Chapter 17 #2
too curiously. Straight ahead? A couple of gap-toothed elementary schoolers skipping around the pond in dorky tricorn hats.
Good thing she kept lecturing him before he could jump her anyway.
“Here’s the last thing I’ll say: Twenty years ago, you should have trusted me not to be as shallow as Becky and explained the situation before asking whether I found”—the woman truly loved air quotes—“‘big
motherfuckers’ attractive, Mr. Your-Lack-of-Trust-Is-a-Mortal-Offense.” Looking triumphant, she set aside her notebook. “See
the irony? Because it’s glaring.”
Another point: hereby made.
His phone beeped with a text. Grateful for the reprieve, he snatched his cell from the blanket and held it directly in front
of his face.
Communicate like the wind, Special K! While he was still reading Athena’s first text, another popped up. Only with actual words instead of howls or groans! Just to clarify!
Dammit. How did Greydon know? She invent some sort of sensor that activated whenever he got too tempted to stop talking and
start sexing?
After sending a middle-finger emoji in response, he tossed his phone aside. “I get your point, Dearborn. Sorry.”
“Which one?” Molly immediately asked. “Because I made many excellent points.”
He paused a beat too long. “All of ’em?”
“Really?” Challenge lit her eyes, turning them an incandescent blue. “Name them.”
Challenge damn well accepted. “Should’ve trusted you to be kinder than Becky.”
“And?”
She was going to make him say it? Fine. Fine.
“Shouldn’t’ve thought you and Becky were too good for me.”
“And?”
Why the hell did her relentlessness turn him on so much? Along with every other goddamn thing about her?
“You think I’m hot.”
“And?”
If she pushed him, he’d gladly push right back. “My hand between your legs makes you incredibly fucking wet.”
A sly, sexy smile dawned on her gorgeous face. “It certainly does.”
Those round, strong thighs of hers rubbed together as she shifted. Her hard nipples pressed against the smooth cotton of her
shirt, her bold stare tractor-beamed him closer, and he gave the hell up. Surrendered to their mutual horniness. Clambered
to his knees and—
His phone dinged a third time.
He froze. Groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face, then painstakingly got his shit together again.
“Better . . .” Dammit, Greydon, you cockblocking pain in my ass. “Better keep doing the exercise. Getting off track here.”
“Not in my opinion,” Molly said wryly.
“Run out of daylight before too long, and I go to bed early.” Avoiding temptation, he glued his eyes to his remaining stack
of index cards. “Gotta hurry with the other two activities.”
Her chest rose and fell on a silent sigh. “If you want to end before sunset, we probably have time for one more game. Not two.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right. Second game will be quicker, so . . .” Were those goosebumps on her forearms? “We’ll do Secret
Exchange. Exactly what it sounds like. You tell me a secret, I tell you one.”
Definitely goosebumps, dammit. He shuffled off the quilt, still on his knees, then tossed his half over her legs. Would give
a month’s profits to warm her himself, but no way they’d finish the game if he did that. They’d be lucky to make it to his
car.
“You go first,” he told her.
Because if she shared some piddling shit, he’d follow suit. But if she confessed something meaningful . . . yeah. He knew
what he’d finally confess in return.
“If my secret’s big enough, will that finally get you into bed with me?” Cool, composed Molly sounded impatient as hell. “Because
I’ve been waiting for two decades now, Karl. I can see your erection through your jeans—again. And these past two weekends, I’ve been telling you a whole crapload of things no one else knows. Please tell me that’s enough for you.”
She flicked the edge of the quilt. “Also, thank you for this, but I’d rather be underneath you.”
Jesus H. Christ. Did she want him to die from thwarted lust?
And even apart from that—what she’d just said? It implied things he didn’t like. At all. Troubled, he scratched his beard.
Forced himself to think through his response.
He’d never intended to use his stupid dick as leverage.
Never intended to dangle sex in front of her to force confessions she’d rather not make.
He just hadn’t wanted to make it easy for her to explain away everything between them as simple sexual chemistry, then promptly peace out for good.
And he’d worried about the aftermath if she fucked him and ran.
From that day on, every time he had sex with someone else, he’d have to battle his memories. Try not to compare. The task?
Already hard enough. Long before her return, before they’d even kissed, she’d haunted his most intimate moments. Sleeping
with her would only make things inconceivably worse when she was gone.
Only . . . that explanation wasn’t the full story, was it? Wasn’t the main reason he’d shied away from sex with the woman
of his literal dreams.
He squeezed his eyes shut. Blew out a hard breath.
The rock-bottom truth: Deep in his Cadbury Creme heart, he hadn’t just been worried about what might happen if they tumbled into bed together. He’d been scared. He was scared, and not only for his future sex life.
Sleeping with Molly would mean surrendering even more of his heart to her, along with his body. Which—if she left afterward—would
mean even more of that stupidly fragile heart shattered. So he’d put her off. Denied himself what they both wanted.
He was doing the same thing he’d done twenty years ago. Hedging his bets. Protecting himself. Probably screwing up the same
way he had twenty years ago too.
How much of his heart was still his, anyway? At this point, couldn’t be a lot. Maybe none at all. And wasn’t having Molly goddamn Dearborn—if only for a couple
weeks—worth the risk, no matter what?
“Karl? Are you all right?” All the impatience had vanished from her voice, replaced with sincere concern. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have pressured you. It’s your body. Your decision. I’m being a jerk, and I hope you can forgive me.”
Huh?
Opening his eyes, he waved that off. “I fucking love that you want me, Dearborn. Makes me feel like . . .” What was the comparison
he’d come up with the other day? “Like Godzilla.”
She blinked at him. “Poised to destroy downtown Tokyo?”
At that bit of deliberate obtuseness, his middle finger made a reappearance. “Powerful. Taller than a skyscraper. Ready to
beat my chest.”
“Beat your . . .” Her forehead smoothed, and she shook her head at him. “You’re thinking of King Kong. Who’s a primate, not
a lizard.”
“Reptile.”
“Whatever.” She poked him with her quilt-covered foot. “Get to the point, Dean.”
“You’re the one who questioned my Godzilla comparison, woman.” He captured her ankle. Tickled her toes until she squeaked.
“Anyway, as I was trying to say before some nitpicky asshole derailed me—”
“Your train jumped the tracks long before you met me, and we both know it.”
“—I don’t feel pressured by you. I feel desired. Different thing entirely.” He shook his head. Tickled her arch some more.
“That’s not the issue. Not why I was thinking for so long.”
“Okay, then.” She jerked her foot free. Lightly kicked him, for good measure. “What is the issue?”
These days, he had more damn issues than Corporations Monthly. But right this very second—“I’m worried you think I’m using sex to pressure you. I’m not, Molly. Swear to Christ, I’m not. You don’t have to somehow earn it by telling me shit you don’t want to.”
This was the most ridiculous conversation of his entire life. In what universe was access to his dick something he could use
as a potential bargaining chip? Even inadvertently?
He was a small-town baker, for fuck’s sake. Not the world’s crankiest gigolo.
“I know that, Karl. Don’t worry. I’m just being dramatic.” She considered that for a moment. “Which isn’t something I do often
in real life. Maybe you’re rubbing off on me.”
“Nope. I’d remember.”
“Figuratively rubbing off on me.” She side-eyed him while he snickered at his own joke. “Okay, then. Let’s get this over with. Give me
your dick, withhold your dick, do whatever you want with it. No matter what, I’m telling you my secret, so shut up and listen,
Dean.”
Long as she didn’t feel coerced? He’d listen to whatever she wanted to tell him. Gladly.
The breeze blew her hair across her cheek, and she tucked it behind her ear. Nodded to herself. Started talking, her tone
blunt and matter-of-fact.
“My doctor is worried about me. Worried about my health. Mental. Physical. All of it.” Her fingers plucked at the edge of
the quilt, although she held his gaze. “The only other person on this planet who knows that is Rob, but he hasn’t gotten any
updates for years now, so he doesn’t realize the full scope of the problem.”
She paused. “Problems, rather. Plural. Insomnia. Rising blood pressure. Headaches.”
Shit. That sounded fucking serious.
The phone conversation he’d overheard last weekend came back to Karl. Your health is suffering, the asshole had told her, then blamed everything on her house. Which was very fucking convenient, since the bastard wanted
to snatch it from her.
“And it’s not just my doctor,” she added. “I’m worried too. Scared about what might happen if I don’t lower my stress level.
But I can’t seem to do it.”
If Molly and her doctor were anxious about her health? That made three of ’em.
“What the hell’s causing all your stress?” He leaned forward. Claimed her foot again, wrapping his hand around her arch and
feeling its warmth, its strength. “Work? Family? Where you live?”
“I love my job. My house too, even though it needs a lot of maintenance.” Her mouth twisted. “I think part of the issue is
isolation, even after so many years in LA. I didn’t grow up there. My college friends are scattered all over the country.
I’m divorced, I work from home, and . . . you know how I am. I tend to keep my distance from everyone.”