Chapter 16
“Don’t even think about it,” Karl told a squirrel the following Saturday.
The fluffy-tailed little rodent kept eyeing the sandwiches.
Karl met the squirrel’s inquisitive, unafraid stare. Glowered. “Swear to Christ, I’ll speed up evolution and make you a flying
squirrel ahead of schedule.”
Molly had to laugh, even as she shook her head. “I’m not entirely certain why flying squirrels would become the dominant species,
evolutionarily speaking, but—”
“They fly, Dearborn.” Karl sounded outraged, and he turned his glare from the squirrel to her. “’Course they’ll be naturally selected
as squirrel kings and queens.”
She lifted a finger. “Technically, they don’t actually fly. They glide.”
He rolled his eyes to the cloudless sky above. “Oh, here we go. Come on, tell me what I got wrong, even as a diseased, hairy
rat without sufficient fear of humans snatches our goddamn sandwiches.”
The man had a point.
“Quit befriending the local wildlife, Dean.” The nearest enormous, wax paper–wrapped Brie, truffle, and prosciutto sandwich
was calling her name, and she intended to answer immediately. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
After one last longing look at their plastic container of potato chips, the squirrel scampered away.
Easing his vigilance, Karl turned his attention to the enormous duffel bag that contained their carefully packaged picnic dinner and several other mysterious items, none of which he’d let her examine as they’d driven from his bakery to Historic Harlot’s Bay.
At first, she’d thought he intended to guide them back to the site of their first almost-kiss as teenagers, the arbor beside
the Mayor’s Mansion pleasure gardens. Instead, they’d climbed down the steps leading to a colonist-made fishing pond and spread
their quilt on a flat, grassy spot not too far from a picturesque wooden footbridge, under a stately old weeping willow. The
arched branches surrounded them on most sides, the leaves almost brushing the grass—which offered them a bit of privacy and
dappled the golden sunlight pleasantly.
In short, it was a perfect place to eat. For them, and apparently for Harlot’s Bay’s various fauna too.
“I can unpack the food.” Karl waved aside her offer to help. “Relax for a minute.”
In between calling a nearby woodpecker a “plague-ridden, asshole jackhammer” and informing a nearby wild apple tree that if
any fruit dropped on their heads, he was “going full George Washington on your woody ass, because gravity’s already fucking invented,” he unearthed endless items from his duffel. Not just umpteen food containers,
but also a bottle of sparkling cider, sturdy plastic flutes, cloth napkins, mini salt and pepper shakers, and actual silverware,
all of which he arranged just so on the quilt.
Bracing her hands behind her, the cotton fabric soft and smooth against her palms, Molly stretched out her legs and tipped her head back to bask in the gentle heat of the September afternoon.
The breeze tugged at the grass and her hair, the insects droned, and the autumn sun soaked into her bones until they seemed to sag, heavy with warmth.
Or maybe that sensation could be blamed on Karl instead, and the thoughtfulness evident in everything he’d prepared for them today.
After a full week of ceaseless, grinding work in the bakery—work she’d personally witnessed, since she’d kept him company
every day—he’d somehow managed to prepare everything for this outing too. That sort of thoughtfulness and care, his prioritization
of her and their time together . . . well, she’d witnessed stripteases she’d found less seductive.
“Eat up, Dearborn,” he finally told her, after taking out the last bowl. “Before that damn rodent comes back with all his
rat friends, takes our damn food, and gives us weird-ass squirrel diseases.”
Energized by the prospect of their early dinner, she sat up straight and reached for the plate he held out to her. By the
time they finished their sandwiches and chips, the mint-flecked berry-balsamic salad, and the oversized s’mores cookies in
companionable silence, though, her eyelids were drooping more than she cared to admit.
“That was beyond delicious.” Her jaw cracked as she stifled a yawn. “Thank you.”
His brows had formed a single ruddy line. “You need a nap, Dearborn.”
“It’s fine.” The yawn had made her eyes water, and she blotted away the stray wetness with her button-down’s sleeve. “I’m
used to it.”
Her last good night’s sleep had been . .
. a decade ago, maybe? Sometime around her engagement.
Once Rob had slid a ring on her finger, insomnia had crept up on her and made a restful eight hours of unconsciousness impossible.
After the wedding, things had only gotten worse.
And since—despite her most fervent hopes—divorce hadn’t returned her sleep schedule to normal, she’d begun suspecting this was it.
This was her life from now on, spent steeped in hazy exhaustion as her blood pressure rose and rose again.
“You look tired too,” she told Karl, in a vast understatement.
Those bags beneath his eyes were huge and dark enough to resemble shiners. But when she’d suggested they skip their weekend
exercise to give him time to relax, he’d refused loudly and profanely enough that one of his bakery customers had startled
and dropped a cherry Danish on her preschooler’s head, filling side down.
“Motherfucker,” the little girl had lisped, and her mom had glared even harder at Karl.
He’d heaved a sigh, apologized gruffly to the mother—June? Junessa?—and led them back to the bathroom to get the kid cleaned
up, while Bez put another cherry Danish in a bag.
Which was all very entertaining, obviously, but didn’t change the fact that the man clearly needed a nap even more than Molly
did.
“If you’d like to rest instead of—” she began, already knowing his answer.
“Nope.” His expression had turned intractable. “We have an activity to complete.”
No point in further argument. Karl was even more stubborn than he’d been twenty years ago. Instead of saying anything, then,
she simply gave him a disapproving headshake. Which he blithely, irritatingly ignored as he got to his feet with a rumbling
groan and shuffled away to dump their trash in a discreet barrel receptable nearby.
In his absence, she plucked a bottle of sunscreen from her bag. When he sat again, she began dabbing it onto his face and exposed forearms. He remained very still under her touch, his breath hitching at the stroke of her thumbs over his cream-slick cheeks.
The sunscreen should have hissed upon contact with his hot skin. His entire body was flushed, maybe from too much sun exposure,
or from discomfort at being tended to, or . . . other reasons. The same reasons she felt a bit overheated too.
Once he was protected, he nodded in thanks and turned away to dig around in his duffel again. Two small notepads appeared
in his fist, alongside two ballpoint pens.
“There it is.” Looking triumphant, he plucked a small plastic baggie from the duffel too. One filled with what appeared to
be old-fashioned index cards, of the type she hadn’t seen since she’d last crammed for college exams. “Just to be clear: This
activity’s not my idea. Matthew and Athena browbeat me into it.”
“Ooooh-kay.” Truthfully, she suspected her temporary neighbors were better suited to brainstorming trust-building exercises
than Karl. “Hopefully they didn’t get their ideas from a business magazine too.”
“Fuck you, Dearborn.” He was glaring at her now. “My blindfolded food activity was awesome.”
“It was,” she told him soothingly. “A real triumph of corporate synergy.”
He flipped her the bird. Since he was clearly fighting back a grin too, she considered that a double victory.
“Anyway.” Maintaining meaningful eye contact, he scratched his nose with his extended middle finger. “Three games for today, starting
with Winner or Loser. Instructions . . .” His attention dropped to the baggie, and he flipped through the cards. “Here they
are. Read ’em and weep, Dearborn.”
He handed her a neatly printed card. Matthew’s handwriting, if she had to guess, in contradiction to doctor-related stereotypes.
“Winner or Loser,” she read aloud. “How to play: The first person discusses an unpleasant event that happened to them, adding
as much detail as they’re willing to share. After they’re done, the second person repeats the story, but emphasizes any positive
aspects of or favorable results from the incident. Then the two participants switch tasks.”
A notebook and pen plopped beside her on the quilt.
“For note-taking. If needed.” Karl settled back against the weeping willow’s trunk. “You good with this, Dearborn?”
Truth be told? Not especially. If at all possible, she avoided discussing her hurt feelings and failures with . . . anyone,
really. But if playing Winner or Loser meant Karl “Grunts and Illogical Threats of Violence Are My Love Language” Dean would
actually tell her more about his own history and emotions?
Game freaking on.
Shoulders squared, she braced herself to dredge up unpleasant memories. “I’m good.”
“Then you go first.” Karl flipped open his own notebook. His meaty fist gripped his pen, and his entire attention turned to
her. “Tell your story.”
Like anyone, she’d had plenty of little defeats, both personal and professional, and she could easily pick any of those incidents.
But if she wanted to share something meaningful—if she was actually willing to expose her heart—there were only two “unpleasant
events” to choose from. Only two that truly mattered, either then or now.
Fine. She’d tell him. If everything went to shit between them, it was far too late to avoid getting hurt, right? So what did one more revelation matter?
Suddenly tired again, she fiddled with the ends of her hair. “You already heard most of it last weekend. Rob, my partner of