Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
MOLLY
The library is quiet after the grand opening, a stark contrast to the joyful chaos of the morning.
Children's fingerprints mark the fairy doors, evidence of tiny explorers who couldn't resist touching everything.
Books sit slightly askew on shelves, bookmarks peeking from pages where adventures wait to be continued tomorrow.
I move through the space, straightening cushions and gathering forgotten hair clips, a ritual that soothes my racing thoughts.
The reading nook exceeded every expectation—the children's faces when the cloth was pulled away, the gasps from parents, even Harold's grudging nod of approval. A success by any measure.
Yet something feels unfinished.
Cal.
He came to the opening after all, standing quietly at the edges, watching everything with those intense blue eyes.
When he finally approached me, the wooden heart he pressed into my palm said more than his halting words.
We'd made tentative peace, plans for dinner, a fragile bridge across the distance his withdrawal had created .
But I need more than peace. I need certainty.
I finish my cleanup, say goodnight to Diana, and drive to Cal's workshop address—the one I've memorized without meaning to.
Rhodes Custom Woodworking sits in an old brick building, surrounded by trees. Light spills from windows despite the late hour, Cal's truck parked outside. My heart thuds as I park beside it.
I grip the steering wheel. Why am I here? We have dinner plans tomorrow—a sensible way to explore whatever's growing between us.
But I'm tired of shrinking myself to make others comfortable. Tired of wondering if my feelings are too much.
I climb out, wooden heart in pocket, and approach. Through the window, Cal bends over his workbench, strong shoulders curved in concentration. I knock.
He looks up surprised, sets down his tools, and opens the door. "Molly. Is everything okay?"
"I don't know. Can I come in?"
The workshop smells of sawdust and lemon oil. Tools line walls, projects in various stages occupy workbenches.
"I wasn't expecting company," Cal says.
"I didn't know I was coming until I was halfway here." I face him. "The reading nook is perfect. Everything we dreamed."
"The kids seemed to like it."
"They loved it. So why do I feel like we left something unfinished?"
His eyes search mine. "What do you mean?"
"I mean this." I pull out the wooden heart. "And this." I gesture between us. "And everything that almost happened before you pulled away."
Cal's expression softens. "Molly?— "
"I know I'm overwhelming. I feel things intensely. I talk too much when I'm nervous, like now. But I'm tired of apologizing for who I am. I want someone who values my enthusiasm. Who sees all of me and stays."
"Is that why you're here? To see if I'll stay?"
"I'm here to know if this means what I think it means."
He moves closer. "What do you think it means?"
"That maybe you feel this connection too. This possibility."
Cal takes the heart, fingers brushing mine. "I made this at two AM because I couldn't find words for how I feel. I'm not good at expressing emotions. At letting people in."
"I've noticed."
"But with you, I want to try. Even though it scares me."
"What scares you?"
"That I won't be enough. That my quiet will bore you."
I place my palm against his cheek. "Cal, I see someone who truly listens. Who notices details others miss. Who makes me feel both excited and calm simultaneously."
His hand covers mine. "You shine so brightly. I'm afraid I'll dim your light."
"You don't dim it. You reflect it back. Make it steadier, more powerful."
Cal's hand slides to my waist. "I'm still going to struggle with words sometimes."
"That's okay. I have plenty for both of us."
His answering smile transforms his face, creating crinkles at the corners of his eyes that I want to trace with my fingertips. "I've noticed."
And then he's bending down, and I'm rising on my toes, and our lips meet in a kiss that starts gentle but quickly deepens. His arms encircle me completely. I wind my arms around his neck, pressing closer, needing to feel all of him against me.
When we finally break apart, we're both breathing hard. Cal rests his forehead against mine, his hands splayed across my back.
"I've been wanting to do that since the day under the stars," he murmurs.
"Me too." I can feel his heart thundering against my chest, matching the rapid pace of my own. "Though I imagined fewer clothes involved."
The words slip out before I can censor them, and I feel heat rush to my face. But instead of pulling back, Cal's eyes darken, his hands tightening at my waist.
"Is that so?" His voice has dropped an octave, sending shivers down my spine.
"I told you—I don't have a filter when I'm nervous." I bite my lip, suddenly aware of how alone we are, how close his body is to mine. "Or excited. Or both."
"Don't apologize." He brushes a strand of hair from my face, his touch reverent. "I want to hear everything you're thinking. Especially about fewer clothes."
The desire in his eyes emboldens me. "I was thinking about your hands," I admit. "How careful they are with wood. How they might feel on my skin."
Cal's breath catches. "Molly..."
"Too much?" I whisper, suddenly uncertain.
"Not enough," he corrects, and then he's kissing me again, deeper this time, one hand tangling in my hair while the other pulls me flush against him.
I can feel his arousal pressing against my stomach, hard evidence of his desire. It makes me feel powerful, wanted, perfect exactly as I am. I arch into him, a small sound of need escaping me when his lips leave mine to trail along my jaw, down my neck.
"Cal," I gasp as his teeth graze my pulse point. "Please."
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his own dark with desire but still questioning. "Please what, Molly? Tell me what you want."
"You," I say simply. "All of you. No more waiting, no more doubts."
For a moment, he searches my face, as if making sure I'm certain. Then he nods once, decision made. "Not here. There's sawdust everywhere, and you deserve better than a workbench for your first time."
"First time?" I laugh softly. "I'm not exactly innocent, Cal."
"First time with me," he clarifies, and the possessive edge in his voice sends heat pooling low in my belly. "Come on."
He takes my hand, leading me through a door at the back of the workshop into what must be his office.
It's spartan but comfortable—a worn leather sofa against one wall, a drafting table covered in sketches, bookshelves filled with woodworking manuals and, to my delight, a small collection of classic novels.
Cal releases my hand only long enough to lock the door behind us, then turns to me with an intensity that makes my knees weak.
"Last chance to change your mind," he says, voice rough with restraint.
In answer, I reach for the top button of my dress, slipping it free. "I know what I want, Cal."
His eyes track the movement of my fingers as I undo another button, then another. When the dress falls open to reveal my simple cotton bra, his jaw tightens visibly.
"You're beautiful," he says, the words carrying the weight of absolute truth .
I let the dress slide from my shoulders, pooling at my feet. Standing before him in just my underwear, I resist the urge to cover myself. My body isn't perfect—my hips wide, my stomach soft, my thighs marked with silvery stretch marks—but the raw hunger in Cal's eyes makes me feel like a goddess.
"Your turn," I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.
He pulls his t-shirt over his head in one fluid motion, revealing a broad chest dusted with dark hair that narrows to a trail disappearing beneath his jeans. His body is solid, powerful, shaped by years of physical work rather than a gym routine.
"Come here," he says, and I go to him willingly.
The first touch of his bare chest against mine pulls a gasp from both of us. His skin is hot, slightly rough with calluses as his hands explore my back, my waist, the curve of my hips. I trace the muscles of his shoulders, marveling at their strength, at how gently they hold me despite their power.
"You feel so good," I murmur against his neck, pressing kisses wherever I can reach. "Better than I imagined."
"You've been imagining this?" His hands slide lower, cupping my bottom and pulling me tighter against him.
"Since the day you walked into that committee meeting." I nip at his earlobe, delighting in his sharp intake of breath. "Those hands of yours... the way they moved when you sketched. I couldn't stop thinking about them."
"These hands?" He brings one between us, tracing the edge of my bra. "The ones that want to touch every inch of you?"
"Yes," I breathe, arching into his touch. "Please, Cal."
He unclasps my bra with surprising dexterity, drawing it slowly down my arms. When my breasts are bare before him, he makes a sound low in his throat—half groan, half reverence .
"Perfect," he murmurs, cupping their weight in his palms. His thumbs brush over my nipples, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through me.
I reach for his belt, suddenly desperate to feel all of him. "Too many clothes," I complain, fumbling with the buckle.
Cal smiles against my neck. "Impatient."
"Always," I admit, finally getting the belt open. "Another flaw."
"Not a flaw." He stills my hands, looking directly into my eyes. "Nothing about you is a flaw, Molly. Nothing."
The sincerity in his voice makes my throat tight with emotion. I rise on my toes to kiss him, pouring everything I can't say into the press of my lips against his.
Together, we shed the rest of our clothes, hands exploring newly revealed skin with wonder and growing urgency. When we're finally naked, Cal leads me to the sofa, sitting and drawing me onto his lap so I'm straddling his thighs.
"I want to see you," he explains, hands stroking up my sides. "All of you."