Chapter 11 Molly #2
She chews on her lower lip as she studies the mannequins in the storefront window. “I want to go home. Are you mad?”
“Of course not.” I manage to hug her without losing a crutch or my balance.
“Do you want to grab coffee or something?”
“To be honest, I’d rather head back and log a couple more hours of work before the kids get home from school. I’m so slow getting things done these days.”
She hugs me more tightly. “Please tell me that by work, you mean drooling after Chase.”
“I don’t drool,” I tell her. Although I might lust a little.
“Come on, Molly,” she says as we climb back in the car. “It’s the perfect setup.”
“Even if I wanted an appointment, Chase has no interest in a meetup with my lady parts.”
She bestows that patented Avah brow arch on me again. “How do you know?”
“He overheard one of the moms make a comment about the two of us at school the other day.” I force a smile, ignoring the weird ache in my chest. “Chase made it clear that he’s in my life because of his debt to the McAllisters.”
“Then he doesn’t deserve to be the broom who sweeps away your coochie cobwebs,” Avah says primly.
I bust out laughing. “No, he doesn’t.”
“We’ll find somebody, especially now that you’re staying in Skylark. It’s a shame all the guys Jon works with are uptight finance tools.”
In my humble opinion, the same could be said about Jon, but I don’t mention that. “I’m fine, Avah. Really. Thank you for sharing more about you.”
She gives me a funny look. “You’re my best friend. All you had to do was ask.”
She’s right. I’ve been complacent in so many areas of my life. I don’t just accept whatever people choose to share—I actively avoid digging deeper so as not to make anyone uncomfortable.
Being a single mother to twins demands a lot, but it’s also become my convenient shield against taking any real risks.
I let my grandparents dictate every area of my life after my mom died because I knew I should be grateful they were willing to raise me.
Then Teddy agreed to marry me when I got pregnant, but he went through the motions of being a husband without ever truly wanting the role.
Linda took us in after he died, and once again I became the grateful recipient of someone else’s reluctant charity, terrified to ask for more than the bare minimum.
I’m so used to being a doormat, I might as well lie down on the interstate and beg people to run over me.
On the drive home, we switch to lighter subjects, both of us needing a bit of levity. By the time we pull into my driveway, we’re laughing about Avah’s horror at the idea of sharing one bathroom with seven-year-old twins and a dusty cowboy.
I worry I haven’t given Chase enough time for his shower—I did tell him I’d be gone a couple of hours—but when we pull down the driveway, his car is gone.
“Have you been in the Airstream?” Avah asks, her voice almost a whisper.
“He’s not going to overhear you inside the car,” I tell her.
“So have you?” she shouts, causing me to jump.
“Very funny. No, I haven’t.”
“Aren’t you curious how he lives?”
“Not one bit.”
She laughs, nearly a cackle. “Then you must have upgraded the toys in your nightstand drawer, because, damn girl, I’m curious. You can tell a lot about a man by the way he keeps his house, even if that house is on wheels.”
“What does your house say about Jon?” I ask, genuinely curious. Jon Clark is my best friend’s fiancé, and they’ve lived together for the two years I’ve been in Skylark, but I barely know him.
She frowns as if she isn’t quite sure how to answer. “It was my house to start with, but he did add several mirrors when he moved in, and some fancy scale that tracks his body stats. He also has ten pairs of identical sneakers.”
“Um, why?” I have to admit, I’ve never noticed Jon’s choice in footwear because he refuses to hang out with us. Sadie, Iris, and Taylor are with guys who make an effort. Maybe it’s because Jon and Avah were dating before the book club was formed.
Avah doesn’t seem to notice his aversion to her friends. “One pair is for the gym, one is for running, one is for just hanging out on the weekends.” She gives a tight smile. “He prefers that one type of shoe.”
“I guess that means he’s loyal,” I tell her, trying to salvage the awkwardness of this exchange.
“I always thought loyalty was a good thing in dogs, but you’re right. I want a loyal husband.”
“Yay, Jon,” I say weakly.
“Do you need help in?” she asks as she pulls to a stop in front of the house.
“I’ve got it.”
“Is that a ramp coming off your front porch?” She lifts her sunglasses to the top of her head.
“Yeah.” For some reason, I feel my cheeks heat. “I kind of suck on steps with these crutches, so Chase built it for me. Makes getting up and down a lot easier.”
“Okay, that’s sweet,” Avah says. “And kind of hot.”
“It’s not,” I insist, even though my pulse went haywire yesterday morning watching him through the front porch window, sleeves rolled up, muscles flexing as he measured and hammered, making something just for me.
“He doesn’t want to take a chance on me falling and re-injuring myself because he might have to help for longer. His motivations are selfish.”
“Uh-huh,” she agrees, her tone deadpan. “He’s gorgeous, can ride a bull, and is good with his hands. I can see why he wouldn’t be a viable candidate for a dick appointment.”
“There’s also the part about him having no interest,” I remind her through clenched teeth, then hold up a hand. “And before you read something into that, neither do I.”
“Keep telling yourself that, girl. I’ll pick you up for book club.”
“Thanks, Avah.” I hold her gaze for a moment. “For the record, no matter what you wear, you’ll be a beautiful bride. Jon is lucky to be marrying you.”
“Yep,” she says. But I see her draw in a deep breath like my words resonated. I hope they did.
I enter the house and then let out a long sigh when I realize the scooter is on the other side of the living room. My armpits are constantly sore from the crutches.
Then I hear a noise from upstairs and freeze. I hope to everything holy some neighbor’s cat broke in to terrorize Nibbles, Laurel’s beloved pet gerbil. Because the idea of an intruder is not something my nerves can handle at the moment.
I reach for the purse I tossed onto the sofa, but when I look toward the steps again, my heart slams against my ribs as tanned feet come down the stairs. Then muscular calves sprinkled with light brown hair. And then a white towel and…my mouth goes dry as the rest of Chase comes into view.
His chest is damp and droplets of water glisten on his shoulders. Holy shit, his shoulders.
I mean, I knew they were broad, but seeing those muscles ripple underneath a sweaty T-shirt and witnessing the hard planes in all their naked glory are two different things.
He’s securing the towel around his waist, and even though it feels like I’m incapable of it at the moment, I must make a sound because his gaze crashes into mine.
He misses his step and stumbles. And then, holy double shit, the towel drops.
And then I screech, and the crutches go flying.
I try to catch myself on the couch but miss, because—did I mention the towel dropping?
Talk about a man in all his naked glory.
I hardly have a chance to appreciate it, since I go down with a hard thud onto the hardwood floor.
A moment later, Chase is there, his arms extended like he’s going to pull me to my feet.
But Lord have mercy—he’s still naked.
And flying half-mast.
I’ve seen penises before and wasn’t a virgin on my wedding night. I’d had sloppy, unsatisfying sex three times with a guy in my hometown. Then there was Teddy. Plus the self-care supplies in my nightstand. But nothing holds a candle to what Chase Calhoun has going on.
Not. Even. A. Flicker.
“You aren’t supposed to be home,” he barks.
“You aren’t supposed to be running around my house naked,” I shout back.
“I was wearing a towel.”
“You aren’t wearing a towel now.”
“I was coming down to get my clothes. I accidentally left my bag by the front door.”
I look down, realize that’s what I tripped over, and shove it toward him. “Put something on. Please.”
“You aren’t supposed to be here,” he repeats as he holds the duffel bag up to cover the family jewels.
“You need to leave.” This earns a round of boos from my lady parts.
For another impossibly long moment, I’ve got a naked, wet, handsome-as-sin man who smells like fresh soap looming over me.
Then he grabs the bag and heads out the front door, still naked as the day he was born.
I should feel relieved. Instead, I’m left staring at the ceiling, my skin buzzing with electricity, wondering what might have happened if I’d asked him to stay.