Chapter 3
Collin
Now
She doesn’t remember me.
Molly Douglas, a woman I’ve met at least two times before who’s currently dragging me past a stand selling roasted corn and keychains shaped like pieces of cake, has no idea who I am.
And I’ll be completely honest—it chafes. Like a cactus in the dungarees, as my dad would say.
Great. Now I’m using Tank’s hokey old sayings.
But not being recognized while I’m in the middle of an existential and admittedly melodramatic crisis about my identity hits me hard. It’s real-world confirmation outside my head that I’m the invisible Graham. Forgettable. Insignificant.
Though I do have a beard now. Maybe that threw Molly off? I’m not sure the facial hair constitutes a disguise, but apparently it works well.
To be fair, I didn’t recognize Molly immediately either.
I’m going to blame that on the distracted headspace I was in when she walked up combined with the giant unicorn obstructing my view.
The hair color change also threw me. The brown suits her, highlighting her creamy skin and deep-blue eyes. But it at least gives me a tiny excuse for the slight delay in me making the connection.
Molly: sister to Chase, who is married to my sister.
Which does not make Molly my sister-in-law. Or any kind of sister. I know this thanks to a very serious discussion Pat and I had when we first met Molly at Harper’s wedding.
It’s an important distinction because, to put it mildly, Molly is hot. Not mildly hot. All the habaneros hot.
Normally, I’m not one to outright objectify a woman, especially when that someone is the sister of my brother-in-law. Tank taught us better. But this is less objectifying and more an objective statement of fact.
In any case, Molly’s objective hotness is why Pat and I got into the discussion and then turned to Google. Because even if it’s not a blood relation, hitting on a woman who has any sisterly title seems wrong.
While Pat and I were discussing Molly’s official title in relation to us—it’s co-sister-in-law, for the record—and agreeing one of us could ask her out without breaking some kind of cultural or societal norm, James moved in first, the sly dog.
It was a rare move for our grumpy older brother, who, before Winnie, we joked would die a hermit. One who would live in a Batcave-like setup so he could spy on the family, since he can’t seem to stop older-brothering all of us.
Nothing came of James and Molly other than some mild wedding flirtations. But James effectively kept Pat and me from getting to know Molly. Because another thing Tank taught us was to never go after your brother’s girl.
When I saw her again at Thanksgiving, I was dating Liza, so Molly and I had minimal interactions. But we did talk. I made her laugh once, even. I remember thinking she had a really nice laugh.
I was a groomsman in her brother’s wedding, for crying out loud.
But right now, Molly doesn’t even remember my face.
Which is too bad, because now there are no brothers to fight off and no insecure girlfriends in the picture. Molly picked me out of a crowd, chose me for some unknown purpose, and has her hand clasped around my arm, dragging me toward—I don’t even know where.
I’d be thrilled if not for the fact that I’m so easy to forget.
I clear my throat. “Do you mind me asking where we’re going? Or why you need to borrow me?”
Molly laughs. Not the pretty one I remember. This one sounds forced. Maybe a bit manic. “It’s a funny story, actually.”
I wait for the funny story. But she doesn’t elaborate.
We’re almost to the edge of the festival grounds, where cars are parked in a field marked out by cones and rope.
Wolf Waters, owner of Backwoods Bar, has been directing cars to parking spaces with the kind of flares airport employees use to usher in planes.
I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him collecting tips too.
Most notably, he’s wearing chaps over a Speedo featuring the Texas Flag.
Wolf gives Molly an appreciative glance and winks at me. I give him the kind of look that hopefully tells the flirtatious bar owner to steer clear. Especially while not wearing actual pants.
Not that I have any claim over Molly. Still. The possessive caveman part of me is needing this flex.
Molly halts suddenly, pulling me to a stop as well. She runs her fingers through her hair then glances up at me. I shift the purple unicorn to one hip, making sure my face is clearly visible. Giving her all the time in the world to recognize me.
Come on, Molly. Think hard. Remember this handsome face. Laugh and say how silly you feel for not recognizing me at first. Blame the beard.
In any other circumstance, I’d be more than happy to have Molly’s hand on my arm and the smell of her shampoo or perfume—a spicy vanilla that calls to mind whisky mixed with buttercream frosting—filling my nose.
I would love this—if she knew who I was. If she picked me out of the crowd for me.
Which begs the question: does she go around picking up random guys from festivals all the time?
Why did she pick me?
“Hang on,” she says, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Let me think.”
“You said it’s a funny story. It’s a funny story how?” I grit out. She looks surprised, clearly forgetting the thread of our conversation from moments ago.
“Oh, right.” Her blue eyes drift away from me. “Not funny, actually. Kind of serious. And … complicated.”
I wait, concern starting to bubble up in my gut. “Define complicated. And serious.”
“Do you have a car?” Molly bites her lip then looks up at me.
It’s the kind of expression that makes me want to do whatever it is she’s about to ask. She looks vulnerable. The classic damsel-in-distress look that me and my built-in caveman have always been suckers for.
Even if I’m still hurt and, yeah—more than mildly irritated about being forgotten.
“Do you need a ride somewhere?” I ask, and she nods. That’s easy enough.
So is using the Uber app.
“I would really appreciate a ride … for starters,” she says.
I ignore for starters, not sure I want to know what else she’s going to ask of me. “Wait—you’re just going to get into a car with a stranger?”
I’m not a stranger. But she thinks I am. She has no idea that I’m probably the safest option at the festival aside from her brother. Wait—why isn’t she asking Chase for a ride?
My brain shifts back to protective mode. If Molly grabbed some rando from the fair, would she seriously get in a vehicle with him? The caveman inside me grunts and tells me to throw Molly over my shoulder and drag her to my cave where she can’t go around putting herself in unsafe situations.
Chase would have a complete meltdown over this.
It would actually be fun to see him lose it, as he’s way more level-headed than my brothers and me.
But I owe it to Chase to make sure Molly doesn’t get in the car with a stranger.
If I don’t watch out for her and she asks for a ride from someone who is bad news, I couldn’t live with myself.
Also, Chase would murder me.
“Usually, I wouldn’t.” Molly studies my face, and I wait for the spark of recognition.
Here it comes …
But then she gives me her best attempt at a smile—still forced—and pats the stuffed unicorn I’m holding. “I’m a little desperate at the moment. And serial killers don’t usually walk around with stuffed animals, so I feel pretty safe with you.”
“Maybe this is how I lure my victims—with a stuffed unicorn.” Molly frowns and I realize just how creepy I sounded. “I’m not a serial killer,” I say.
Just like a serial killer would.
“Spoken like a serial killer,” Molly agrees, dropping her hand from my arm and taking a step back. “Because obviously that’s what they’d say. On second thought, this is probably a terrible idea. All of it. The whole thing is terrible.”
She looks genuinely distressed, and I feel bad.
“I’m happy to give you a ride or whatever else you need.
” I give her my very best charming smile, grateful Tank invested heavily in dental work for us all.
“Now—are you going to take a chance on a stranger with a stuffed unicorn who claims not to be a serial killer or not?”
Molly hesitates.
I frown. “What’s at stake here with this complicated favor?”
Molly’s face falls, and she drops her gaze to her cowboy boots. They look brand new, which probably means her feet are in a world of hurt right now.
“A job. It’s kind of a long story, but this is about getting a job.”
Molly is looking for a job here? This is news to me. Apparently, no one in this family tells me anything. Molly is visiting Harper and Chase and she’s also looking for a job. I wonder when someone planned to fill me in?
“So, you really don’t mind giving me a ride?”
Again, my protectiveness surges, warring with my irritation. “I’ll drive you where you need to go. You’re safe with me. But you shouldn’t assume you are with anyone else. Asking random men for rides is a bad idea.”
My voice has taken on a low, growly tone completely on its own. Molly’s head snaps up and she blinks rapidly at me, lips parted. It’s a very kissable look.
“You’re right.” She tilts her head, studying me, and I think now, finally now, recognition will flash in her eyes. It doesn’t. “But something about you seems trustworthy.”
The compliment doesn’t land as well as it would if she remembered me. I might be trustworthy, but I’m also not memorable.
I start walking. “My truck’s this way.”
Molly scurries along behind me, and I wonder what will happen when she eventually finds out who I am. How will I explain why I played along, pretending not to know her?
For now, I’ll focus on being her chauffeur who keeps my co-sister-in-law from getting into a motor vehicle with an actual stranger.