Chapter 9
Molly
I wake up feeling like my mouth is filled with cotton balls and my head with tiny dwarves wielding even tinier pickaxes. I’m also completely unaware of where I am for a solid five terrifying seconds before it comes to me.
I’m in Sheet Cake—staying in a loft with my brother and Harper.
No. A sudden memory of Collin carrying me to bed fills my mind. Quickly followed by more memories and a whole slew of regrets.
Did I … arm wrestle a pig farmer?
I groan. Yes. I did that.
But why was I downing cinnamon whisky like it was water? I’m usually not a drinker. Definitely not a drinker of hard liquor.
Oh, right—I got the job at Brightmark. The Fireball was for celebrating. Mostly.
As I open my eyes and sit up, I realize my headache is actually not as bad as I thought. More like tiny dwarves with pillows instead of pickaxes. Probably because Collin forced me to drink a lot of water and gave me two painkillers before bed.
His bed, I remember as I sit up, taking in the room. He told me it was his room, insisting I stay here when I tried to fight him.
Not like I stood a chance. I’m pretty sure I only beat the pig farmer at arm wrestling because he let me cheat. No way could I beat Collin at any kind of physical contest. Not even if I cheated.
Mr. Biceps, I think. Then I groan again because didn’t I tell Collin he was my Mr. Biceps?
No more whisky. Ever.
Glancing around, I wonder if Collin is some kind of radical minimalist because there is nothing personal in this room.
If I had ever given thought to Collin’s bedroom—which, to be clear, I had not—I wouldn’t have pictured somewhere so devoid of personality.
Not when Collin himself is larger than life.
I open the walk-in closet (because I’m not above a little light snooping) and find it empty save for a few shirts, a pair of boots, and some sneakers. But I think he lives in Austin full time like Chase, so maybe this is more of a guest place to stay when he’s in town?
Must be nice to have that kind of money. Though it’s not so much the dollar amounts as it is the freedom that comes with it I’m envious of.
In the en suite bathroom, I find a small collection of toiletries on the counter next to a bottle of water and a note scrawled in neat cursive.
Morning, darlin’. I won’t say it’s a good morning because that all depends on how your head feels. Drink more water and I’ll have coffee ready (if you drink coffee, that is) and will get you the best hangover cure breakfast when you’re ready.
-YOUR Mr. Biceps
Yep. Whisky is on my permanent do-not-fly list.
After brushing my teeth until my gums hurt and detangling my nest of hair, I pull on my metaphorical big girl panties and text my parents that I’m not coming home.
Actually, I’m not sure if these count as big girl panties as I’m choosing text over a phone call, and when my mother immediately calls me, I send her to voicemail and text both my parents back instead.
Molly: This isn’t up for discussion! Was just letting you know about my change in plans! [smiley face emoji]
Dad: Unacceptable. You have two interviews lined up next week.
Molly: I do? Huh. I don’t remember setting up any interviews.
Passive aggressive? Sure. Because it’s an effective way to highlight the fact that my job hunt has moved firmly out of my control and into the hands of my father.
Without my permission, I might add.
Mom: Your father set them up. Which means it’s his reputation on the line.
I always wondered where my mom would land if push came to shove. Typically, she’s pretty passive and goes with the flow, playing dumb about my dad’s control issues without actively taking part.
I guess now I know—she sides with him. Of course.
Dad: Get on that plane, Molly.
Molly: Sorry! That won’t be happening.
Dad: What about the dates I have lined up for you? These are sons of business associates.
Molly: Hm. I guess maybe it’s best to keep those relationships strictly business?
Wow. The boldness I’ve discovered by way of texting is absolutely freeing. I should have tried this years ago.
Dad: Your foolish choices don’t just reflect on you. You’re sullying my reputation.
I resist the urge to send him Taylor Swift lyrics in response, even if there are some that would be totally on point.
Mom: Just come home. We love you. This is concerning, coming out of nowhere like this. We care about you and want you safe.
Wow. A change of tactics. Now they’re doing a whole angry cop versus emotionally manipulative cop routine.
Molly: I’m fine! Chase and Harper are gracious hosts.
I draw in a breath, needing an extra dose of courage for the next text.
Molly: And about those dates … I’m actually dating Harper’s brother. He’s wonderful. So is the job. I’m really happy and will be staying here. Got to go but just wanted you both to know. [smiley face emoji]
Before they can tell me acting isn’t a real job or tell me that I couldn’t possibly have gotten into a relationship that quickly, I turn the phone face down on my bed and walk out of the room.
I can deal with any fallout or with the lie I keep perpetuating later.
Time to face the music. And my fake boyfriend.
I find Collin sitting at the kitchen island, frowning down at his phone. He doesn’t hear me, and I hover nearby, watching him for a moment.
The man could be slapped on a billboard selling just about anything and it would probably cause traffic jams. Full lips and eyelashes long enough to make most women jealous.
(Myself included.) Messy dark hair that looks like he’s been dragging his hands through it for hours.
I’m not typically into beards, but I could be. For him.
What a billboard wouldn’t be able to showcase is Collin’s personality.
He’s bright and fun, able to toggle between teasing and a disarming sincerity.
I think of the way he took care of my feet last night, blistered and sore from trying to break in new cowboy boots on the fly. The way he took care of me.
Collin Graham is good people, Wolf Waters said in the coffee shop.
And he’s right. Add the good people to the billboard-worthy looks and Collin is an absolute catch.
How is this man single???
The only thing marring Collin’s nearly perfect features is the expression he’s wearing now. There’s anger in it, but another, uglier emotion I wish I didn’t recognize: shame.
What in the world does Collin Graham have to be ashamed of?
“Hey.”
Even though my one-word greeting is soft, Collin jumps. His phone skitters out of his hand and slides down the gray marble counter. I grab it just before it falls off the edge.
Because I’m nosy but not too nosy, I only take a tiny peek at his screen before dropping onto the stool next to Collin and handing the phone back. It’s open to some social media feed, and I wonder what could possibly have caused the expression he’s now smoothed right off his face.
I’m not the only one here who can act.
Collin clicks the phone off the moment he gets it, turning it face down on the counter. “Morning, Molly.”
His gaze roams over my face, like he’s appraising my current state. His attention makes me blush. So does the use of my first name after all the nicknames. It feels oddly intimate.
“Hi.” The one syllable word comes out squeaky. I sound like a dumb teenager meeting her famous crush for the first time.
“How's the head?” he asks.
“It would be worse if you hadn’t given me water and painkillers. Thank you. And also … sorry. For the record, I’m not usually a whisky—or any kind of—drinker.”
“So arm wrestling a pig farmer was a one-off?” he teases.
I fold my arms on the cool countertop and drop my head on them with a groan. “That really happened, didn’t it?”
“His name is Sooey, just for the record.”
I tilt my head so I can look up at Collin with one eye. “Seriously?”
He shrugs. “I’m sure he has a different name his mama and daddy gave him, but I certainly don’t know it. Wolf said you also sang a mean karaoke. I wouldn’t have picked you for an angry Miranda Lambert crooner, but what do I know?”
“Which song did I sing?”
“Songs—plural. I missed the grand performances, but Wolf said you did rousing renditions of ‘Crazy Ex-Girlfriend’ and ‘Kerosene.’” His elbow nudges mine. “Also? Wolf doesn’t have a karaoke machine.”
“Wait—so how did I sing karaoke?”
“Standing on a table with a bullhorn,” Collin says.
Okay. Wow. I do remember this now. The whole night is a kaleidoscope of cinnamon-whisky-flavored memories.
I remember arriving with Wolf and being disappointed when Collin wasn’t there.
Which left me in a strange bar with a strange man and a bunch of strangers after a very strange day.
Things perked up when I got the call from Brightmark.
Elation followed by acute dismay when I realized I now have a job based on a lie—one I’ll need to dig my way out of.
Or—possibly more terrifying—a lie I’ll need to exist inside of for who knows how long.
I think it was actually more the second thing that got me drinking Fireball.
And now that he brought it up, I do remember singing songs on a bullhorn I found behind the counter, learning to two-step from someone whose name escapes me, and arm wrestling Sooey.
Then Collin showed up, saved me from falling off a stool, and carried me around like an oversized baby. Or a bride. I should probably have insisted he let me walk, but his arms felt nice around me. Warm. Comforting. Safe.
Though I fell asleep in the car, I remember him carrying me upstairs to the couch, rubbing my blistered feet, and putting me to bed.
Essentially, Collin Graham babysat me all night. This—after getting dragged into being my fake boyfriend.
On a scale of not so bad to utter humiliation, I’m hovering near just put me out of my misery, please.
“Coffee?” Collin asks.
“Will it help me forget all the things I did and said last night?”
And all the ways I took advantage of your kindness in the last twenty-four hours?