Chapter 17
Collin
“Honey, I’m home,” I call out in a loud, sing-songy voice even though I’m the one lounging on the couch, not the one walking through the door.
But my words make Molly laugh—exactly as I intended them to. She looks tired but happy as she makes her way inside, flopping down on the couch beside me. Closer to me than I thought she might sit, but not as close as I would like.
Her hair is in a ponytail, and her blue eyes look tired but happy.
“Hey.” Molly grins, then yawns, kicking off her shoes. They land in two separate spots across the carpet. She doesn’t even seem to notice, and I suddenly feel quite certain that she’s messy. The kind of woman who would kick off her shoes and leave them wherever they are for days.
Which I guess makes me the kind of man who will be constantly picking up after her.
The thought makes me smile. That is, until I remember that all this is temporary, and I find myself clenching my jaw instead.
“I’m surprised you don’t have some kind of tray of snacks or drinks waiting for me,” Molly says. “I might have to send a letter of complaint to your supervisor.”
“Ah, don’t be so hasty to assume I don’t.” I tap her on the knee as I stand.
Her eyes go wide as she tracks me walking into the kitchen. “Wait—Collin, I was kidding. You don’t really have something for me, right? You know you don’t have to do that. It was a joke.”
“I know.” I hide my smile with the open refrigerator door as I grab the platter I put in there about twenty minutes ago.
She stops any hint of protesting when I return with chips and guacamole and instead digs right in. “Ok,” she says around a mouthful, “you don’t have to do this, but I really like it.”
“Good. Because it’s kind of fun playing the part of househusband.”
I did actually enjoy making the guacamole—something I’d never done before.
Guacamole, as it turns out, is surprisingly simple.
I usually don’t do much in the kitchen. Never had a reason to before.
Now, suddenly, I find myself doing things like looking up guacamole recipes after hearing Molly make an offhanded comment at dinner with my family about how much she loves it.
I also threw away the two jars of pickles from Tank’s fridge.
Molly pauses, a chip halfway to her mouth. “Househusband?” She practically whispers the word, looking suddenly terrified.
“Houseboyfriend? Is that better?” I steal the chip right from her hand and pop it into my mouth. “It just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
She gives me a mock glare for stealing her chip, but I grab another, dip it, and hold it out to her. Instead of grabbing it, she curls her hand around my wrist, then takes a bite of the chip, her lips brushing my fingers, eyes fixed on mine.
Hello.
Can she feel my pulse racing under her fingertips? In my ears it’s as loud as a whole army of horses.
Molly releases me, snatching the rest of the chip and finishing it off while I’m trying to catch my breath. A simple touch shouldn’t have this effect on me. But it does.
She does.
“Hey, would you mind if we did that again?” she asks.
Not even in the slightest. I scramble to drag a chip through the guacamole. But then I see she’s fiddling with her phone.
“It would make a good social media post. Cute. Coupley.” Her smile looks apologetic.
Right. I shouldn’t be so disappointed. And a moment later, I’m not, because we’re recreating the moment and, even with Molly filming, I still get to touch her and be close to her.
And also share the moment with more than a million strangers.
I wonder how she does this all the time—sharing even bits and pieces of her life? It already makes my skin itch, and I’m not even doing any of the legwork. I didn’t even look at the post online, only at the copy Molly sent me to keep.
Which I’ve watched no less than fifty times.
Molly’s hand lingers on my wrist again, and her eyes search mine as she sets down the phone, then releases me.
“Thank you. I’ll post it later.”
I take another chip, needing something to do with my hands so I don’t grab her and haul her over into my lap. “You like it?”
“The guacamole? Yes—it’s great. The food in Texas is amazing.”
I almost tell her that I made it myself, then feel like it would be fishing for compliments. Because it would be. It would also be revealing maybe too much of my hand.
Don’t want to seem desperate or anything. Even if that’s exactly how I’m starting to feel when it comes to Molly.
“I guess as long as you keep feeding me and supplying me with coffee in the mornings, I’ll call you whatever you want,” she says.
Right—we were talking about househusband versus houseboyfriend. “Mr. Biceps will do.”
She laughs, then takes another chip. “I could eat this whole bowl. Is this going to ruin our dinner?”
“Nah. This is just an appetizer to tide us over. I wasn’t sure if you’d want a break after a hard day of work at the coffeeshop,” I say pointedly.
Molly gapes at me. “How did you hear about that?”
“I guess you didn’t set up a profile on the Neighborly app yet,” I say. “It’s really the best way to keep tabs on everyone and everything. Someone posted about you working with Kalli. So, you decided one job wasn’t enough and you got yourself a second one?”
“I didn’t really mean to get another job.
But I was in there, and it was slammed, so I started helping out.
I actually really enjoyed it, and Kalli said she could use a hand.
It just kind of happened. I figured while Thayden is looking over my Brightmark contract, another job couldn’t hurt,” she adds quickly.
“You talked to Thayden?”
“He texted. Thanks for giving him my number. I feel much better with him looking it over before I sign.”
Molly is saying she feels better, but there’s a tightness to her expression, like she’s trying really hard to convince me—or convince herself—of something.
But of what—that’s what I’m not sure of.
“What about social media?” I press, knowing that I’m probably being too nosy. “I thought with your millions of followers, you’d be making bank on social media. Or that you wouldn’t have time for second, or I guess, third jobs.”
“Social media will eat up however much time you give it,” she says. “It never stops being hungry. And I do make pretty good money.”
Then why, I wonder, was she so desperate for the Brightmark job that she lied to get it? There’s a silent but at the end of her sentence, something she isn’t telling me.
After seeing the response to our post, I did a quick Google search to see how much someone with her follower count could make. The number is staggering, especially for something so simple as posting videos showing her putting on skincare or eating lunch.
That doesn’t mean Molly is making that much, of course, but I’d imagine it’s at the least a six-figure income level.
But one thing I do know about social media is that it’s not consistent.
And not everyone knows how to handle money—especially when they’re young.
When I was playing football, I watched multiple young guys blow through million-dollar contracts and sponsorships, ending up in financial difficulties or even bankruptcy.
I was grateful that Tank taught us all how to manage our money. My career didn’t last long, and I never had massive contracts, but I walked away with plenty. Maybe Molly has been blowing through whatever she makes. Though I haven’t seen any sign of that.
She’s borrowing a car and staying at my dad’s place for free, so it’s not like she’s spending money on fancy cars or luxury hotels.
And I’m not an expert on fashion, but nothing she wears seems like fancy designer clothing.
Compared to Liza, who was constantly shopping and going to salon appointments for nails, hair, and eyelashes, Molly is downright low-key.
“But you still wanted another job?”
Molly’s gaze drops, and she scoots away from the coffee table. And away from me. She grabs a throw pillow, hugging it to her chest.
I’ve clearly hit a nerve, and it’s one she doesn’t want exposed. At least, not yet—or not to me.
Why do I want her to tell me so badly? To trust me and feel like she can open up?
Molly is like a vault of secrets, and I’m twirling the lock, my ear pressed to the door, listening for the smallest click.
I want to push, to ask more questions the way I would if this were Pat or James or Harper, but instead, I force myself to be silent. To listen and wait. Hoping she’ll say whatever it is she’s keeping close. Whatever I’ve sensed she hasn’t been saying.
She glances up, looking like she’s about to speak when a loud banging on the door makes us both jump.
“Is everyone decent in there?” a loud and most unwelcome voice calls.
I drop my head to the back of the couch and groan. “Go away, Patty!”
Instead of going away, I hear keys in the lock, and a moment later, Pat, Lindy, James, and Winnie pour into the loft. Pat is peeking through his fingers, as though he expected to find us half-dressed and making out on the sofa. I grab the pillow from Molly and toss it at his head.
“We thought we’d see if you lovebirds wanted to come out for a couples’ dinner,” Winnie says with a grin.
“Mmm, guacamole,” Lindy says, almost immediately plopping down right next to Molly.
Somehow, Lindy manages to give Molly a one-armed hug while also shoveling chips and guacamole into her mouth.
“Oh, my word, this is delicious. Where did you get it? Pat! We need a steady supply of this. Babygirl likes it.”
“You’ve barely started eating it,” Pat protests. “How do you even know if she—never mind.” He holds up both hands in surrender to the loaded-pistol gaze Lindy’s shooting his way. “I will get you the guacamole. Molly, where is this from?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “Collin got it.”
“Spill, brother. Who’s your guac supplier?”
I rub the back of my neck. “I made it.” A sudden silence descends on the room. Well, almost silence, broken only by Lindy’s continuous crunching.
“You made guacamole?” Pat asks.