Chapter 11
Unlike every other goddamn thing he’d tried with Dearborn, food was working for Karl.
Escape room last Sunday? Utter failure. Still embarrassed about that disaster. Thursday, she’d fled the bakery during his
latest pointless argument with Jerry, the bakery’s most annoying customer. She’d returned yesterday and spent most of her
Friday with him, but seemed distant for some reason he didn’t understand and didn’t have time to question her about, given
his current weekday schedule.
Yep. Definitely a matter of appropriate timing. Not cowardice on his part.
Coward or not, by the time she’d packed up to leave yesterday afternoon, he’d been in a near panic. Starving for uninterrupted
time together, even apart from their trust-building session scheduled for today. Anxious to erase her new reserve. Willing
to propose anything and everything that might convince her to give him—and Harlot’s Bay—a real shot.
So he’d invited her to the Nasty Wenches meeting tomorrow. September’s bizarro theme? Sexy Satans. Luckily, he knew for a
fact she’d narrated Sadie Brazen’s Bedded by Beelzebub, where the horned asshole hero had a prehensile tail and a super-long forked tongue, because of course he fucking did.
Invitation seemed like a no-brainer to him. Not to her, though. She’d claimed she didn’t want to impose. When he’d told her she’d like the Wenches—they were a bunch of weirdos, but good people—she’d said there was no point getting attached, since she was leaving soon.
Kick to the goddamn gut.
She’d bang him—that was clear—but not stay long-term. Didn’t seem to trust him more than before either.
So yeah, things looked pretty bleak. But lunch last weekend was great, until everything went sideways in that stupid escape
room. And all this week, even an oblivious bastard like him could see how she softened each time he fixed her something special.
One of her sweet-as-hell lattes, or those bougie sandwiches.
Desperate—a man fighting for his life—he’d used actual microgreens yesterday. Total fucking travesty. But it’d worked. He’d plunked her plate down in front of her at that booth where she liked to eat with Lise—now reserved for them during
lunch hours, though she didn’t know that shit—and watched her lips curve in a wide, sweet smile, her eyes brighten as they
held his, and her body sway in his direction.
She’d told him she liked a good banh mi. He’d listened. That meant something to her.
Sexual chemistry between the two of them came easy. But her reaction to his food wasn’t about lust. Well, it kinda was, but
that lust was mainly sandwich-directed. The emotion aimed his way? Only a hint of desire. Mostly pleased surprise. Warmth.
Connection.
Everything he needed from her. Everything he wanted to nurture.
To encourage that reaction, that softness in her expression? He’d do whatever was necessary. If food did the trick, good enough.
This Saturday’s trust-building activity hadn’t been chosen at random. He was leaning hard on the lone area where he’d felt some give. Pushing at the spot with everything he had.
And he was beyond terrified.
Unlike last weekend, he made sure he was fully dressed and clean before she arrived at the bakery. When she knocked at the
back door, coolly composed and gorgeous as ever, he immediately waved her inside while his heartbeat echoed in his damn ears.
Then he shoved his hands inside his jeans pockets before she could see them tremble with nervousness. Thrust his chin toward
the relevant worktable instead of speaking, so his voice couldn’t waver.
“Hi again,” she said, and he grunted in response.
Not a good start. She already had doubts about his communication skills. Silence and caveman sounds would only confirm them.
He’d do better the rest of the day. He had to. No choice.
Before he managed to grasp the right words, though, she was already speaking. Already moving toward today’s setup, the thighs
of her own jeans swishing together with each step. Only to slow to a halt once she saw the only uncovered item on the table.
“A blindfold, huh?” She turned on her sneakered heel to face him. “Are we mini-golfing today? Or did you decide to take Cosmo’s suggestions this go-round?”
He replied without thinking. Immediately regretted it.
“If I’d listened to Cosmo, there’d be a bed,” he told her, then inwardly groaned.
Shit. Now he was thinking about Dearborn naked in bed. Even more than usual, and that was damn well saying something.
“I’m sure not all their suggestions involved beds. There are always walls. Chairs.” Her head tipped toward his setup, and her eyes met his boldly. “Tables.”
Holy crap.
He sucked in a hard breath. Made himself think about workplace sanitation guidelines. The health inspector’s last visit. How
he’d be unable to escape memories of fucking Molly every time he came to work if they did it here.
“Like you’d know.” Deep breathing wasn’t doing the trick. Neither was impending middle age. Something about Dearborn made
his dick stand up and take notice. Always had. Probably always would. “Lay good money you’ve never read a goddamn issue of
Cosmo in your life.”
“Then you’d lose that money.” When he raised a skeptical brow, she rolled her eyes. “I’ve had dentist appointments of my own,
Dean. Occasionally, my choice was either Cosmo or People, and I was freaking tired of hearing about some minor celeb’s”—she crooked her fingers—“‘weight loss journey.’ But reading
about blowjobs always made the time pass more quickly.”
He choked on thin air. Began coughing violently.
Moving to his side, she thumped his back helpfully. Even though she knew exactly what she was doing to him, and why he couldn’t
accept her implicit offer.
When he caught his breath, he stared at her balefully. “You’re a piece of fucking work, Dearborn.”
Her lips quirked in a self-satisfied smile. “Well, some of those waiting-room articles were also about how to”—crook, crook—“‘drive
your man crazy.’ I just chose to take that concept in a slightly different, more literal direction.”
“You sure as hell did.” He shook his head at her, then pointed to the table where the blindfold and multiple amorphous lumps covered with clean dishcloths rested. “Sit.”
“Woof-woof,” she said, but plunked that fine ass down on one of the two stools he’d placed beside the table. She looked up
at him expectantly, and Jesus H. Christ, he wanted to kiss her so goddamn much.
He jutted his chin toward the silk band and all the lumps. “Blindfolded taste test. Another Corporations Today suggestion.”
Her dark brows rose. “Really? That sounds more like Cosmo material.” She paused, idly drumming her fingers on the table as she considered things. “Also like potential ground for lawsuits
and sexual harassment claims. All those CEOs and middle managers are surely old enough to have visited a Blockbuster. Did
no one ever rent 9⒈／⒉ Weeks? Or at least secretly watch it on late-night Skinemax while their parents were out of town?”
“Told you.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Managerial types? Kinky as hell.”
Her big blue eyes blinked up at him. “You’re a manager.”
Yeah, he guessed he was. Wouldn’t necessarily call his preferences kinky, but . . . wait. “Quit causing trouble, Dearborn.
Less sex talk, more trust building.”
Her hands raised in surrender. “Fine, fine. Just making light conversation.”
“Bullshit.” He produced his reminder list from his jeans pocket. It crinkled as he unfolded it. “Okay. Here we go. You’re
blindfolded. I feed you crap. You—”
“Not literal crap, I presume?”
He offered her a withering stare. “You guess what it is. You get it right, great. You don’t, I ask questions. Give hints.
Talk to you about what you’re tasting.”
In short: He’d communicate. Express himself so eloquently her damn eardrums would weep in ecstasy. Hopefully.
“You okay with that?” Because, yeah, this plan involved some trust on her part. Or maybe she’d had bad experiences with blindfolds.
How the hell would he know? “If not, no problem. Got a Plan B.”
Blindfolds could go. Simply closing her eyes would work instead. Or if she wanted more information about the foods before
they started—
“It’s . . .” Her forehead had crinkled. “It’s . . . fine.”
Not very convincing.
“Got food allergies?” he guessed.
That question was his next list item anyway, since she wouldn’t know ahead of time what she was consuming. Yeah, he had an
EpiPen nearby, but zero desire to use it.
She shook her head immediately. “No.”
He waited. Nothing else. Not one complaint or concern. But he had eyes, didn’t he? Saw her pinched lips. Ramrod-straight posture.
Stiff shoulders.
Dammit. Something was wrong, and he was total shit at guessing games. “Talk to me, Dearborn. Either we fix whatever’s worrying
you, or we scrap the whole thing. If you’re uncomfortable, this isn’t happening.”
She sighed. Set her elbows on the table and rubbed her face with her palms for a second.
“Just . . .” Her head lifted, and she met his eyes. “Don’t smash food in my face. Please.”
He scowled at her, offended. “Why the hell would I do that?”
More face-scrubbing. Very un-Dearborn-like, but he was too incensed and hurt to pay much heed.
He crossed his arms over his chest. “You think I’m that kind of man? Asshole who’d make you vulnerable, then take advantage of you?”
“No. Not really. It’s only . . .” Another sigh, and her shoulders slumped. “Look, Karl. When my ex and I got married, he wanted
a big wedding. I didn’t, so we hired a planner, and I let him be the go-between. I had two main demands.”
She held up a finger, tired lines bracketing her mouth. “First, no heels. Flats, boots, sneakers, or bare feet. Those were
my acceptable options.” Her middle finger joined her forefinger. “Second: When we cut the cake at the reception, I didn’t
want to do the whole feeding-each-other thing, but if they insisted, Rob would give me a small, manageable bite. I had no
intention of getting crumbs all over the most expensive outfit of my life or choking on a huge chunk of dark chocolate fudge
cake in front of a crowd.”
“You don’t even like dark chocolate.” Might be fancier than milk chocolate, but not sweet enough for her. He’d learned that
much within a day of their reunion.
She smiled faintly. “No, I don’t.”
“Guessing that prick fed you a huge goddamn bite of cake,” Karl ground out, his irritation now aimed at an entirely different
target. “After saying he wouldn’t.”
Her laugh was brittle. A broken shard of sugar left too long on the heat, until it turned bitter. “Oh, he didn’t feed it to
me. He basically shoved the entire piece in my face. As a practical joke, he said. Wedding shenanigans.”
All his remaining hurt had vanished, replaced by outrage. Also a rising urge to find this Rob bastard and smash his teeth
in.
“Only a practical joke if both sides think it’s funny. Otherwise? Bullying.” A lesson he’d taught each and every one of his younger siblings, because it was damn important.
She fiddled with a strand of her hair, twisting it into a rope and releasing it, again and again, gaze pointed downward. “He
told me I was only angry because I had no sense of humor.”
Total gaslighting bullshit. “And you didn’t knee him in his balls, shove the entire cake down his throat, and dump that motherfucker
on the spot?”
The girl he’d known, the woman she’d become—both held power in every goddamn inch of their strong, sure bodies. Confidence
too. Pride. So why the hell had she stayed married to that asswipe until two years ago?
Her fingernail flicked the blunt ends of her hair, and her button-down tightened against her breasts as her chest rose in
a silent sigh.
“I should have,” she finally said, her voice quiet and raw. “I should’ve left right then and there, even if it meant starting
divorce proceedings less than an hour after our wedding ceremony, because I knew better. I could see all the red flags flying,
clear as day, but . . .”
Her pale blue eyes rose to meet his, and he hated that tentative expression. The silent plea for understanding, when she didn’t
have to justify herself to him. Ever.
“Molly . . .” Rounding the table, he reached for her hand. “Baby, you don’t need to—”
“We’d been together for nine years by that point. We were newly married.” Her fingers were stiff against his. Cold. “I told
myself I was overreacting. He eventually said he was sorry I didn’t enjoy his joke, and I allowed myself to take that as a
real apology instead of the responsibility-dodging asshole statement it was. So . . . I stayed.”
With that explanation, some of her trust issues—with men, with herself, with everyone—became clearer.
“Not gonna feed you anything I know or suspect you won’t like. Won’t try to trick you.” A simple vow. Least of what she deserved,
but he meant it with every ounce of his goddamn being. “Definitely not going to shove food in your face or make you choke.
Most things, you can put in your own mouth.”
She nodded, looking down at their joined hands.
Gradually, her fingers curled around his. Warmed in his grip.
“You know . . .” she began, her words stronger. Louder.
“What?”
Her chin tipped high, and her expression had turned serene once more. “We had a five-tiered cake that fed well over three
hundred guests. Volume-wise, it would never have fit down Rob’s throat. No matter how hard I shoved.”
Ah, there she was. His pedantic girl, back in nitpicking action.
“There’s a fucking will, there’s a fucking way.” With his free hand, he scratched his bristly chin in thought. “Could’ve pureed
it.”
“I appreciate your creativity in the revenge-based arts, Dean. You’re a real pro.” A final squeeze, and she let him go and
picked up the blindfold. “I assume you’re feeding me lunch after this?”
“Yep.” Inspired by his flavor-combo chats with Charlotte, he’d gotten his hands on a truffle and planned to shave that expensive-ass
shit over a Brie-and-prosciutto grilled cheese.
“Then let’s get going.” She stretched the silk blindfold over her head. Settled it over her eyes. “The sooner we start, the
sooner I feast.”
“Let’s do this,” he agreed, and uncovered the first mystery food.