Chapter 24
“Holy Jesus,” Karl wheezed the following Saturday.
Sounded like someone had punched him in the gut. Felt like that too.
Mouth agape, he watched Molly come down the Spite House stairs to where he was fidgeting in his rental tux near the kitchen
table. In the late afternoon sunlight slanting through the over-sink window, her pin-straight hair streamed over her shoulders
in a gleaming sheet, her glossy lips shimmered, her blue eyes sparkled, and—
Shit, the rest of her should’ve burned out his retinas.
She’d actually done it. Worn one of those hot-as-hell suits with a low vee in front, no shirt or bra in sight. Her midnight-blue satin jacket
and matching high-waisted pants shone from her shoulders to her wrists and ankles, demanding attention without apology. The
jacket’s lone button held the fabric together beneath her pale, pushed-together breasts, and the whole thing fit like a burnished
second skin.
No wonder she’d visited Trollop Tailoring earlier in the week. Elderly Mrs. Bertens deserved a damn medal for her work on
the outfit.
The flat soles of Molly’s strappy metallic sandals slapped against the final few steps.
Then she was there, right in front of him, and his thoughts leapt to middle-school social studies and its Greek mythology unit.
For the first time, he wondered whether—in another universe—Medusa had killed men stone-dead like this.
Not through snake-haired hideousness. Because of literally petrifying beauty.
He was too afraid to touch her. Didn’t want to ruin anything so goddamn perfect.
While he stood there frozen, dry-mouthed, and so fucking in love he might actually die from it, she looked him up and down
with clear approval.
“Hey, we match.” The observation sounded pleased. “Nice tux, Karl. I genuinely can’t believe Athena and Matthew got you into
a bow tie.” Her fingers skimmed his jaw. “You even trimmed your beard and put on shiny Oxfords. Wowza.”
Anything for you, his dazed, dazzled brain silently informed her.
Without a word, he offered her the bouquet he’d hidden behind his back. Ivory calla lilies, bundled together with an eggplant-purple
silk ribbon. Elegant. Reserved. Lovely. Just like her.
The corsage and boutonniere followed the reunion’s stupid under-the-sea theme. But since she wouldn’t be taking this bouquet
to the dance, he’d figured he could get her some flowers that actually seemed more her style.
“Oh my goodness, I love these so much!” she exclaimed immediately, and his shoulders loosened. “They’re stunning, Karl. Thank
you.” Smiling happily, she accepted the flowers. Cradled them in her arms and studied them carefully. Caressed a silky petal
with a featherlight touch. “Hold on. Before we go, let me get the arrangement in water.”
For a minute, she was bustling around the tiny kitchen, searching for a suitable vessel, then filling a glass pitcher with
water and arranging the stems artfully inside. Then she turned back to him and stepped close enough to radiate heat.
He still couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.
“For a rental tux, this fits remarkably well.” She smoothed a hand down his sleeve. “I’m beyond impressed. You’re not just
handsome in formal wear, Karl Andrew Dean. You’re dashing.”
At that, his chest strained the small, weird studs fastening his shirt. Yet another accessory the rental place had recommended
and charged him for, with Athena’s enthusiastic support.
“Th—” He had to clear his throat. Shake himself a little. “Thanks. You . . . that suit . . .”
The way Molly looked tonight? Woman deserved a poet to explain how gorgeous she was. Instead, she had an inarticulate asshole
who spent his weekdays in Crocs and a beard net.
Wasn’t fair to her. She deserved better.
But he could only do his best, right?
“People make statues of women like you,” he told her, voice raw with honesty. “Armies go to war. Men like me wait their whole
lives for a single glimpse of something as ridiculously fucking beautiful as you are right now.”
She stilled. Stared up at him for a minute while he tried not to die of sheer embarrassment and emotional overexposure.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Those blue eyes of hers, suddenly bright with tears, damn near slayed him. But if he held her, no way he wouldn’t wrinkle
her outfit or otherwise screw up all her prep work, so . . .
“Just the simple truth. Shouldn’t make you cry.” Gently, he tugged at a strand of her hair, trying like hell not to muss it.
“Don’t make me dry you off with my tuxedo jacket, Dearborn. Hefty security deposit. Plus, this is your moment of triumph,
remember?”
She sniffed, then offered him a shaky smile. “Ah, yes. My long-desired opportunity to confront all those extremely stereotypical mean girls and bullies whose opinion meant so very much to me in high school.”
“That’s the one,” he confirmed.
She blinked back the last of her tears, and his incipient panic melted away.
“I see my flowers.” Her head tipped toward the pitcher. “I see the limo outside. I see my sexy-bad-boy, hometown-hero date
in front of me.” She laid her palm on his chest, got up on her tiptoes, and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth, then wiped
away any gloss residue with the side of her thumb. “I think we’re ready to go.”
Even that tiny bit of contact? He’d had orgasms that didn’t feel as goddamn good.
“More crap inside the limo.” He hitched a thumb toward the window, which showed the fancy-ass car parked by the sidewalk,
its uniformed driver patiently waiting nearby. “Everything else on our list.”
She’d offered on multiple occasions to pay for half the expenses—and received only an incredulous glare in response every
damn time. In the end, thank fuck, she’d dropped the subject and let him take care of everything. Including the final items,
put in place only minutes ago.
Cream-colored and aqua rose petals were now strewn evenly across the rear limo seats. He’d seen to that himself. Then he and
Matthew had rested their corsages and boutonnieres on a lacquered tray back there, ready to be fastened in place as the four
of them traveled to the Harlot’s Bay High gym.
“Karl . . .” She waved a hand, encompassing his tux, the calla lilies, the limousine. “This is more than enough.”
Not for Molly goddamn Dearborn. Not even close. But he wasn’t arguing with her when he’d rather be admiring her. Or, even better, stripping that suit off her gorgeous body and—
Nope. Not thinking about that.
Climbing into a shared limo with a hard-on? Inappropriate as hell. Plus, Greydon would never let him hear the end of it. Start
calling him Honey Bunches of Cock or some shit.
“Thought we’d ride with Matthew and Athena,” he told Molly. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” She smiled at him, grabbed his hand, and headed for the door. “I figured that’d be the plan. And I’m glad
you’re not having me make my grand reunion entrance alone, despite your teen-movie aspirations.”
As if he would ever willingly watch her leave him behind.
They stepped outside. And as he waited for her to fiddle with her sleek clutch purse and lock up behind them, he basked in
her presence. Hungrily studied her beautiful sunlit face, something he hadn’t been able to do for way the hell too long.
Since Wednesday, he’d spent almost no time with her during daylight hours. Two minutes after he’d opened the bakery that morning,
Janel had called. The reunion caterer had backed out unexpectedly, leaving her in a bind, and she’d wanted to hire him instead.
For the dance, but also the Friday evening picnic on Ladywright College grounds.
He’d wanted to say no. But who else could Janel call at the last minute and be sure the caterers wouldn’t screw everything
up? No one. Besides, Charlotte and Johnathan had offered to help, and they could use the extra cash.
Coordinating with the two employees had gone better than he’d expected. Both of them worked hard—Jonathan on logistics and food prep, Charlotte on baking under Karl’s direct guidance—and didn’t complain once, despite their boss’s shitty mood.
Still. Molly’s final scheduled week in Harlot’s Bay, and where was his pathetic ass?
Not holding her tight in bed. Not making her bougie lattes and sandwiches. Not lying on a blanket with her under the autumn
sky, napping and talking. Instead, he’d spent three days bent over a stainless-steel table in his overheated, overcrowded,
fluorescent-lit back room, giving directions and baking goddamn canapés. Like a chump.
His only consolation? Almost every evening that week, once he’d left work, he and Molly had taken a moonlit walk around Historic
Harlot’s Bay, hand in hand. Because if her blood pressure was getting too high, maybe going outdoors and stretching her legs
might help. And yeah, Molly might’ve insisted on giving him a rubdown each night and refused to let him return the favor,
despite his protests—but he’d bought her a crap ton of lavender-scented spa shit so she could take a long bath and relax right
before bed too.
In case that didn’t work, he’d also been doing his best to wear her out with orgasms. Hands, mouth, dick, toys, whatever combo
it took. She said all that coming helped her sleep better. Also made him feel like a damn king, so win-fucking-win.
Last night, though, they hadn’t even gotten their walk.
Barely exchanged a private word. She’d spent the whole evening helping him, Charlotte, and Johnathan dole out the prepared food at the picnic while she made casual chitchat with their former classmates.
By the time they’d cleaned up and made it back to his house, neither of them had the energy to do anything but collapse directly into bed.
And in the morning, he hadn’t wanted to disturb her restless sleep, so he’d left for the bakery in the predawn darkness as quietly as possible.
Without even a quick goodbye hand job. It was a fucking travesty.
“Hey!” Athena’s cheerful voice called from the street. “You two look amazing!”
Reluctantly, he tore his gaze from Molly. Spared a nod for Athena and Matthew, who’d emerged from their home and were walking
toward the limo, arm in arm.
His best friend’s tux, black and classic, made him resemble James Bond—but only if double-oh-seven preferred reading medical
texts and contemplating his life choices to killing international assholes and banging double agents. Athena shone like a
sun against her husband’s night sky, all blond hair, bright red lipstick, and an even brighter grin. Her yellow-flowered,
flowing dress rippled around her ankles as she walked, revealing . . . yep. Keds.
Both of them looked great. Glowing with happiness. One glance established that much.
After that glance, his attention returned to Molly as she tucked away her keys, strolled down the alleyway, and greeted her
new friends.
He didn’t follow. He knew Athena pretty damn well by this point, and no one was going anywhere until outfits had been admired
and gossip exchanged. Besides, appreciating Molly’s tight suit in motion, her unbound breasts subtly bouncing in the deep,
open vee of the jacket, her ass swaying in midnight-blue satin, wasn’t something he intended to rush.
The main reason he didn’t move, though? Pure indecision.
Anytime he had a free moment—which hadn’t happened much this week—his mind arrowed straight to the same problem.
Two days. Two short days until Molly’s flight left for LAX. And neither of them had uttered a single word about that fast-approaching deadline.
Athena and Matthew kept saying he needed to broach the subject himself. But in Karl’s defense, he and Molly had felt like a committed couple for a while now. Even if she left on Monday, they’d sure as hell date long-distance. Right?
That had to be enough. They didn’t need to talk specifics yet.
Even though not knowing what happened next was driving him goddamn bananas.
As Molly and Matthew gabbed about something or other, Athena caught Karl’s attention with a wave, bugged out her eyes, and
mouthed, Tell. Her.
He flipped her off but kept churning through the mental possibilities. Because . . . if he and Molly were going to have a totally unnecessary define-the-relationship talk? Tonight would be the time. Middle-aged prom—as Molly called
it—would be the place.
For the first time in two decades, they’d be back at Harlot’s Bay High, where everything started for them. And if he laid
all his cards on the table?
Might be where everything ended for them too.
Or . . . where their future began.
“Fuck my fucking life,” he grunted, and stomped toward the limo.