And there she is. Last night I told her I wanted to take her on a date before we slept together again, but I’m not going to be able to wait.
I drag my attention from her and turn to face her sink. “What seems to be the problem?” Then, to let her know I’m still willing to play along, I add, “Miss.”
“My sister tossed her wedding rings into the garbage disposal, and I need to get them out.”
I jerk my gaze to her, nonverbally asking for an explanation, but she gives me nothing.
“Did she turn it on?”
“Nope. Just tossed them in.”
Slightly confused, I open the cabinet doors beneath the sink and shift a few cleaning supplies aside, then pull the disposal’s power cord from the outlet. I stand and reach into the drain, letting my fingers feel around the blades until I find a band and what feels like an engagement ring. I pull my hand out and show her the rings. “These?”
A wide smile lights up her face. “I knew you could get them.”
“You didn’t try?” I ask with a laugh.
She makes a face. “And possibly get my fingers chewed off? No, thanks.”
“But you were willing to risk mine?”
“You’re the professional.”
I laugh, and I’m struck by the realization that I’ve laughed and smiled with Molly more in the last week than I had in the last year. “You only had to pull out the power cord to avoid losing your fingers. But I’m glad you called me.”
“I didn’t technically call you,” she says, looking up at me through her lashes. “I texted.”
Grinning, I squat to plug the disposal back in. I turn on the warm water and wash the rings with dish soap, then rinse them off and take a good look at them. The band is a simple white gold circlet and the engagement ring has a princess-cut diamond and tiny stones along the band. They look shockingly similar to what Alice picked out.
Molly extends her hand. I set them in her upturned palm, then wrap my fingers around her hand. “I’m curious to hear how your sister’s wedding rings ended up in the garbage disposal.”
Looking up at me, she lets out a delighted laugh. “You sound like you suspect me of throwing them in there.”
“It doesn’t seem like a Mary move.”
“You’re right,” she says, her expression turning serious. “It’s not, which is why I found it so shocking too.”
“What happened?” I glance around. “Why did she leave?”
She pulls her hand free of mine and holds up her sister’s rings, examining them with all the intensity of a jeweler. “She decided to come without my nephew and only spend the day.”
My stomach flip-flops. I know Molly was nervous about their weekend. Did they have a fight? Maybe Mary already knew that Molly had lost her job and only came to reprimand her?
It’s something Alice would have done.
Molly finally looks up at me, emotion swirling in her gorgeous hazel eyes. “She came to tell me that her marriage is over.”
“What?”
“Her husband left her six months ago, and she hadn’t told us.” She sets the rings on the counter behind her, then turns back to me. “My nephew, Aidan, is on the spectrum. They always knew he didn’t react to situations like other kids, but he was officially diagnosed a little over six months ago.” She shrugs her shoulder, but I can see the rage in her eyes. I’ve seen evidence of Molly’s devotion to Maisie, and here is proof of her fierce loyalty to her eldest sister. “Glenn couldn’t handle it.”
Rage ignites in my chest.
“So he up and left?” I grind out.
She looks up at me in surprise. “Yeah.”
“What an asshole. Is your sister okay?” I shake my head. “Of course she’s not okay if she threw her rings in the garbage disposal.”
She stares at me like I’m a chimpanzee that just escaped from a zoo enclosure, partly fascination, partly disbelief. Which, sure, maybe I’m taking this a bit too personally, but my mother would have given anything to stay with me, and this douchebag is just abandoning his son.
I offer as much of an explanation as I can. “I fucking hate it when men think they can just cut and run when shit gets real.”
She looks like she’s about to ask me a question, but instead she studies me with those swirling, ever-changing eyes.
“What’s she going to do?” I say.
“You’re a fixer,” she says softly, still studying me.
I rock back a step. “A what?”
“You see problems, and you want to fix them.”
I’m not sure if this is a compliment or an insult. I have a sneaking suspicion it’s a little bit of both. “Your point?”
She tilts her head slightly. “Just an observation.”
“It’s pretty much my job,” I say a little more defensively than I intended. “I take old houses and make them better.”
Pushing away from the counter, she closes the distance between us, resting her hands on my shoulders. “I know.” A teasing grin lights up her face. “I like it. But…” She narrows her eyes. “I don’t need fixing.”
“I’m not trying to fix you, Molly.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“What exactly do you think needs fixing?” I ask, trying to figure out where this is coming from…and where it might end.
“Everyone tries to fix me,” she says airily, but there’s a bit of anger behind it. Her gaze shifts downward. “Mary. Maisie. My old boss. All those assholes I dated for Beyond the Sheets.”
“You didn’t really date them,” I say softly, realizing there’s a strong possibility I’ll say the wrong thing and tonight won’t progress any further. “They were narcissistic assholes, and you went out with them to show the world that they still very much exist.”
She remains frighteningly silent.
“Molly,” I say. “I like you just the way you are. If other people don’t approve of your life, it’s their problem, not yours.” With some chagrin, I remember that I was one of those people, in the beginning. “And yes, I include my former self in that. I said some pretty dumb things to you, but I didn’t know you then.”
“How do I know you’re not just saying that to get laid?”
“Look at me.”
Her gaze lifts back to my eyes.
“I will never bullshit you, Molly. I’ve shoveled through enough bullshit to last me a lifetime. All I ask is that you don’t bullshit me either, okay?”
She nods slightly. Then her teasing grin is back. “So you like me just the way I am, huh?”
“I’d like to amend that statement,” I say, lifting my hands to her waist and blindly searching for the hem of her shirt. I skim my fingers across the soft skin of her belly. “While I like what you’re wearing, I like you naked best.”
She reaches down and pulls the shirt over her head, tossing it to the floor. “You mean like this?”
She’s wearing a black bra, and I can see her nipples through the lace.
The surge of blood to my crotch strains my jeans. “That’s a good start.”
Her hand reaches for the front of her shorts. Her movements agonizingly slow, she unfastens the button and zipper, then hooks her thumbs over the waistband and pushes them over her hips.