Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
GRAYSON—THREE DAYS AFTER THE WEDDING
I make it three days without seeing Molly.
Three days without calling. Three days of staring at her name in my phone and reminding myself that leaving her alone is the right thing to do.
It doesn’t feel right. It feels like someone has reached inside my chest and slowly twisted everything until breathing hurts.
I look at the clock. Two forty-five. Molly’s school day ends at three. Not that I’m keeping track. I wipe my hands on a rag and return to the brake job. At three ten, I check the clock again. At three fifteen, I strip off my gloves. This is ridiculous.
I grab my keys and leave. The drive to Sunnybrook takes seventeen minutes. I tell myself that if her car isn’t in the parking lot, I’ll turn around. If she has already gone, that means I’m not supposed to see her today.
Her blue sedan is parked near the staff entrance. Relief moves through me. I park beside it and hold the ice cream. The ice cream begins to soften in my hand. This is a mistake.
Then I see her. Molly steps through the staff entrance carrying her canvas apple bag and a stack of folders. She’s wearing a dark green skirt and a white blouse. Her hair is pulled into a high ponytail, and she has sunglasses covering her eyes.
She looks tired. Even from across the parking lot, I can see it in the slope of her shoulders. Her steps slow when she notices me. For a moment, neither of us moves. My heart pounds like I’m a teenager instead of a grown man standing in an elementary-school parking lot with melting ice cream.
She walks toward me.
“What are you doing here?” she asks.
“I brought you something.”
I hold out the carton.
She looks down at it. “Ice cream?”
“Chocolate.”
“I can see that.”
“It’s melting.”
“I can see that too.”
Her gaze lifts to mine.
“Why did you bring me ice cream, Grayson?”
Because I haven’t slept since I left you. Because every time my phone rings, I hope it’s you. Or maybe because I have spent three days imagining how easy it would be to ignore every reason we shouldn’t be together.
But what I actually say is “I wanted to see how you were doing.”
“You could have called.”
“I could have.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No.”
She’s licking a triple scoop of chocolate, her tongue swirling around the cone I’m already imagining the dirty things I want to do to her. Putting my cock somewhere warmer and wetter.
“You’re gonna make a mess if you keep that up,” I say. The ice cream’s dripping down the side of the cone, cold and brown, and her lips are glossy from the first taste.
She grins, slow and knowing, and sucks the ice cream off of her thumb before answering. “Maybe I like things messy.” The words come out muffled, but I catch them anyway. The tip of her tongue flicks out to catch a drip that slides down her wrist. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing a hand over my jaw.
She takes another slow lick, this time dragging her tongue along the edge of the cone before pulling it free with a wet pop. Her eyes flick up at me through her lashes. “Keep your dirty thoughts to yourself…” She winks.
I can’t. I want to lick that ice cream off her body.
There’s no better use as far as I’m concerned.
I reach out, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth where a smear of chocolate lingers.
She doesn’t pull away. Instead, she sucks my thumb into her mouth, cold and wet, swirling her tongue around it like she’s teasing me with the same motion she used on the cone.
I groan, my cock already stiffening against the fly of my jeans. “You’re making this hard.”
“I’m making what hard?” She takes another slow lick of the ice cream.
She’s playing with me. I love it. And I hate it. There’s nothing more I want than to play back. I could put her in my car right now and show her exactly what’s getting hard.
But then a car door slams behind me.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
Carter. Molly’s hand drops. Every muscle in my body tightens before I turn. My son stands several parking spaces away beside his silver SUV. He’s holding a bouquet of red roses wrapped in plastic.
He had the same idea. Except he brought flowers. I brought ice cream. The absurdity of it might have been funny if Carter weren’t staring at me as if he wants to kill me.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
“Leaving.”
“Looks like you’re talking to my fiancée.”
“I’m not your fiancée,” Molly says.
Carter barely glances at her. His attention stays fixed on me.
“You don’t get to decide that,” he tells her.
Molly’s face hardens. “I ran out of our wedding. I think that makes the decision clear.”
“You embarrassed me in front of everyone.”
“You cheated on me.”
“And I apologized.”
“No, you blamed me.”
“I said I was sorry.”
“After you told me I should be grateful you were still willing to marry me.”
The roses crinkle in his tightening fist. Rage moves through me.
I step forward. “Don’t.”
Carter’s eyes flash. “Stay out of this.”
“She said no.”
“She was talking to me.”
“And she said no.”
Molly moves between us slightly. “Grayson, please.”
I look at her.
The fear in her face is enough to stop me. Carter notices. His gaze shifts from her to me, then back again. Suspicion enters his expression.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
“Nothing,” Molly says.
“Why is he here?”
“He brought me ice cream.”
Carter looks at the carton in my hand. Then he laughs. It’s a bitter, ugly sound.
“My father brings you ice cream and suddenly you can’t marry me?”
“This has nothing to do with him.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.”
Carter steps closer. Molly retreats. I move between them without thinking.
His face twists. “Get out of my way.”
“Lower your voice.”
“Or what?”
“Carter.”
“Are you going to hit me?” He throws the flowers onto the pavement. “Is that how you solve problems now? You going to go back to prison?”
The words are intended to hurt. They do. But not enough to make me move.
“I’m not going to hit you,” I say.
“Then move.”
“No.”
Molly’s fingers brush my arm. A warning. Or a plea. I don’t know which. Carter sees the touch. His face drains of color.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he whispers.
“Carter,” Molly says.
“Did you sleep with him?”
“No.”
“Did he touch you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
The phrase echoes through the parking lot. The same words Carter used when I asked about the woman laughing beside him. He recognizes them too. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
Then he looks at me.
“Did you touch her? What did you do?”
“I kissed her.”
The confession sits between us.
Children laugh near the buses. A teacher calls for someone to slow down. Cars move steadily through the pickup line. The rest of the world continues while my son looks at me as if I have driven a knife into his chest.
“When?” he asks.
“After she left you.”
“She hadn’t left me.”
“She found another woman in your house.”
“She was upset.”
“She was still wearing my ring,” Carter says.
I have no defense. He’s right. Whatever he did, Molly was still engaged to him when I kissed her.
I knew it.
I did it anyway.
“You kissed my fiancée.”
“Yes.”
“My father kissed my fiancée.”
My chest tightens.
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?”
Carter closes the distance between us.
Molly catches my arm. “Carter, stop.”
He ignores her. Carter looks at me. His fist moves before I can react.
Or maybe I see it and choose not to move.
His knuckles strike my cheekbone. Pain explodes across the side of my face.
My head snaps back, and the ice cream falls from my hand.
The carton bursts against the pavement, sending chocolate across the toe of my boot.
Molly screams. I stagger one step but stay upright. Carter shakes his hand.
“Grayson!” Molly grabs my arm.
I touch my face. My fingers come away with a streak of blood from the corner of my mouth.
Carter stares at it.
For a second, shock replaces his fury.
Then anger takes over again.
“Hit me back,” he says.
I lower my hand. “No.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“Fight me.”
“I’m not fighting you.”
I see the moment Molly realizes we have an audience. The color drains from her face. The staff entrance opens. Principal Hargrove strides outside.
“What is happening here?”
Molly closes her eyes.
Carter takes a step back.
The principal’s gaze moves over the scene: the crushed roses on the pavement, the spilled ice cream, the blood on my mouth, and Molly standing between Carter and me.
Her expression hardens.
“Mrs. Hargrove,” Molly says, “I can explain.”
“I certainly hope so.”
“This is a personal matter. They both came here without me knowing.”
Principal Hargrove looks at Carter. “Did you strike this man?”
“He deserved it.”
“Carter,” Molly whispers.
“What?” he demands. “He kissed you.”
Principal Hargrove’s eyebrows rise. Molly sways slightly. I step toward her, but she moves away from me. That hurts worse than the punch.
“Grayson,” Principal Hargrove says, “you were explicitly told not to return to this campus without completing the proper procedure.”
“I stayed in the parking lot.”
“You are on school property.”
“I came to give Molly something. I wasn’t going inside.”
“And this”—she gestures toward Carter—“is the result.”
“It isn’t her fault,” I say.
“I didn’t suggest it was.”
“You’re looking at her like it is.”
Principal Hargrove draws herself up. “This is a conversation between myself and my employee.”
“Then listen when she tells you we showed up without her permission.”
Molly grips her apple bag against her chest.
“Please,” she says. “Can we discuss this in your office?”
“No.”
The single word falls with terrifying calm.
Parents continue to watch. Children have stopped climbing onto the buses. One of the other teachers begins herding them away, but it’s too late. They’ve seen enough.
Principal Hargrove turns to Molly.
“We discussed professional judgment after your unauthorized visitor entered the classroom.”
“I know.”
“I issued a formal warning.”
“Yes.”
“You assured me there would be no further incidents.”
“I didn’t know they were coming.”
“You are responsible for maintaining appropriate boundaries between your personal life and your workplace.”
“I have.”
Principal Hargrove looks at the blood on my face. “Two men are fighting over you in the school parking lot.”
Principal Hargrove’s expression doesn’t soften.
“This kind of drama is unacceptable at an elementary school,” she says.
“Our parents trust us to provide a safe, stable environment for their children. You have demonstrated twice in one week that you cannot keep your personal choices from affecting that environment.”
Molly’s lips part. “What are you saying?”
“You’re terminated, effective immediately.”