Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Molly
“He agreed to go!” I practically yell into the phone early the next morning.
“Dollface?” Blake’s voice is little more than a croak. “What time is it?”
I glance at my dashboard clock and wince. “Um...six forty-five. Oops.” In my excitement, I momentarily forgot my ex works nights now and probably just went to bed an hour ago. I, on the other hand, have been up since 2:36 a.m. I have no idea what it is about that time, but my brain has developed an internal alarm clock set for that time every night.
“No.” I hear some rustling sounds, probably him getting out of bed. “It’s fine. Who agreed to what now?”
“Matty!” My excitement is back as I pull up to a red light. “He agreed to go see a counselor.”
“Ah, that’s great. How did you convince him?”
“Well, I might have had a little help from somebody he looks up to.” I still don’t know what Bobby said to Matty, but whatever it was, he accomplished more in one conversation than I have in three months. It makes me feel a little guilty for giving him the cold shoulder yesterday, but I’ll be sure to thank him when I see him. We’re meeting up at a new listing before he has to go to practice this morning.
“Iron Man?” Blake guesses.
The light turns green, and I pull forward again. “Someone even bigger than Iron Man, if you can believe it. One of the Storm Chasers who helps out with his hockey league.”
“Seriously? I didn’t even know they were affiliated with that.”
“I don’t think it’s official or anything, but a handful of the players hang out after their own practices sometimes. It’s kind of a long story, but I’m actually helping this guy find a house too.”
I might be imagining it, but Blake’s tone sharpens a little. “Who is it?”
“Blake, when have you ever watched a hockey game?”
“That’s beside the point. What’s this guy’s name?”
“Bobby Rhodes. Why do you want to know?”
“If he’s having heart-to-hearts with my kid, I’d like to know the man’s name, Molly.”
Oh. I guess that makes sense. I slow down to allow someone to move into my lane and decide to shift topics for a second. “When are you back in town?”
“Early next week. I’ll text you when I know more specifics, and I can make some plans with Matty. I miss the squirt. And you too.”
“Aw. Sounds good. I’ll let you know when I have more news on the counseling.”
We hang up just as I’m pulling up to the modern Spanish-style home in Avila, an area outside downtown Tampa but close enough to be an easy commute. Bobby leans against his shiny silver truck in the driveway, sunglasses perched on his nose and muscular arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a pair of linen shorts and a sixties-inspired polo, looking like he’s posing for a fashion shoot. I can’t help my smile, even as I’m shaking my head.
“Hi, Bobby,” I greet as I open my Kia’s door.
He pushes off the truck and comes my way, both dimples on display. “Oh, thank god. We’re back to Bobby instead of Robert.”
I laugh and let him take my bag for me. “I don’t know what you said to Matthew yesterday, but whatever it was, thank you.”
“Hey, I was only cleaning up the mess I made.”
“No, I shouldn’t have gotten so worked up about it. He’s responsible for his own actions. I’m sure you didn’t tell him to shove Raiden Voles into a locker. Although I still want to know what that kid said to Matty to make him so upset.” I throw my hands up and start toward the house. “Sorry. I’ll stop babbling.”
“No!” Bobby intercepts me. “I want to hear.” His brows draw together over his sunglasses. “And now I want to know what this Raiden kid said. He sounds like a first-class dirtbag. I mean, what kind of name is Raiden anyway? It sounds like an insecticide.”
I smile again. “Slow your roll, Mister bigshot hockey man. The child is twelve. I’ve got it covered.”
“Oh, right.” He pulls the sunglasses from his face and has the good grace to look chagrined as we approach the front door. This gives me a better look at some bruising around his right eye that I noticed yesterday but didn’t mention since I was annoyed with him.
“Nice shiner.”
He runs a finger over the bruising. “It’s nothing. All part of the job description. Got an elbow to the face from one of the Stingers the other night.”
I do my thing with the key box and we let ourselves in. “I’m adding one more item to the list of reasons I like my job. No elbows to the face in realty.”
Bobby laughs and lifts his eyes to scan the space. “Nice.” His voice echoes off the walls of the empty house as we both admire the exposed wood beams and earthy neutrals of the decor.
I’m just about to go over the house’s features when a loud siren sounds from outside with five short blasts. My startled gaze jumps first to the door and then to Bobby. His posture tenses, eyes narrowing as he cranes his neck to look out the windows.
“That sounds like a lightning siren, doesn’t it?” He sets my bag on the floor, his eyes coming back to me.
“Maybe? I don’t know. Isn’t that usually one long air horn sound?” I shake my head to clear out the cobwebs. “Why do I have no idea what that siren means?” And why the hell am I panicking? It’s probably nothing. Terrorists wouldn’t come to Florida, would they? Oh god. They totally would.
Sensing my rising hysteria—which would be impossible to miss—Bobby comes close and takes both my hands in his large ones. They’re steady and warm, unlike mine, which have begun trembling. “I’m sure everything is fine.” His thumbs stroke back and forth over the backs of my hands, and it’s almost hypnotic in the way it immediately calms me. “The skies are clear. Lemme just hop on my phone, and I’ll find out what it is, okay?” Bobby is still on weather while I’m imagining nuclear war over here.
He waits for my nod before releasing my hands and pulling his phone from his shorts pocket. I worry my lip while conjuring a mental image of Matty’s school. It’s got a huge basement and concrete block construction, thank god. But still, the idea of my son crouched in fear in a dark basement has me breaking out in a cold sweat even as I remind myself his school is miles from here.
“Molly,” Bobby says in a tone that tells me it’s not the first time he’s tried to get my attention.
My wide eyes flash to his face, looking for any sign of bad news, but his expression is indiscernible.
He raises a palm to me in a placating gesture. “It’s nothing dire.”
The breath whooshes from my lungs. “Then what is it?”
He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again before looking down at his phone. “It’s...” He lifts the phone and points the screen my way. “...a snake.”
“What?!” I’m clearly hallucinating. Or dreaming. Or maybe a tornado already ripped through the house and I’m dead. Because his words make zero sense.
Bobby’s response is to shake the phone to get my attention. When I look down at it, the words are clear as day.
BURMESE PYTHON ESCAPE
Avila is on lockdown. Residents are instructed to stay inside and close all windows and doors until further notice. An illegally housed Burmese python has escaped a neighborhood home, and authorities are actively searching for the reptile. If sighted, DO NOT APPROACH. Call 9-1-1 immediately and retreat to safety.
When I turn my shocked expression back to Bobby, I see he’s fighting a laugh, those matching dimples winking at me while he tries forcing his mirth down. At the look on my face, he loses the battle and bends at the waist as he guffaws. “You should see your face!”
“I can’t believe you!” I bat at his arm. “This isn’t funny. Do you know how long this could take? We could be here all day! And somebody’s poor dog is probably being slowly digested by that thing this very moment.”
Bobby’s head snaps up, a look of panic replacing the amusement.
I prop my hands on my hips. “Not so funny when poor Fido enters the picture, huh?”
“Shit!” Bobby lifts his phone again. “I’ve got practice in just over an hour. Coach is going to have my ass if I’m late!” His thumbs fly over the phone as deep furrows form on his forehead.
“It’s not like it’s your fault,” I argue, but he doesn’t appear to hear me. I decide to investigate a little further on my phone to see if there are more details. My first search brings up a social media post from thirty minutes ago with a video captioned, “Florida Man Makes Public Appeal to Save Pet Python.” Good lord.
An older man appears on-screen wearing a backward orange baseball cap and an unkempt beard, both hands steepled in front of him. “Please, if you see Betsy, don’t hurt her. She’s a sweet little thing and doesn’t mean nobody no harm.” He holds up a photo of himself with an enormous brown and tan snake draped around his neck. I fight a shudder. “She’s never eaten anyone, I swear! I just want my Betsy back.”
I quickly close the video to look for other information that does not include photos or bearded Florida men. Bobby sighs and drops his head back.
“Any luck?” I ask.
He straightens his head and runs a hand over his face. “Let’s just hope they find him quickly.”
“Her. Not him. Her name is Betsy.”
“What?” His expression is both weary and confused, so I give his bicep a pat, instructing myself not to notice his arm porn.
“Don’t worry about it. Why don’t we go ahead and tour the house since we’re here?”
“Okay,” Bobby responds, sounding no less weary or confused as I lead him through the entryway to the spacious living area beyond.
Two hours later, we’ve given in and made ourselves as comfortable as possible on the barstools at the kitchen island, the only pieces of furniture the owners appear to have left in the home.
The place is gorgeous, and even Bobby’s distress over missing practice didn’t dampen his appreciation for it. I have to say, seeing how seriously Bobby takes his job shows me a new side of him. That, coupled with the miracle he worked on Matty yesterday, has me thinking there might be more to this guy than muscles, dimples, and a flirty sense of humor.
Bobby’s head is bent to his phone as he watches the Florida man video I finally directed him to.
“I’m going to text Coco to check in,” I tell him.
I message her a quick update, and when I see Bobby’s attention still trained on his screen, I scroll to the Catnip app on a whim, pulling up my chat with @PitterPatterLetsGetAtHer.
@Singlemomcatlady: So, just for research purposes, how inappropriate is it to be attracted to a client?
Bobby’s phone pings while I’m waiting for a response. I look over to see him grinning at his phone. When he notices me, he says, “One of the guys from the team. They’re a bunch of knuckleheads.” He bends his head again to continue his chat.
My phone pings a few seconds later.
@PitterPatterLetsGetAtHer: Spill the tea.
I huff out a tiny laugh and look up to see Bobby glancing my way. I hold up my phone. “Coco.” That sounds plausible, right? Wait. Why am I explaining myself? I shake my head and get back to my conversation.
@Singlemomcatlady: It’s nothing. I just figured since you were in the middle of your own workplace attraction conundrum, you might have some insight.
I press send and notice Bobby’s phone ping again. This time, my glance is more furtive. I can’t have him suspecting I’m texting about him, can I? He’s really sort of unfairly good-looking. He’s also intently studying his phone.
The app pings me again.
@PitterPatterLetsGetAtHer: I guess it depends. Is this a long term client? If so, I’d say just enjoy the view but keep your distance.
@Singlemomcatlady: Very short-term.
Bobby is obviously still in a chat with his buddies because his phone continues to ping almost as quickly as mine.
@PitterPatterLetsGetAtHer: That’s easy then. As soon as the contract is done, jump his bones. Why not?
Bobby chuckles, drawing my attention again, and I can feel my stupid skin heating at just the notion of “jumping” Bobby Rhodes’s bones. I let out a quiet groan. I mean, can you imagine? This is ridiculous. Thank goodness he’s oblivious to me and still focused on his phone.
@Singlemomcatlady: I’m not going to jump his bones! Besides, he’s way out of my league.
I hit send as I scoff at the screen.
Ping!
@PitterPatterLetsGetAtHer: How so? I think you’re probably selling yourself short, cat lady.
@Singlemomcatlady: How are things going with your workplace romance? Any luck?
Ping!
@PitterPatterLetsGetAtHer: I’m actually with her right now.
@Singlemomcatlady: Then what are you doing messaging me?! Go talk to her!
Ping!
@PitterPatterLetsGetAtHer: She’s on her phone. Must be important too because she keeps mumbling to herself as she types.
@Singlemomcatlady: I think you should get her alone and tell her how you feel.
Ping!
@PitterPatterLetsGetAtHer: We are alone. She’s showing me a house I think I might buy. But I don’t want to make an offer because then I won’t have an excuse to see her anymore. Is that crazy?
@Singlemomcatlady: That’s so weird! Oh, sorry! Not weird that you want to keep spending time with her. That’s actually sweet. The weird part is I’m a realtor too! In fact, I’m showing a house right now.
Ping!
I grin and start typing another message saying that my client is the same one I was just...
My thumbs freeze as a buzzing sound rushes into my ears like a speeding freight train. Despite my strict instruction to stay still, my eyes fly directly to Bobby sitting two stools away at the gorgeous kitchen island. He looks like he belongs here. He also looks like he’s really enjoying whatever conversation he’s having on his phone.
Clearly sensing my gaze, he glances over quickly before returning his eyes to his phone. But his attention returns to me when he registers what I assume is my horror-stricken expression.
“What’s wrong?”
When I don’t respond—which, in my defense, is due to the crushing humiliation choking my windpipe—he rises from his stool and closes the distance between us. “Molly? What’s wrong?”
The words come out in a stilted whisper. “P-pitter patter?”
His brows draw together as he studies me in the same manner one might examine a concussed patient. It takes two- point-three seconds before his brows change direction and spike almost to his hairline.
“Cat lady?!”