Chapter 12
Karl started easy, with foods Molly identified without much trouble. A strip of fresh mango speared on a fork, which he handed
to her. A shard of crisp bacon on her plate, which she could easily locate and deliver to her waiting mouth. A generous spoonful
of Nutella, unmistakable in flavor and texture, sweet enough for her tastes. He gave her the handle, and she did the rest.
When things got harder, though, he had to start talking.
A cube of marinated goat cheese stumped her first. “Is this . . . a savory cheesecake? With garlic and herbs?”
“No. Close, though.” When she struggled to find a different guess, he put a new cube on her spoon, pressed the handle into
her palm, and let her register the flavor and texture. Then he asked, “What are you tasting, other than the herbs and garlic?
Are there other notes?”
“There’s a tang.” She thought for a moment. “A bit of a citrusy taste.”
“Okay.” He could work with that. “You were partially right with your first guess. It’s a type of cheese. And what type of
cheese can be soft and often has that kind of tang?”
Turned out, talking about food was way easier than most other subjects. Fucking handy.
“Can be soft,” she repeated. “So not cream cheese, which is pretty much always soft. Is it . . . is this goat cheese? The most delicious goat cheese I’ve ever put in my mouth?”
He grinned, pleased with them both. “Yep.”
“I want the name of that brand before I leave here today.” She was smiling too. “Good job with the hints, Dean.”
His chest expanded, and his grin grew.
Karl fucking Dean, his brain announced. The best fucking communicator in the fucking universe!
He cleared his throat. Played it cool. “Good job figuring out my hints, Dearborn.”
After that, the sugar-dusted lemon drop only required one clue—“That sourness you’re tasting, where do you think it might
come from? Vinegar, fruit, alcohol?”—and the thin slice of orange-caramel crunch scone didn’t take her more than five seconds.
Turned out, she’d bought one last week. Did it on the down-low, because he wouldn’t’ve let her pay, and she knew it.
A single food left. This particular item, he should probably feed to her.
“Last one. Okay if I handle the spoon this time, Dearborn?” He twisted open the glass jar. Watched her expression for doubts.
“Worried it’s gonna drip on you otherwise.”
“Sure.”
Her lack of hesitation made him feel a thousand feet tall. A million.
He carefully dug out a small amount. It wasn’t as liquid as he’d imagined when he’d seen it at Costco yesterday. More crystallized,
less pourable.
“Spoon’s coming your way.” No surprises for Molly. If she was trusting him, he’d fucking earn it.
He touched her lower lip with the utensil’s end, the contact light as cotton candy. Her mouth parted. He slowly slipped the spoon inside, doing his best not to picture anything else sliding over that pink, slick tongue of hers.
Her mouth closed around the half-full bowl of the utensil, and he guided her fingers to the silver handle. Gave her back control.
Tried to ignore how his whole body clenched at even that glancing contact.
“Honey,” she said immediately, then ran her tongue slowly over her plump, shining lower lip. “But something tastes . . . different.”
One more swipe of that tongue, and he’d kiss her. Either that or explode into flames. Science and Athena’s goddamn wick effect
could go fuck themselves, because spontaneous human combustion was a definite possibility for him right now.
“In what way?” he choked out.
“It’s not just sweet and syrupy. It’s thick, and the flavor is more complex than what I usually get at the store.” Meditatively, she sucked the remaining honey smears
off her spoon, and his dick ached. Swelled behind his jeans zipper. “I can’t quite . . .”
When she didn’t finish her thought, he forced out another question. “Apart from sweetness, what notes are you getting?”
“Maybe it’s a tiny bit . . . floral?” Her brows drew together in thought. “Is this the wildflower honey you used in your goat
cheese croissant?”
“Nope. But you’re getting close.” As close as he was to breaking his private vow. Because it’d be okay to sleep together,
right? Even if she didn’t fully trust him yet?
The blindfold had rumpled her hair. It gleamed copper in the stray sunbeam streaming through the back room’s lone half window, placed high on the outside wall. Her posture had relaxed. She was slumping comfortably now, elbows on the table. Soft. Warm. Face bright with interest and pleasure.
If she trusted him, she’d look like that in bed. After he’d made her come once and started working on the next one.
Her head turned in his direction. “Another spoonful, please? I need to taste it again.”
“Want to take care of it yourself?” Because he needed not to watch. One more tongue swipe? His resolve would incinerate. “Could
hand you the jar, now that you know it’s honey.”
She didn’t reach for the glass container. “I’ll let you do the honors.”
Dammit. Great sign of trust. Horrible strain on his control.
Muffling his pained groan, he got a fresh spoon to avoid contaminating the jar. Scooped up more honey. Brushed the bowl’s
edge over her lip again.
“One more hint.” His voice was a rasp. “The honey originally came from France. It . . .”
He trailed off. Because this time, she put her warm hand over his as he guided the spoon inside her mouth, onto her tongue.
Kept their fingers tangled while she slowly began sucking the honey off the bowl.
Electrified, shaky with lust and anticipation, he overbalanced while leaning forward. Fumbled to recover, trying his best
not to knock the metal utensil painfully against her teeth.
In the hubbub, the spoon slipped from her mouth, and thick, viscous honey spread everywhere. It smeared over one of her hands,
then the other, as she blindly grasped for the spoon and tried to steady herself and him. Stuck two of his fingers together.
Left a sticky trail on the table as the utensil clattered on the steel surface, then got knocked aside by an elbow.
He began swearing and apologizing. She began laughing. And from somewhere in the depths of her bag, her cell began ringing.
Through adorable little snorts, she pointed one honey-dappled finger in her bag’s general direction. “I’m”—a brief pause,
while she snickered again—“I’m expecting a call from Lise. She needs to know my schedule for this afternoon. Are your hands
still clean?”
He inspected them with a scowl. “One of ’em.”
“Can you grab the phone, then? I don’t want to get honey all over my bag or take off my blindfold and ruin the game.”
Grumbling, he snatched up her bag and hurriedly hunted for the device. She gave him her code, another sign of trust his disgruntlement
stopped him from appreciating fully, and told him to accept the call and put the phone on speaker.
Must’ve happened a millisecond before Lise hung up or the call went to voicemail, but he managed to answer in time. He plunked
the cell on a clean spot in front of her. “You’re on.”
“Hey, Lise,” Molly said, still smiling.
Only it wasn’t Lise. At the caller’s first words, Dearborn’s shoulders squared. Her posture went ramrod. Her expression smoothed
into that marble mask of hers.
Instead of washing his hands, Karl planted his feet and stayed right where he was.
“Molly?” The asshole sounded impatient. “I thought you’d never pick up. Where are you? And who just answered the phone?”
Her own sticky hands now folded serenely on the table before her, she paused before responding. Maybe to gather her thoughts.
Maybe to screw with the guy on the phone, since he was in such a goddamn hurry.
“I’m not sure why that matters, Rob,” she eventually said, sardonic as hell.
Instead of seizing the phone and telling her ex-husband to leave her the hell alone, so Karl never had to watch her happiness
curdle into sour cynicism during the space of a single damn sentence again, he carefully used his clean hand to remove her
blindfold.
She blinked, squinting in the sudden light. But as soon as it looked like she could see again, he pointed to himself, then
the door to the front, and raised his brows in question.
He wanted to stay. Support her. Defend her.
But Dearborn was private. Always had been. That wedding cake story? First specifics she’d ever shared about her ex. Karl’s
presence during this call, overhearing every damn word, would make her uncomfortable.
To his shock, though, she spread her hands in a gesture of resignation, then pointed to the stool across from her.
So he stayed. Listened. Tried not to take the stainless-steel table in his fists and snap it in half as he listened to her
asshole ex wheedle and browbeat and—eventually—insult her.
“Is there some reason I shouldn’t know where you are?” The bastard just wasn’t giving up. “It’s a simple question, Molly.
I thought we were trying to be adults about all this.”
“It may be a simple question, but it’s one you have no good reason to ask.” Her jaw flexed. “If it’ll end this pointless conversation
more quickly, though, fine. I’m in Harlot’s Bay. Now, why are you calling? Is there some problem with the bank?”
“Really? Harlot’s Bay?” His tone was thoughtful. “That place in Maryland where you lived way back when?”
“Why are you calling?” she repeated, with extra emphasis.
He finally got to the point. “I saw Derek yesterday at the gym. He said the upkeep on our house was getting to be too much
for you”—bastard sounded happy about that—“and you might be thinking about listing it.”
Her eyes closed, and her nostrils flared as she inhaled sharply.
When she eventually spoke, her voice was calm. Even. “When I asked Derek for home-renos advice, I didn’t expect him to run
tattling to you. But let me be clear: He has no idea how I feel about the house. And it’s not our house, Rob. It’s mine.”
Couldn’t take this battle for her. Didn’t know the weapons each side had. Didn’t even understand the stakes. But he needed
to do something.