Chapter 7
“—no idea why you won’t stay at my house,” Karl was grumbling as he swirled peanut butter icing over a tray of brownies. “Got
an extra bedroom, and it’d be free.”
A generous offer, but Molly couldn’t impose on him that way. Besides, if he wanted to delay sex, actually living together
for an entire month would screw that up. Literally. After a week, she’d probably just tackle him, lion-gazelle style, and
start feasting.
“I don’t feel comfortable with that, but thank you,” she told him for the second time, and ignored his low growl of discontent.
“I’ll figure something out.”
“Still stubborn as hell,” he muttered, slanting her a scowl.
“Thank you so much.”
Another aggravated rumble.
“Is your stomach upset? Your digestive system . . .” She shuddered delicately. “It keeps making these awful sounds.”
With one hand, he kept icing. With the other, he offered her an upraised middle finger.
It was impressive, how his irritation didn’t slow down his work. No doubt he was used to laboring through crankiness, since
even Oscar the Grouch could boast a cheerier baseline temperament than Karl Dean.
The shop’s lone baker had far too much on both his literal and figurative plates for a grumpiness break, as she’d quickly discovered that afternoon.
Mere seconds after they’d agreed on the parameters of his half-baked—ha!
—trust-building scheme, he’d told her she needed to put on gloves if she intended to touch anything that wouldn’t go in the oven afterward, ordered her to sling her hair back into a ponytail, and handed her a clean baseball cap to wear while in his kitchen.
The cap matched his, which definitely didn’t give her a certain warm glow of satisfaction, because that would be foolish.
Anyway, once she’d put on the non-warm-glow-inducing cap, he’d donned another beard net and begun making up for time lost
during their earlier conversation. After throwing together a quick bagel dough and kneading it in his stand mixer, he’d set
it aside to proof and began working on umpteen other tasks. Making pastries to be refrigerated and baked off the following
morning. Mixing up various glazes and icings. Measuring out ingredients for a batch of cakes. Cooking homemade jams as scone
toppings and cake fillings.
Other than a quick pause to answer his mom’s and sister’s texts, he hadn’t taken even a minute to rest.
“Coffee break soon,” he told her now, never looking up from his work. “Whatever you want, Johnathan’ll make. Sandwiches too,
if you’re hungry.”
He’d almost finished icing his brownies, even as oven timers continued to sound at regular intervals. And somehow, amidst
all that controlled chaos, he’d still considered her needs and how he could satisfy them.
If anyone had asked her yesterday whether watching a man multitask in a beard net and green, flour-dusted Crocs could be sexy,
she’d have laughed and given the wrong answer.
Because oh, yes, it could be sexy. Especially if she considered other arenas where competent multitasking, attention to her needs, and strong, agile hands could prove helpful.
Their time apart definitely hadn’t lessened his appeal for her. She’d always liked men who appeared poised to find a cave
somewhere and take a long winter’s nap. Tough but cuddly, with strong shoulders and arms and a solid belly. Karl’s wavy russet
hair hadn’t thinned yet, his reddish beard had grown even more lush over the years, and together they only added to the overall
ursine effect.
His faded graphic tee clung to those wide shoulders and his round stomach, and when he turned away from her, his equally faded
jeans outlined nicely thick thighs and the subtle arc of his butt. Her palms itched to shape themselves to that tempting ass.
Her fingers twitched as she imagined dragging her nails over tough muscle and soft flesh and hot skin.
His style hadn’t changed over the years. His body had only gotten better.
Looking up from his last tray of brownies, he caught her staring. “What?”
“Crocs, huh?” Once they’d slept together, she’d admit to ogling him. Not yet.
He shrugged. “Easy to clean. Back hurts less when I wear ’em.”
His job entailed leaning over his worktable all day, and neither of them was young anymore. No wonder his back hurt. Could
he use one of those gel mats on the floor?
As she considered the matter, he remained stuck on her lodging situation.
“A month at Battleaxe would cost a damn fortune, but where else . . .” The swirl of his offset spatula suddenly halted, and
he raised his head. “Got an idea. Hold on.”
Laying down the spatula, he stripped off his gloves and washed his hands, then disappeared into his back office.
By the time she followed him and leaned a hip against his doorframe, he already had his phone in hand and was texting someone.
When he didn’t receive an immediate answer, he aggressively swiped and tapped a few times, then set the cell on his desk.
The sound of a ringing phone emerged from the speaker.
“Who—” she began, but he stabbed his finger in the air in a request for silence.
A faint click. “Karl. Is something the matter? Because I was in the middle of a conversation with—”
“Spite House still for sale?”
Her eyebrows rose. He was calling someone about the town’s infamous Spite House? Because she’d rambled down that street yesterday,
and there was a real estate agent’s sign—Fawn Something-or-other—planted in the home’s tiny patch of front yard.
The place looked a lot less abandoned than when she’d left Harlot’s Bay, with pretty curtains and a flower box at every window.
The brick row house was still as ridiculously narrow as ever, though. Ten feet wide, at most.
“Hold on a minute.” The other man sounded resigned to the interruption. “I’m sorry, Hector, but could we possibly postpone—”
The line went silent, presumably as Karl’s mysterious contact muted his phone.
Matthew, Karl’s screen informed her. And while that was hardly the world’s most uncommon name, she suspected she knew exactly who
was making his excuses on the other end of the call.
She pointed to the display. “You’re still friends with Matthew Vine?”
Karl and his closest high school companion had been an odd duo in certain ways. Matthew had been very reserved for a teenager, but also polite and kind. Karl had been simultaneously uncommunicative and loud, his own kindness hidden by cranky bluster.
But neither boy socialized much, and both were fundamentally good kids who worked hard for their families. She’d understood
how the two of them could have become close, and apparently they’d stayed that way for two decades. Which said good things
about both men’s steadfastness and reliability.
Karl dipped his chin in confirmation just as Matthew came back on the line.
“Okay.” He sounded breathless. “The Spite House is more a curiosity than a viable residence for most people, so yes, it’s
still for sale. Athena got an offer last week, but it was insultingly low, so she turned it d—”
“She open to a month’s rental?” Karl interrupted. Again.
Let him finish a sentence, Molly mouthed, ignoring his scowl.
In a testament to Matthew’s good nature and tolerance, his response was amused rather than irritated. “I’d be happy to check
with her and tell you, assuming you let me finish a sentence in the near future.”
She arched a single eyebrow and directed a pointed look at Karl.
“If you’d get to the goddamn point more quickly, I wouldn’t—” As her stare became an incredulous glare, Karl shifted his weight
and directed his own gaze to the floor. “Sorry, man. Running behind on my bakes and prep. Not an excuse. Just a reason.”
“It’s fine.” Matthew’s voice remained warm and sincere. “Before I call her, why don’t you tell me what’s going on? If you
don’t have time for that now, we can talk later.”
Karl hunched forward over the phone, his meaty fists on the desk supporting his weight. “Molly needs a place to stay.”
A moment’s silence. “Has something else happened since you texted me yesterday? Because last I heard, you were upset that
she—”
“You’re on speaker, dude. Molly’s right here.” His nostrils flared as he exhaled heavily. “Interrupted again, I know, but
that’s on her. One hundred percent her fault.”
She sighed too. “Really, Karl?”
“Um . . . hi, Molly.” Matthew’s tone had become significantly more cautious, although he still sounded friendly enough. “Welcome
back to Harlot’s Bay. I’m sorry you returned under such unusual circumstances, but I hope you’ve had a good visit thus far.”
Unusual circumstances was a considerable understatement. Sometime soon, she really needed to hear the full story of how that mistaken obituary
had even happened.
“Hey, Matthew. Luckily, the reports of Karl’s death were greatly exaggerated, so this trip has been much better than I’d anticipated.
I hope you’re doing well?”
“I’m fantastic. Thank you for asking,” he told her, sounding firm and sure and happy. “Since Karl is most likely on the verge
of spontaneous human combustion—”
“Not a real thing,” she said under her breath, and Karl screwed up his face in exaggerated shock and dismay at her near-silent
interruption.
Rude, he mouthed, and shook a reproving finger at her. She wanted to bite it.
“—due to acute impatience, I’ll cut to the chase. I got married not long ago, and my wife Athena owns the Spite House. She’s leading a tour right now at Historic Harlot’s Bay, but she should be on break soon, so if you tell me what you need, I can ask her about it almost immediately.”
A woman’s faint voice filtered through the speaker, growing louder by the word. “Speak of the devil, and she appears.” After
a quiet rustle came the faint smack of an abbreviated kiss. “Tour got canceled. I’m done for the day, so I thought I’d come
see the best husband ever, on this or any other planet.”
Karl snorted. “Then why are you at Matthew’s office?”
“Shut up, Special K.”
Special K? Karl must loathe that nickname.