Chapter 4
Make me.
Did Molly realize what a dangerous game she was playing? Because Karl would gladly make her, if she wanted that. He would take any excuse to get his hands on her miracle of a body and put her exactly where he wanted.
Right now, out of his path.
Eventually, under him.
“Make you,” he repeated, a low rumble of warning.
“Make. Me.” Her cheeks flushed and shiny from the heat of the ovens, she tipped her chin high. “What? No obscenities? No threats
that aren’t logically possible? I’m disappointed, Karl.”
Not so serene anymore, his Molly. She was breathing faster now, blue eyes flame-hot and lit with challenge, lips parted and
wet from a swipe of that pink, pink tongue.
Watching for the slightest flinch or uneasiness in her expression, he lifted his hand and—
Dammit. No. If they fucked now, she’d come and go. He knew it already.
Sex wouldn’t keep her here. So he dropped his hand and took his shot. “You owe me, Dearborn.”
“Huh?” Her eyes were hazy and hooded. “I don’t . . . what?”
There it was. Unflappable, sharp-as-a-blade Molly Dearborn, off-balance from their near kiss. Good fucking sign. Best fucking sign.
Time to sell his idea. Hard. “We were friends. Good ones. You cut me off with no warning and no explanation. Didn’t even bother
to ask if I was still dating Becky. Just assumed I was cheating.”
“That was two decades ago,” she protested, fists now on her hips, but he didn’t relent.
“Three years as friends.” He echoed her stance. Lifted a brow. “I do anything dishonest? Anything to make you think I’d cheat?”
“Well, no, but—”
“Deserved better from you,” he concluded, pinning her with his stare.
She sighed. “Yes. But you should’ve told me you’d broken up with Becky, as we established mere minutes ago. The fault isn’t entirely on my side.”
Yeah. He was ignoring that.
“You owe me,” he repeated. “How soon you need to be back in LA?”
Her forehead crinkled again. “About four weeks from now. Karl . . .”
“Twenty-year reunion’s the first weekend in October.” He’d been dreading the stupid event, but now? Hooray for all that school
spirit shit. “Less than four weeks.”
She checked the calendar on her phone. “Barely.”
“You said it’s hard for you to trust anyone.” He sucked in a breath. Gathered his courage. “Give me from now until then to
prove you can trust me.”
His family would be gone during her whole visit, unable to interfere. Best timing ever.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
“If I trust you or don’t trust you, what difference does that make?” she finally asked, sounding confused. “Yes, we were friends at one time, but we haven’t spoken since we were teenagers, and I live across the country. Maybe my opinion of you mattered then, but surely it doesn’t matter now.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “It matters to me.”
“We’ve already established that you weren’t trying to cheat on Becky. Your official record is hereby”—with a distinct slap,
she brushed her palms back and forth, as if knocking off dirt—“clean.”
“Give me from now until the reunion,” he repeated, unswayed. “I’ll prove myself to you.”
She eyed him closely, then nodded to herself. Like she’d figured something out.
“Let me be blunt, Dean. We clearly have some unfinished business.” She stepped into him, nudging his arms to his sides, and
he bit off a rough sound at the heat of her, the softness of her belly and breasts. “But taking care of that business doesn’t
require trust. Just chemistry. And until I leave on Friday, I’m happy to use that chemistry and run some experiments. Enough
to make Mr. Miller write us a lifetime’s worth of referrals.”
Oh, Jesus. Her body pressed against his? Best thing he’d felt in his damn life.
His thoughts slowed. Turned syrupy, like the wildflower honey he used in his iced tea.
Dimly, though, in the recesses of his Molly-addled mind, an alarm began ringing. His plan for her wasn’t about sex. Right?
Or . . . not just about sex. But if he stayed this close to her, it’d become that, and . . .
Yeah. He knew himself. Knew how it’d feel to have her, then watch her leave again.
If she’d haunted his bed before? She’d be a goddamn poltergeist after they finally fucked. So if she was going, better not to fuck at all. No matter what his stupid damn dick was telling him.
Getting off and getting ditched didn’t give him what he’d wanted—what he’d needed—for two shitty decades. A chance to make things right. A chance to make things real.
For him to have that chance, she needed to stay in Harlot’s Bay. For her to stay, he needed her trust. And to earn that trust,
he needed the rest of September. Not a few quick orgasms until Friday came and she went.
His plan. He had to remember his damn plan.
He paced back a step, until he lost physical contact with her. She swayed forward, and her little noise of protest nearly
broke his resolve, but he kept his shit together.
After a moment, his brain rebooted itself. He planted his feet and made his stand.
“Fucking someone who doesn’t trust me . . .” He shook his head. “No. Doesn’t feel right.”
Not a total lie. Also not the actual reason he’d refused her proposition.
Her brows had formed a straight, dark line across her forehead. “You’re telling me we can’t have sex until I trust you?”
“Yep.”
“And you want me to stay in Harlot’s Bay for almost an entire month, because I ostensibly owe you that time to prove yourself and earn my trust?”
“Yep.”
“And if you do earn my trust while I’m still here, then we can fuck.”
“Yep.”
“That’s . . . wow.” She laughed then, bracing herself with a hand on his worktable.
“I have to applaud you, Dean. That demand took some serious nerve. I mean, four weeks? All to make up for having misjudged you two freaking decades ago? With the prospect of sex as extra enticement to agree, even apart from the guilt trip you’re laying on me? ”
Didn’t sound like a yes. Dammit.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, but—”
“Listen, Dearborn,” he interrupted, desperate, “don’t—”
“Wait!” Charlotte surged into the back room, hot on the heels of her two toddlers, and reached for the nearest one, planting
him on a hip before snatching for the second kid. “Brooklyn, stop right there. Karl, sweetheart, you know you’re not supposed
to put that in your mouth—”
Karl—the adult, not the toddler, although he was feeling equally sulky at the moment—pressed his own lips together, trying
his damnedest not to show his aggravation at the interruption.
Charlotte had begun working at the bakery as a dishwasher at just seventeen. Four years later, she was a smart, hardworking
single mom, one of his morning-shift clerks, and the closest thing to a daughter he’d ever have. Right now, she was bustling
around the back room, busily attempting to get her flock in order. And yeah, he loved those kids, but he currently wanted
to send them to the wilds of Australia. Accompanied by their mother, whom he also loved, but who also belonged on a slow boat
across the goddamn Pacific.
Molly’s gaze swung to him. Frowning in confusion, she studied his mouth, then turned back to the kids. After a few more seconds
of study, her expression smoothed into neutrality. Without another word, she moved out of his way. Far out of his way. Across
the room.
His brows snapped together.
What? he mouthed, as Charlotte continued to inspect whatever Karl’s namesake had shoved into his piehole this time. But Molly wasn’t
paying attention to him anymore. Instead, she was offering Brooklyn a polite smile as the toddler stared at her and started
babbling about turtles.
“Honey, plastic isn’t food. I’ve told you that a million times. Please remember that the next time you see a Duplo block,
okay? Anyway, I wanted to talk to—oh.” Charlotte’s stream of words came to an abrupt halt, and she directed an apologetic
wince toward both him and Molly. “I’m so sorry. I wanted to talk to you about the new quiche flavor I think we should try,
Karl, but that can wait. I didn’t realize you had company.”
“It’s fine, Charlotte,” he told her, with as much patience as he could muster.
It wasn’t fine. But she was too fragile, too sweet, for his usual bitching.
From her perch on her mom’s hip, Brooklyn reached out both arms, hazel eyes wide and pleading. With a gusty sigh, Karl moved
farther away from the ovens, gathered the child up, tossed her over one shoulder, and spun in a circle with his hand on the
giggling kid’s padded butt, keeping her in place and safe.
Charlotte shifted her weight, glancing back and forth between him and Molly. “Listen. Maybe I should just grab Brooklyn and
go back—”
“No, no.” Molly raised a hand. “You stay. I should head out now anyway.”
“But—” Charlotte and Karl began in unison.
Molly didn’t let either of them finish. “Karl and I are old schoolmates, and I hadn’t seen him in a few years, so I just stopped by to say a quick hello. Lovely to meet you, Charlotte. Your kiddos are adorable, as I’m sure you already know. You make a beautiful family.”
Truth. Whenever Charlotte, Brooklyn, and Junior managed to take a family picture, it looked like a fucking stock photo.
“Thank you?” Charlotte sounded uncertain, and he had no idea why.
Only . . . Karl abruptly stopped spinning. Did Molly think—
“Brooklyn and Karl aren’t my kids, Dearborn. Charlotte’s like a daughter to me.” He shoved an accusing finger in Molly’s direction.
“You just thought the worst of me again. Not two decades ago. Now.”
Brooklyn made an odd sound, jerked, and vomited down the back of Karl’s tee.
“I’ve told you not to spin her like that, no matter how much she loves it,” Charlotte muttered, already digging for wipes.
“Last time you babysat, the same thing happened.”
Cuddling Brooklyn to his chest and rubbing the poor kid’s back, Karl shut his eyes in disgust. At the foul-smelling wetness
seeping through his shirt. At the entire goddamn situation. “Motherfucker.”