Chapter 7 #2
As Molly quietly snickered to herself, Karl rolled his eyes. “Told you not to call me that, Greydon. Do it again, I’ll throw
you in a vat of pastry cream and hold you under till you’re a human fucking eclair.”
“You did tell me that”—the other woman paused meaningfully—“Special K.” Ignoring Karl’s sputters of inarticulate, overdramatic
outrage, she breezily continued, “Anyway, someone had a question for me?”
Matthew came back on the line. “Yes. Sorry. Molly Dearborn, please meet Athena Greydon. Molly is a former high school classmate
of ours. Athena is the owner of the Spite House, an amazing historical interpreter at Historic Harlot’s Bay, and . . . my
wife.”
As he spoke about Athena, pride and pleasure suffused his words, virtually dripping from every syllable.
“Lovely to meet you, Molly,” his wife said, then added, “By the way, Matthew, I consulted Professor Google about spontaneous
human combustion a couple of years ago, back when you could still get decent search results, and scientists are almost entirely
certain it doesn’t exist.”
Molly liked her already. “I was just thinking that.”
“Any relevant incidents are probably due to the wick effect,” Athena explained. “Basically, someone catches fire due to an
external ignition source, like a cigarette or spark. And then the victim’s melted fat soaks their clothing and acts like a
wick in a candle, so their body smolders for a long time and burns to ashes without damaging their surroundings. If there’s
no evidence left as to the actual cause of the fire, it looks like the body burned entirely on its own.”
“Thus the seemingly logical but ultimately false explanation of spontaneous human combustion,” Molly concluded.
“Exactly.”
“That’s fascinating.”
It was the honest truth. As much as she enjoyed Sadie’s work, murder mysteries and pop science books were her favorites. This
whole conversation might as well have been labeled “Molly catnip.”
“I know, right?” Athena’s voice somehow brightened even more. “We should get together while you’re in town and discuss Special
K. I have so much to tell you. When are you free?”
“My schedule on weekday evenings is pretty open right n—”
“No.” Karl snatched the phone from the table and angled away from Molly. “Not happening, Greydon. You two? Together? Goddamn
disaster in the making.”
For all his bluster, when Molly promptly retrieved the cell from his fist, he didn’t fight her for it. “I’ll get your number,
Athena, and we’ll find a time to compare notes about Karl. Also, please ignore his previous pastry cream threat. As I’m sure
you already know, he would never actually do anything like that.”
“Nope. He’s a secret softie. Aren’t you, Special K? Yes, you are. Yes, you are,” Athena cooed, as if soothing a frazzled cat or a fussy baby. “Molly, is he looking especially murderous right now?”
“He is indeed.” His chest had swelled in indignation, and the homicidal fury in his glare would have terrified Molly—if he
weren’t, in fact, a secret softie. Which he totally was. “Rest assured: If spontaneous human combustion were possible, the
searing heat of his fiery rage would have already rendered him—”
Athena laughed. “Literally.”
“—a greasy spot and a heap of ashes on his tiled workroom floor.” Molly smiled. “It’s very entertaining to watch. Thank you.”
Karl was muttering to himself again. The phrase two harpy peas in a fucking harpy pod stood out, although Molly couldn’t decipher everything.
“My pleasure. Trust me on that.” Athena’s tone turned brisk, albeit still friendly. “Okay, as delightful as this conversation
has been, Matthew needs to see a patient soon, and I need to make out with him before he does. So whatever question you have,
let’s hear it, and if we don’t have enough time to nail down everything now, we can talk again later.”
Molly kept things brief. “I’m looking for somewhere to stay until the high school reunion in early October. Karl apparently
thinks your former home might be a good option, even though I’m concerned it may be too narrow for someone of my size.”
“I know that feeling.” A faint hum, as Athena considered the matter. “Why don’t you come tour the place tonight? If it seems doable for
you, we’ll work out a fair rental price. Friends and family discount. Speaking of which—why haven’t I heard about you before
now? Special K, why have you been holding out on me, despite our deep and abiding friendship?”
Karl made a very rude gagging noise, while Molly snickered.
Even over a cell phone speaker, Athena’s personality sparkled. She had charm to spare and an open demeanor, matched with obvious
intelligence. If Molly were staying in Harlot’s Bay permanently, Athena Greydon would be someone she’d—
It didn’t matter. In a month, Molly’s plane would haul her back to California.
“That’s my fault,” she told the other woman. “After I left town at the end of senior year, I didn’t really stay in contact
with anyone.”
“Gotcha.” Athena conducted a brief, muffled conversation with Matthew. “Okay, making-out time is upon us, so have Special
K send your number to me, and we’ll text to work out all the details for tonight.”
A few hurried goodbyes—and one loud grumble from Karl—later, the call ended.
“Greydon’s a damn menace.” When his timer went off, a stab of his finger silenced it. “Speaks to me like a fucking toddler
sometimes.”
Molly lifted a shoulder. “If the onesie fits . . .”
Middle fingers aloft, he turned his back to her and stomped out into his work area, but not before she spotted the grin splitting
his ruddy beard. She followed him, something long-knotted in her chest fraying at the edges. Loosening. Unraveling.
Rob had bemoaned her missing sense of humor so many times, she’d finally believed him. But in the past several days, she’d
made both Lise and Athena laugh. Broken through Karl’s fake grumpiness until he couldn’t hide his amusement any longer. Felt
truly likable and connected for the first time in years.
Why hadn’t she seen it sooner?
In her marriage, in too many of her abortive would-be friendships, she’d been sending out messages in bottles that kept bumping
against the wrong shores, landing in the hands of people who couldn’t read what she’d written. And after years of silence
in return, she’d mostly given up. Stopped launching her bottles, stopped believing her offerings could be deciphered by anyone
but herself and maybe Lise.
But one of her last remaining missives had finally bobbed ashore at the right place.
Her messages could in fact be decrypted by someone. Possibly several someones. And those messages were worth reading. They
were worth returning. Which meant they were still worth sending.
She didn’t trust easily. She might harbor more than her fair share of cynicism. That didn’t mean she had to burrow beneath
her shell and give up on companionship forever. Lise was a dear friend, as Molly had only just realized. Possibly even a best
friend. She could make other friends too, if she put in the effort.
And she had Karl’s nonexistent death to thank for that revelation about her life.
Suffused by warmth that had nothing to do with the kitchen’s balmy temperature, she propped her butt against his office doorway
and watched him multitask like a freaking sex god. Not graceful in the traditional sense of the word, but sure in every action,
with no wasted gestures or energy. Strong. Fierce. Eminently capable.
Complaining all the while, beard net and gloves back in place, he removed several heavenly smelling baking sheets from his
two large ovens, slid the hot pans onto a rack, and wheeled the rack out front, then returned to shove yet more trays of unbaked
treats into the ovens and set several timers.
Under his age-thinned tee, his triceps flexed with each heft of a loaded pan, each shove of his rack.
His thighs tensed and released. His thick shoulders rose and fell.
His sharp eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his cap as he focused on his creations, and starbursts of tiny lines appeared at their corners.
The tendons in his hands shifted beneath those tight blue gloves, delineating his tiny adjustments to temperature and placement and timing, tweaks whose purpose she couldn’t begin to fathom.
Then he was evidently done. After removing his gloves with twin snaps of nitrile, he whipped off his apron and beard net and
turned on his Croc-clad heel.
His stare locked her in place.
When he stalked toward Molly, her pulse thudded faster. Harder. So fast she could feel the tick at her throat. So hard she
could no longer hear soft jazz or the murmur of customers or anything but her heartbeat and the faint rasp of her quickened
breathing.
Her words sounded muffled to her own ears. “Do Matthew or Athena know about my alter ego?”
He halted only inches from her, and she didn’t know whether to be outraged or relieved.
His brows thudded together, creasing the pale skin between. “’Course not.”
“Why didn’t you tell them?”
“You use a different name. Figured there must’ve been a reason, and I won’t share information you want kept secret.” His jaw
ticked. “Could have an abusive ex. Stalker. Other privacy issues. No way for me to know.”
Another knot of tension and uncertainty unwound in her chest. “You were protecting me.”
He nodded, then bridged that final gap between them, stepping into her space fully.
Shadowing her against the glare of the fluorescent overhead fixtures, pressing belly to belly, the denim of his jeans brushing hers.
She bit her lip against a gasp, and her knees weakened beneath her, melting like ice beneath a blowtorch.
“After my coffee break, I’ve got a follow-up with my doctor,” he rasped. “Means the rest of the day is fucked. Don’t know
how much attention I’ll be able to give you when I get back, Dearborn. Not enough for my liking.”
The man had a job to do. Honestly, he’d already devoted more time to talking with her than she’d even hoped.
He added, “Stay back here as long as you want, though. You’re welcome whenever.”
“It’s fine. I should be heading out anyway. I have emails to answer and a flight to rebook back at my hotel.” She smiled at
him. “Will I see you tonight, at the Spite House tour?”
“Count on it.” The man threw off enough heat to rival one of his ovens, and she did her best not to sway into that tempting
warmth. “Before you go, I need your number. And one other thing.”
“What?”
Levering himself away from her, he jerked his chin toward the interior of his office. Toward privacy. When he stepped away,
stepped through the doorway, the rush of cooler air didn’t do anything to ease the fevered flush of her cheeks, the budding
warmth between her legs.
She followed him in silence. Once inside, she shut the door behind them. Locked it.
A flush darkened his cheeks and spread down his neck. He stood in front of his desk. Kicked aside the cheap office chair positioned
between them. Crooked his finger.
She took her time answering his summons, because he deserved a little suffering after turning down her earlier invitation to bed.
“Five minutes, my next timer goes off.” His dark stare devoured her as she drew near. “Till then, I want to kiss you. That
okay with you?”
“Well, yeah.” She gave a breathless laugh. “I mean, I already suggested that we fuck, so . . .”
His exhalation hitched at the word fuck. “You want me to stop, something doesn’t feel good, you tell me so. Got it, Dearborn?”
She nodded.
Then his mouth found hers, and there were no more questions. No more concerns. Just heat and pleasure.
Just Karl.
His long fingers cradled her jaw with tense care, and the kiss began as a slow, tender slide of their lips. Gentle brushes
of warmth and pressure that stole her breath and blanked her racing thoughts. Not tentative in any way—just very, very restrained.
Karl Dean might seem larger than life, but he was also a baker. He knew how to be precise.
Her mouth opened in a sharp indrawn breath at his first tongue-flick, and he nudged a little harder. Pressed a little closer.
Tilted his head to seal their lips together and trace the curve of her smile with that slick, delicious, talented tongue.
He’d drizzled honey into the iced tea he kept beside him as he worked, and she could taste it in his mouth. Taste that familiar
amber sweetness, the freshness of the mint leaves he’d muddled into his drink, as their tongues slipped and twined and explored.
He smelled like freshly baked bread. Felt like a sun-scorched stone monolith under her hands.
Breathed like a set of bellows between endless kisses.
Tunneled the fingers of his free hand into her hair and curled them into a fist with extraordinary caution, because he obviously had no desire to cause her pain, even in the pursuit of pleasure.
That gentleness—the contrast with his rough exterior and demeanor—unleashed something wild within her.
His shoulders tensed into bunched caps of muscle when she braced herself against their strength and arched her hips to rub
against him. He was hard, his cock prodding her thigh. Sturdy and reliable as an oak under her hands. Everything she’d wanted
for twenty long, starved years.
He ground his erect dick against her, groaning.
Then his timer went off.
He lurched backward, panting and wild-eyed, and took a half-dozen hasty steps away from her.
“Not yet. Not fucking yet,” he mutter-shouted, possibly under the impression she couldn’t hear him.
She ambled forward again, until they were belly to belly, and disabused him of that notion. “You sure? Because I’m more than
willing to—”
“Go.” His voice was strangled. “Have some goddamn mercy, Molly, and please go.”
So she gathered her bag, tucked away the paper-wrapped roast beef, cheddar, and chutney sandwich he pressed wordlessly into
her hands, and left Grounds and Grains with a satisfied smile on her face.
Karl might want to wait for sex. But that first kiss between them had been even better—even hotter—than she’d imagined as
a horny, na?ve teenager two decades ago. And they were seeing each other again in a few hours. At night. In a non-workplace
location.
To borrow his vocabulary: Karl Dean was fucking toast.