Chapter 17
Turned out, Matthew and Athena knew their shit when it came to communication. Or maybe it was the picnic–intrusive questions
combo that worked, and Karl could take part of the credit too. Either way—speaking of miracles—Molly Dearborn had actually
opened the hell up.
Sure, what she’d told him was beyond infuriating. Her bastard of an ex-husband should have his balls pureed in an industrial
blender and poured down his throat like goddamn soup. And how Dearborn had managed to turn the entire situation around and
blame it on herself, Karl would never understand. His head had nearly blown off his shoulders when he’d heard that absolute
bullcrap.
But it was still progress. Halle-fucking-lujah.
He knew more of her history now. Understood her better. Best of all: voluntarily sharing a painful story like that? Required
trust.
Too bad he’d have to do the same thing. No way Dearborn would let him get away with prodding her for an upsetting, incredibly
personal story, then refusing to pony up a tale of intimate fucking woe himself.
He cleared his throat. Dragged one hand roughly through his hair. And then, before he could lose his nerve, he started talking.
“Loved Becky. Not the way I should’ve, but I did.” Much as a dumb teenage kid could, with his dumb teenage heart already captured
by another girl. “Told her. She never said it back.”
Noisy-ass cardinal kept hopping around and chirping in a nearby tree. Distracting as hell. Definitely the main reason he wasn’t meeting Molly’s gaze.
Even from the corner of his eye, though, he spotted her wince. “Ouch.”
He shrugged. “Should’ve realized then it wasn’t going anywhere. Didn’t, though. All those endless breakups, I always figured
we’d get back together sooner or later. Until . . .” Dammit. The next part still sucked, even twenty years later. “She left
for Johns Hopkins. First time she came back to Harlot’s Bay, she made some shit really fucking clear.”
Her soft blond hair in a neat, pretty French braid, she’d laid things out for him. Not cruelly. Matter-of-factly. Like a teacher
reciting information he should’ve already known.
“She was going somewhere with her life. Literally. Metaphorically. I wasn’t. So she was done ‘playing around,’ as she put
it.” Stiffly, he raised his knees. Lowered them again, restless and slightly sweaty. “Which was when I realized she’d been
amusing herself with me, killing time until we graduated. I wasn’t her goddamn boyfriend. I was a placeholder for someone better.”
After that, he’d only dated locals who didn’t intend to move. Once burned, twice no-way-in-hell-that’s-happening-again.
Molly would’ve been his lone exception. To that rule and most others too.
She still was. And he still couldn’t force himself to look directly at her.
“Becky was my first girlfriend. First everything.” Kiss. Lover. Heartbreak. “What she did hurt, and how she did it was humiliating.
Which is why I didn’t tell you we’d broken up in one of our email messages. Stupid wounded pride. Also . . .”
He sighed, then bit the damn bullet and met Molly’s sympathetic blue eyes.
“I was scared you’d hear the story and agree with her.” There. Now she knew the worst of it. “Tell me I wasn’t good enough
for you either. I’d been into you since that day in Principal Evers’s office, and if you’d rejected me directly, it would’ve
fucking destroyed me. So I tried to come at it sideways instead. Gauge your interest before explaining the situation. But I’m clumsy at that
sort of shit, so I screwed it up.”
With each word he spoke, the real driving force behind his sense of urgency—his need to keep Molly in Harlot’s Bay and have her commit to stay here, right now, before she got the chance to see California again—became clearer and clearer to him.
Yeah, he was worried about her guard going back up as soon as she’d put some distance between them. But that wasn’t the possibility
that twisted his gut and kept him up at night, was it?
Once she was gone, part of him fully believed she’d realize she could do better. Just like Becky had.
Weird how someone he truly didn’t give a single crap about anymore could warp his thoughts so badly. Even after two decades
filled with nothing more intimate between him and Becky than hand waves and occasional, awkward chitchat he cut off as soon
as possible.
“I’m confused.” Molly’s forehead had crinkled. “If you were into me since Mr. Miller’s class, why didn’t you ask me out? Before
you started dating someone else?”
The answer to that question? Almost as embarrassing as the Becky story.
“Too chickenshit.” His fingers closed on a handful of grass beside the blanket.
Tugged fretfully. “Certain you’d turn me down.
Then I’d have to run the hell away with my broken goddamn heart and join a cult.
Or a circus. Didn’t quite settle on which before Becky made the first move and asked me out. ”
The lines across her brow only deepened. “I see.”
But she didn’t. Not clearly. At this moment, the woman had no way of knowing just how much he’d wanted her back then and how
much he still did now.
That’d change shortly, though, when they got to today’s final, terrifying game. Athena and Matthew were fucking ruthless when it came to communication.
“Okay.” Molly’s pen tapped against her notepad as she thought for a moment. “From my perspective, here’s the fundamental story
you just told me and how I interpret it.”
He braced himself. Accidentally ripped up a patch of grass in the process.
“You started dating a girl in high school,” she began, her voice maddeningly neutral. “You dealt with her honestly, treated
her well, and loved her as best you could, even during tough patches. She ended the relationship after a major life change,
most likely because she was changing too, and did so in an unkind way. Knowing Becky, she maybe didn’t even realize she was being unkind. Nevertheless, you were hurt and embarrassed and didn’t want to talk about the circumstances of the breakup, which
I can understand.”
Somehow, it didn’t sound so embarrassing when Molly explained it like that.
“But, Karl . . .” She leaned forward then. Laid a warm hand over his socked foot. “You had nothing to be ashamed of, either
then or now. I hope you know that. You’re”—air quotes—“‘good enough’ for anyone, and you always were.”
He ticked off his counterarguments on his fingers. “No college degree. Barely ever left the goddamn state. Bad with words. Not exactly an athlete or supermodel.”
And if who and what he was hadn’t been sufficient for Becky or the other women he’d dated, how the hell could he possibly
be enough for Molly fucking Dearborn?
Her hand left his foot, and she sat back against the tree with an audible thump.
Dramatically, she raised her own right thumb. And when she spoke again, her voice sounded less neutral and more pissed off.
“Through sheer stubborn determination and hard work, you’ve expanded the bakery to twice its size and made it a central business
in Harlot’s Bay.” Her index finger went up. “You’ve gathered a fantastic crew of workers, whom you pay well and help however
you’re able.” Middle finger. “You’ve taken a vulnerable young woman and her children under your wing, when absolutely no one
asked you to do so.” Ring finger. “As today showed, you can communicate effectively when desired.” Pinkie. “You can always
travel if and when you choose to do so. And having a passport doesn’t somehow guarantee good character or a good life, Dean.”
Abandoning her finger count, she threw her hands in the air. “I mean, Rob has a damn passport! From what I heard, he and his fiancée celebrated their engagement in St. Barts!”
Point made. “Yeah, but—”
“You’re an amazingly talented baker,” she declared, with zero acknowledgment of his attempted interruption. “Not to mention
a successful business owner, a hardworking member of the Harlot’s Bay community, a committed Nasty Wench, and a loving son
and brother.”
Mingled pleasure and discomfort had him flushed and shifting uncomfortably. She either didn’t notice or didn’t care, because she kept going.
“Plus, you’re hot.” Sounded like an accusation, which was weird, but whatever. Only a total dunce wouldn’t take that compliment from a woman
like her. “Like, really freaking hot. If a supermodel or athlete tried to get his hand inside my pants, I’d break his arm. Yours is still intact,
Karl. There’s a reason for that. And that reason is your undeniable hotness. I thought I’d already made said hotness clear,
so start paying attention, will you?”
Her lips-pursed, disapproving headshake would’ve done a schoolmarm proud.
Coincidentally? He kinda felt proud too. Less inadequate. Way more confident.
“You’re also really good with your hands, so I had high freaking hopes when it came to your fingering skills,” she added.
“Hopes that—to be clear—were fully realized.”
At that, his dick basically stood up and saluted her. “Yeah?”
“What did you think, Dean?” Her eyes rolled to the wispy clouds above. “That I poured a gallon of lube down my jeans before
going to your bakery? Then proceeded to fake coming so damn hard, my abs actually hurt the next day?”
He snorted, amusement battling abject horniness. “A gallon, huh?”
She raised a superior brow. “Ever heard of hyperbole?”
Using his own words against him. She was a damn delight.
“A good life—a worthwhile life—doesn’t require moving somewhere else, and it doesn’t require a college diploma. Becky should
have realized that, and the breakup was her loss.
Not yours.” Her cheeks flushed with sun and conviction, she stabbed a finger in his direction.
“There’s no way she found a better man than you, no matter where in the world she roamed.
And as someone who’s lived in a dozen different places, I would freaking know. ”
They were in public. Five feet to the left? Two hairy, overgrown rodents with fluffy tails eyeing his duffel bag way the hell