been willing to discuss certain important subjects with Molly, but again—they’d only met a handful of times
in twenty years. Perhaps, despite his insistence that she trust him, he hadn’t had enough time to trust her.
And if she’d misjudged him, a single question could set her straight.
Molly swallowed hard over a dry throat. “Does Karl talk to you, Charlotte? About personal things? Important things?”
Because if he did, if he shared himself with his surrogate daughter—with anyone—that changed things.
“Well . . .” Charlotte’s eyes dropped, and her clasped hands started twisting again. “Yes. He’ll talk about my personal, important
things. If I bring them up.”
Molly wanted to be absolutely clear about this. “But not his own concerns?”
Silently, the younger woman shook her head.
Ah. So he cared deeply about Charlotte and her family. Probably even loved them. But not enough to share himself.
“Good to know.” She forced herself to smile. “I appreciate your concern for him, but please don’t worry. I’ll be leaving soon,
and he knows it. He won’t let himself get hurt.”
Suddenly exhausted, she flicked a glance at the door and wondered whether she should head back to the Spite House after lunch.
Take a nap or read for a while, in blessed solitude. Regain her emotional equilibrium.
“Wait.” Charlotte’s hands flew up, palms out. “I shouldn’t have—”
The bakery’s back room phone jangled. Normally, someone out front would pick up the call—since Karl did not want to chat with
customers over the phone, heaven forbid—but this time, the receiver kept ringing.
Brows drawn together in a pained expression, Charlotte answered the phone.
“Grounds and Grains Bakery. Charlotte speaking. May I help you?” She paused, her eyebrows lifting.
“So . . . you want a twelve-inch round cake reading, ‘You blow, Slatterns “R” Us,’ then an asterisk, followed by ‘Also not in a fun way’?” Another pause.
“Okay. Hold on. Let me get my pen and an order form, and we’ll nail down all the details. ”
Distracted from her weird sense of deflation, Molly squinted at the custom-order rack. Sure enough, the earlier cake had disappeared.
Must’ve been picked up while she was eating with Lise. And from the sound of this call, it had already been delivered to its
intended recipient.
She kind of wished she were staying in Harlot’s Bay long enough to watch the entire rival-adult-stores saga play out. Not
to mention the Charlotte-and-Hector saga, and . . . yeah. A lot of other things too.
Her fondness for the community shouldn’t surprise her. Harlot’s Bay was the one place where she’d tried to put down roots
as a teenager, the one place she’d missed after leaving it behind, and there was good reason for that.
Honestly? She could very easily love this town. Just like she could very easily love Karl, if she weren’t careful.
Without trust, though . . . love alone wouldn’t be enough to keep her. Not this time.
She waved at Charlotte before leaving the back room, then at Karl—who was still helping out front, his expression highly aggrieved—before
saying goodbye to Lise. She left the remains of her lunch to her friend.
As she exited the bakery, she thought she heard Karl shout something. To her, to a customer, to the universe at large—hard
to say which.
Didn’t matter, really. She was already gone.
And she made very, very sure not to look back.