Chapter 12 #2
His stool scraped the floor as he lurched to his feet. Dearborn didn’t startle, because the woman was damn near unflappable.
Kept her eyes shut as he stomped to the sink, washed up, and wet a couple of soft, clean dishtowels.
When he carefully took her hand in his, though, and began cleaning the smears of honey from her fingers with the damp cloths,
her eyelashes fluttered. She looked up at him. Leaned her shoulder infinitesimally to the side, until it just barely bumped
his chest.
She let him support her, if only the tiniest, tiniest amount.
He made sure not to move an inch. Didn’t react. Just rooted himself in place and kept wiping off the stickiness. One hand,
then the other.
“It’s yours for now, but maybe not for much longer.” Her ex’s voice brimmed with confidence. “Alexis and I want to buy it
from you before it officially goes on the market. I figure the current value would be around . . .”
He named a price that literally dizzied Karl. Jesus H. Christ, was that how much houses cost in LA? Or did Dearborn own a goddamn mansion?
“I don’t even know what to say anymore, Rob.” With another of those brittle, bitter laughs, she leaned a little harder against
Karl. “I currently have no plans to sell the house. If that changes, I’ll let you know. Which is something I’ve told you at
least a half-dozen times already.”
“If the house isn’t on the market, it should be.” Disapproval dripped from every word, and Karl wanted to reach through the
phone and throttle the prick. “We both know it’s too much work for you, and your health is suffering for it. All that stress
isn’t good, Mol. I’ll bet your blood pressure—”
“My health, much like my home, is no longer your concern,” she interrupted, the words as steely as the table before her.
Karl frowned, his honey-removal efforts pausing. Because what was up with Molly’s blood pressure? And her health in general?
“I care about you, and I’m a physician, Molly. Of course it’s my concern.”
Fantastic. Her ex was a damn doctor. Boasting a medical degree, not just a high school diploma. With money to burn, no doubt,
and shiny leather shoes instead of Crocs.
That said, he was clearly a dick. Also, Crocs were fucking comfortable, so his loss.
“Listen, I know firsthand how little you paid for that house.” The bastard was still talking. Still trying to badger Molly
into doing what he wanted. “I was there when your grandparents sold it to you, remember? With the extremely generous price
I offered, you’d be making an enormous profit at my literal expense. Taking care of your health too, so—”
“My health is fine, and you can easily afford that price. Which I know firsthand”—she emphasized that phrase, her voice like acid—“since you used my earnings and savings to get through med school with zero
debt.”
Holy shit. She’d paid for his entire medical degree? How much money had that taken?
Defensiveness stiffened his response. “That was a joint decision, if you’ll remember.”
“Sadly, you’re correct. Which is why I’m taking my time with this one and ensuring I get it right.” Her eyes had narrowed
with anger. “Again: I’ll call you if and when I put my house up for sale. In the meantime, stop contacting me.”
“Turning down that kind of offer . . .” A puff of air, as the other man blew out a breath. “It’s just incredibly foolish,
Molly. I never expected you to be so irrational.”
A wave of heat engulfed Karl. Pure, undiluted rage. If her asshole ex were here, spouting that bullshit? He’d get two extra-wide
Crocs up his—
“Goodbye, Rob.” She extracted her hand from Karl’s grasp. Tapped her screen with a now-clean finger. Ended the call while
that prick was still talking, talking, talking.
When her cell immediately rang again, she swiped at the screen a few more times. Blocked her ex’s number. Then set down the
phone again, exhaling slowly.
All stickiness was long gone from her hands. Cleanup efforts had become a massage a while back, and Karl kept at it. Rubbed
her palms and joints. Waited.
Yeah, he needed to know more about her asshole ex. But a smart man—a man who cared—would let her come to him. Let her share
what she wanted, when she wanted, because Molly shouldn’t be pushed into anything she didn’t choose to do.
“I suppose you could use some context for that conversation,” she eventually said, rewarding his exemplary goddamn patience.
He grunted noncommittally. Kept massaging. Kept her in control of the discussion.
“We met in college and moved in together after graduation.” Her spine was straight enough to use as a goddamn level. “It took
him nine years to convince me to marry him, because I had doubts. Almost from the very beginning, actually. But I blamed those
doubts on my own emotional damage, rather than paying attention to them. So we got married.”
Karl scowled down at her pinky, which he was squeezing and lightly tugging. “And that fucker shoved cake in your face.”
“Yes. But I stayed anyway.” Her silent sigh lifted and lowered her shoulders. “At first, we both did voice-over work and audiobook
narration. After a while, though, he decided he wanted to go to med school instead.”
He scowled harder. Switched to her ring finger. “You paid for it.”
“I thought it was what a good partner would do. And in practical terms, it seemed to make sense. He said to consider it an
investment in our future, since he’d be outearning me once he joined a practice. I’d pay now, he’d pay later.”
Her laugh contained zero joy. “It’s such a cliché. I’d even read a newspaper article about it years before.”
“About what?” He started massaging her middle finger. Aka the digit he wished she’d flipped her ex at their wedding ceremony,
right before noping the hell out of there.
“How frequently men rely on their wives’ or partners’ income while they’re in med school and doing their residencies, then immediately leave after they’re earning an independent income of their own.
” Her lips thinned. “And that’s exactly what he did.
He finished his residency, joined a practice, started making good money, and then asked me for a divorce.
There was no warning. No sign of anything seriously wrong until he was packing his bags and heading for the door. ”
Took some real effort not to squeeze her finger too hard. Not to rant and shout and swear at the sheer injustice. But it wasn’t
about him, his feelings, his outrage. Also? More he said, less she’d say.
“When I pressed him on why he was leaving, he said there were two main reasons. First, he wanted children and I didn’t. The
issue was a deal-breaker for him.” Clear exhaustion weighted each word, and she shook her head. “I couldn’t understand why
he hadn’t told me that from the very beginning, or at least before we got married, because he knew I didn’t want kids. I never wanted kids.”
That bit, Karl could kinda understand. “He change his mind over the years?”
“That was my best guess too, but no.” Her jaw turned to stone. “Instead, he told me he hadn’t said anything because I was
so difficult to talk to. So cold. And my coldness was his second reason for leaving.”
Okay, screw staying quiet. “I’ll show that bastard cold. Cart his ass to Antarctica in winter, shove his face in some goddamn dry ice, and—”
“I wouldn’t recommend that plan of action, Dean,” she said with a small smile, and offered him her thumb to rub.
“First of all, flights and cruises to Antarctica are prohibitively expensive and would require more time off from the bakery than you can spare. Second, once you already had him in mid-winter Antarctica, wouldn’t dry ice be literal overkill?
Third, and most importantly: I didn’t believe what he said, even the moment he said it.
After being with the man for almost two decades, I recognized what was happening.
Rob knew he hadn’t behaved well, so he was getting defensive and trying to relieve his guilt by blaming everything on me. ”
He grunted, unappeased. “Still hurt, I’ll bet.”
Dearborn made a noncommittal noise.
Fine. He wouldn’t push her on that point. Especially since he had another nosy-as-hell question he needed to ask.
“Just how big is your damn house?” He rested her left hand on the table. Grabbed her right. Started massaging her palm. “At
that price, I’m assuming you live in a goddamn palace, with diamond-crusted potholders and gilded chip clips.”
“Not that big.” A little shrug. “Two bedrooms, one bath. About twelve hundred square feet. Zero potholders decorated with
precious gemstones or golden snack-oriented accessories, sadly.”
He gaped at her. Only two bedrooms? For that amount of money?
“Los Angeles housing prices are famously prohibitive, especially when you’re talking about the more in-demand areas.” Her
back arched in a stretch that made his mouth dry and thoroughly distracted him from his sticker shock. “My grandparents love
me, they had plenty of retirement savings, and the condo they found in Nevada wasn’t nearly as expensive, so they gave me
a significant discount on the sale. Otherwise, I never could have afforded their home.”
That explained a few things, but— “If your ex wants kids, why not buy a bigger house?”
Maybe the prick was a minimalist or some shit. But wouldn’t an LA doctor with that kind of selfish audacity demand something
more grandiose?
“Good question. Rob’s obsession with the house confuses me, given its size.
With kids, things would get very cramped, very quickly.
My guess? He and his fiancée—she’s a doctor too—have big home-reno dreams.” She paused.
“That was a genuinely good offer he made. If I were smart, I’d probably take it.
Use the profits to move someplace cheaper. Buy a place that’s easier to maintain.”
Her phrasing bothered the fuck out of him. “You are smart.”
“Not always.” Her faint grimace wrinkled her nose.
“Always,” he countered stubbornly. “Whatever you choose? It’ll be the right call.”