Chapter 21
“That twist toward the end?” Karl sat back in his kitchen chair, shaking his head. “Fucking bananas.”
Molly dabbed at her mouth with a paper towel. “You should’ve known Sadie Brazen wouldn’t dabble in dubcon, Dean. There was
no way on this green Earth she’d give a happy ending to a kickboxer-kangaroo shifter who’d just shoved a human woman into
his pouch and hopped off without her permission.”
He threw his hands in the air, outraged. “How the hell was I supposed to know Riley and Jack were married already? And that
they were re-creating key scenes from the shitty-ass movie they watched on their first date together to cure her amnesia from
being kicked in the damn head by the asshole wallaby-shifter crime boss determined to force Jack to bend the knee to him?”
“The clues were all there if you paid attention.” Her expression turned infuriatingly lofty. “Which you clearly didn’t.”
He flipped her off with both middle fingers.
Unruffled, she chewed for a while before swallowing her last bite of buttered toast. “If you can’t decipher subtext, that’s
not my fault, Dean.”
Trying his hardest not to laugh, he sneered across the table at her. “Screw you, Dearborn.”
“Already did that.” Appearing contemplative, she glanced down at her cotton-covered chest. “And all I got was four orgasms
and this lousy yet very comfortable T-shirt.”
When he broke and laughed, she did too.
Just another reason this was the best morning of Karl’s life, bar fucking none.
After he’d gone down on Molly until her thighs shook and her voice was hoarse from loud moaning rather than tears, he’d texted
his nosy family, mowed Mrs. C’s lawn before the older woman put out a goddamn APB on him, then showered, called Charlotte
to check on her and the kids, and eaten the breakfast Molly fixed for them both.
Now they were sitting at his kitchen table, sipping coffee. First cup for each. Still felt like he’d pounded a billion lattes
with all the energy pumping through his bloodstream, and his brain was working like a champ despite his lack of sleep.
Turned out, pure goddamn joy was the world’s most powerful upper. Which he now knew, solely because of Molly fucking Dearborn.
Part of him had loved her for over twenty years. Now part of him had become all of him, and he could admit it to himself.
Wasn’t even scared anymore. Not after the past twenty-four hours of great sex and communication fucking galore.
Basically everything Matthew and Athena had wanted him to do? Hereby done.
He and Molly had exchanged personal histories, and after the whole audiobook-collection reveal, she clearly knew how he felt
about her. If that hadn’t clued her in, the way he’d touched her should’ve done the trick. And her opening up to him like
she had, in bed and out? Told him she felt the same way about him. No declarations necessary, on either side.
For the first time, he was actually anticipating that stupid reunion. Because it wasn’t marking an end for him and Molly—it was celebrating a small part of their new beginning. Also because an amazing idea had just surfaced in his super-sharp post-bedding-Molly brain.
After all those Nasty Wenches meetings and all of Sadie Brazen’s crackpot plots, he knew exactly what should happen at the
reunion. Sure, he wasn’t an abduction-happy Australian marsupial, a cobra shifter, or a weirdo sexy Satan, but . . .
No way they were hanging out at the reunion as mere attendees, just two more chumps who’d been browbeaten or bribed by Janel
into awkwardly socializing until they could make their grand goddamn escape.
He had bigger plans. Way bigger.
“Been thinking about the reunion,” he told Molly. “Normal date isn’t good enough. Over the—”
She frowned. “Good enough for what?”
“—past couple of years, I’ve listened to a crapload of your books—”
“Sadie Brazen’s books,” she corrected, because the woman couldn’t help herself.
“—and also read a crapload of other ‘spicy’”—he crooked his fingers into air quotes, because Molly ate that shit up—“romances for the book club, so I know how
this whole damn situation is supposed to go.”
“Do you?” She raised a single eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “Do you really, Karl?”
He pointed at her. “You’re the girl who left her hometown in a hurry, returning for the reunion with something to prove.”
He jerked his thumb toward his chest. “I’m—”
“I have nothing to prove to anyone. Here or anywhere else.”
“—the sexy bad boy who stayed in town and made good, and now it’s your chance to show everyone who teased and bullied you that you’re successful and happy and banging your love interest like you’re both literal fucking bunnies. The horniest bunnies on the entire damn planet.”
Silence. Lots of silence.
She blinked at him for a minute, blank-faced.
“Holy wow, Dean,” she finally said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say so many words at one time. Ever. And I don’t understand
what in the world you’re talking about. No one teased me. No one bullied me.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He waved that off. “Let’s keep talking about our plan.”
Her forehead puckered. “We don’t have a plan, Dean. You have a distorted reimagining of our high school history and a cockamamie, middle-aged version of every Hollywood teen movie
that’s ever existed.” She took a sip of her coffee. Thought for a moment. “Not to mention several Netflix original films.
too. Possibly Hulu.”
He ignored that. “Just imagine it, Dearborn. Walking into the gym, your fancy dress crusted with sparkly-ass sequins.”
She raised both brows this time. Directed a pointed glance down at herself.
“Okay. Yeah.” Rapidly, he edited his vision. “Imagine walking into the gym, you in your . . . sexy tuxedo? Or maybe one of
those shit-hot suit jackets that opens to the waist, and you don’t wear a shirt underneath?”
Her lips twitched. “Better.”
Encouraged, he kept going. “And everyone’s like, ‘Oh, she’s here alone, poor Molly, we were obviously so right to torment
her all those years.’ Then your love interest rolls up—”
“Just to confirm: You’re that love interest?” Her voice was as dry as those shitty snickerdoodles he’d overbaked last Friday. “The aforementioned ‘sexy bad boy’?”
“Stop interrupting, Dearborn.” At his glare, she held up both hands in surrender.
“Anyway, the sexy bad boy arrives, looking incredibly dashing in his tuxedo.” He frowned. “Which he should rent as soon as possible,
now that he’s thinking about it.”
Assuming she agreed to his plan. Which was a big assumption, but whatever. He’d damn well make it happen.
“He should probably start a list. Let’s title it ‘Sexy Bad Boy Supplies.’” She started ticking things off on her fingers,
looking highly entertained. “He’ll need one tuxedo, suitably dashing. One corsage, lavish enough to show up all the nonexistent
haters. One boutonniere, chosen to complement said tuxedo and coordinate with the corsage. One limo, with rose petals scattered
over the seats, for when we triumphantly ride off into the night together.”
Her forehead creased in thought, and her fingertips drummed against her thigh. “Preferably pink petals. Yellow’s fine too.
Red looks like blood, so unless I’m playing a Goth in this story or he’s a sexy bad boy turned hometown hero turned vampire,
I’d avoid that color.”
Jesus H. Christ.
“He’ll make his goddamn list later.” Manfully, he ignored her snicker. “As I was about to say, before I was so rudely interrupted . . .”
She mimed zipping her mouth shut.
Eyeing her with suspicion, he continued. “The sexy bad boy arrives. Without a single word, he sweeps her into his strong arms—”
“They didn’t ride to the reunion prom together? Does that mean I have to make separate transportation arrangements for the night?”
“—and kisses the ever-loving shit out of her, then proceeds to make heart-eyes at her the rest of the night, much to the shock
and jealousy of all the mean girls who made her high school life a living hell.”
“Another quick question.” She held up a finger. “Those mean girls: standard-issue, I assume?”
He loved her snark, but he still wasn’t going to honor that with a response. “And at the end of the night, they crown you
Homecoming reunion queen—”
“No such thing, Dean.”
“—because despite their envy, they recognize that you’re gorgeous. The most incredibly gorgeous Harlot’s Bay High graduate
ever. We drive away in our shiny limo, and—credits roll. It’s a triumph.” He pumped a fist. “The feel-good story of the fucking
millennium.”
“That was quite a tale.” Her head tipped to the side. “Have you considered writing fiction?”
“Been there, done that. Got the clucking T-shirt.” Literally. Athena had made tees with a fake book cover for Down to Pluck plastered on the front, because she was a damn menace. “Don’t bother asking, Dearborn. I won’t tell you.”
If she found out he’d coauthored an erotic chicken-man romance with Matthew, she’d hassle him forever. Probably become lifetime
besties with Athena on the spot, which was a terrifying prospect.
“Hmmm.” A swipe of Molly’s pink tongue wet her lips. Made them glisten. It was distracting as all hell. “In this scenario,
I’d be incredibly gorgeous, huh?”
The way she’d hooked her arms over the back of her kitchen chair thrust her breasts against his tee and created lines of strain in the cotton.
The fabric near the hem wasn’t quite wide enough, so it cupped the swells of her belly and ass.
Beneath that hem there was nothing but boy shorts and her long legs, bare and beautiful.
She wasn’t an hourglass. More a column, like the ones they’d seen on school field trips to DC every year. Subtly curved, thick,
elegant. Strong.
Statuesque, his grandma would have called her. Handsome.
But to him, she was just . . . perfect. Always had been. With that body and hair, those eyes, that pretty, round face, she
should wear a crown. Should’ve risen from a fucking scallop shell in the ocean. Molly Dearborn could strike him speechless
with a single look, when she wasn’t busy annoying the living hell out of him.
That was true even before he’d seen her buck-ass naked. Now that he had?
Incredibly gorgeous was the understatement of the fucking millennium.
He waved an arm, indicating the entirety of her, from head to toe. “Well, yeah.”
Her lips curved, and her cheeks darkened in a pleased flush.
At the sight of her blushing in happiness because of something he’d said? His chest expanded. His spine straightened. He could’ve
hefted a damn skyscraper with how strong he felt in that moment.
“Good to know.” Her cheeks might be warm, but her voice was as calm and cool as ever. “So you’d act over-the-top smitten.
The entire night.”
“Yep.” Easiest thing in the world. Might as well order him to keep breathing.
She tucked a swath of hair behind one pink-tipped ear. “Ideally, we’d both have exes in attendance to torment with regret and jealousy. I won’t, but maybe some of yours will be there?”
“Janel told me Becky’s coming.” Then she’d winked at him, like he gave a shit whether his ex from over twenty years ago showed
up at the reunion. “Might be others too. Don’t know, don’t care.”
He’d lived in Harlot’s Bay his whole life. Limited pool of options. So yeah, he’d dated women in their class who’d stayed
local. A few would probably show up to the reunion. If he was with Molly, though? He might not even notice ’em. Probably not
the nicest thing to say, but it was the honest damn truth.
He met Molly’s gaze. “Well? What do you think?”
Her mouth opened, then closed again.
“You didn’t go to prom,” he pointed out, in his best wheedling tone. “Time to rectify that shit the most awesome way possible.”
And after such an incredible night? She’d never want to leave Harlot’s Bay again, guaran-fucking-teed. Which was what turned
his plan from great to genius-level, if he did say so himself, and he damn well did.
She gulped back the last of her coffee, then plonked her mug on the table and eyed him askance. “I already know I’m going
to regret this bizarro plan.”
“That mean you’re gonna do it?”
She exhaled gustily, slumping in her chair. “I suppose.”
“Hell, yeah!” he shouted, then got out his phone and got to work.