Chapter Eleven
She was the kind of female who wrapped around a man’s heart and owned it from the very first featherlight kiss. Trace was enamored of everything she did.
Natasha—whom he’d started to call Tashie from the moment they met, knowing it was important he have a name that only he used in training—was born to be a service dog. She was responsive to every touch, easily connected, and obeyed basic commands even as a tiny puppy.
“C’mere, Tashie.” Trace curled his fingers under her tiny puppy snout and watched her eyes shutter with pleasure, then she looked up at him, still and patient. Ready for anything. Alert, loving, and crazy smart.
On the other hand, Boris, or Bo, as Trace dubbed the boy, might never rise to that level. He’d be a helluva therapy dog, born to bring comfort to the masses. But Natasha? She was a one-man dog, and that made her ripe for service training.
“You want to bring them outside for a while?” Shane Kilcannon approached the kennel where Trace had been with the puppies for almost an hour on a warm Friday afternoon.
“I think they’re bone-tired,” he said, pushing up to a stand, aware that Tashie watched his every move. “But if I told that one she had to climb a mountain, I’m pretty sure she would.”
Shane grinned. “She’s definitely a special dog. Think she’s our first official Waterford Farm service dog?”
“I do,” Trace said, rubbing his jawline and remembering he hadn’t even thought about shaving that morning because he’d been so anxious to see Meatball. And Molly.
“I need to find the perfect trainer,” Shane said as they walked outside together.
Not for the first time, Trace’s gut tightened at the thought of handing Tashie and Bo over to another trainer. But surely the Kilcannons would want someone with a record. A training record, not a prison record.
“You ready for distraction training?” Shane asked as they stepped into the sunshine to see the seven trainees and dogs already at work in the pen.
“Always ready.” It wasn’t a lie. Every time he stepped out to this grassy pen, drank in the gorgeous farmhouse and vista of North Carolina hills, Trace wanted to be right where he was. He could feel himself falling in love with this business, these dogs, this life.
The whole place charmed him…as well as some of the people in it. Every once in a while, he could forget who he was and what kind of life he’d lived. Every once in a while, he could pretend that this was where he belonged. During those scant moments, he felt the closest thing to heaven he’d ever known.
Then he’d see Molly and get even closer.
He shouldn’t be falling for Molly or Waterford. He knew that. But he couldn’t stop himself.
For the next few hours, Trace worked with Shane and the student trainers on doggie distraction training, which was as entertaining as it was exhausting. Some of the animals were far more distracted than others. A few never missed a beat, ignoring treats and toys as they went about their work. Some couldn’t stay focused for more than a minute, and those trainers were the most frustrated. It reminded Trace of the guys in prison who desperately wanted to get in the Puppies Behind Bars program but didn’t have the touch with the dogs.
Trace had it, in spades. And every time Shane noted that, Trace felt that intense shot of pride that was so unfamiliar, he wasn’t even sure what to make of it. He’d spent his life being told he was a carbon copy of his loser father, then made that prediction come true. Then he’d spent fourteen years on the inside, being reminded that he was no better than an animal. Way worse, actually.
Then life had thrust him here, where he felt worth and purpose and contentment. It was going to hurt like a mother to leave this place. To leave Molly…and Pru.
He tried not to think about it, focusing on Shane’s teaching, admiring the man’s concentration and patience. But in the middle of a sentence, Shane suddenly seemed as distracted as some of the dogs, looking to the driveway, his words fading to nothing.
Everyone, including Trace, followed his gaze to a brunette woman dressed in jeans and a stylish jacket walking toward the training pen, a stocky brown Staffordshire terrier on a leash next to her. Trace immediately recognized the woman as Chloe Somerset, Shane’s fiancée.
“’Scuze me,” Shane murmured as a smile pulled at his strong features. “Take five, team.”
The trainers seemed relieved for the break, and so did the dogs, who sensed they could romp, sniff, and pee with abandon. Shane walked toward the five-foot chain fence that surrounded the pen, leaning over to get a kiss from the woman.
Trace held back, of course, splitting his attention between the dogs in the pen and the new arrival. After they’d talked for a few minutes, Shane turned and gestured to Trace.
“Can you c’mere for a sec?” he called.
Trace went immediately, saying hello to Chloe, whom he’d met once in the past week, bending down to greet the dog through the fence.
“This is Ruby,” Chloe said, giving her pupper a rub on the head. But Ruby was on her haunches, paws on the fence, barking noisily at Shane. “Who is dying to slobber on her daddy right now.”
Shane reached his fingers through and tickled Ruby’s fur. “So, Trace, Chloe has a favor to ask you.”
“A favor?”
She gave him a smile he imagined most people—especially Shane—would be incapable of saying no to. “The Puppy Parade needs a representative from Waterford, and Shane told me that little dachshund we were counting on has been adopted.”
Trace nodded, remembering the fanfare he’d been told was tradition when a dog was adopted. The whole staff had gathered to say goodbye, Garrett Kilcannon wearing some beat-up old cowboy hat he called his “doggone hat” while he and his wife, Jessie, drove off to deliver the dog to a new home.
“And Shane tells me there are two more, but they’re young.”
“Boris and Natasha? You want to take them to a parade?”
“I want you to take them,” she said, biting her lip as if she was a little embarrassed to ask. “I need you to walk them down the street in the Better Bark Puppy Parade.”
Frowning, Trace took a step closer. “Excuse me?”
At his look of abject confusion, Chloe laughed. “You’re not from around Better Bark?”
“Used to be,” he said. “Back when we called it Bitter Bark, but I heard you changed that.”
“Only for this calendar year,” she said. “Part of my campaign is to have at least one major dog-oriented event a month. Tomorrow night is the Puppy Parade, and I’ve already been told every hotel and bed-and-breakfast within ten miles is sold out. At least, the ones that accept pets. If not, bet they’re sorry now.”
Shane grinned, pride in his eyes. “My fiancée, the tourism genius.”
She waved off the compliment, her attention on Trace now. “It’s really not a big deal for the dogs if they’re people-friendly. They’re leashed, with owners, and they walk through town with the Bitter Bark, er, Better Bark High School band, cheerleaders, and some dancers. Trust me, it’s not going to be the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, but I have fifty puppies signed up. Companies and businesses get promotional benefits, and I think it’s important for Waterford to be represented.”
“There is no shortage of dogs here,” Trace said as a low-grade sense of dread bubbled in his gut. A parade in town? No, people hadn’t recognized him so far, or had any idea where he’d been for fourteen years, but still. With Trace’s shitty luck? Anything was possible.
“But it’s a Puppy Parade,” Chloe said. “The cute factor is off the charts. They have to be under one to qualify. The younger the better.”
“That’s your Natasha and Boris,” Shane said. “And it would be a great test of their skills, if they’re ready.”
His Boris and Natasha. In his dreams. “I think they’re ready.” But was he?
“I’d take them, but I’m leading the parade with Ruby,” Shane said, giving a little eye roll. “I made that promise in a moment of weakness.”
Chloe tapped the chain link playfully. “You said you wanted to lead the parade.”
“Honey, no man wants to be in a parade, trust me.” He grinned at Trace. “Which is why I’m asking, not telling, you, Trace. It’s your call.”
Well, he sure as hell didn’t want to seem like he wouldn’t do anything for the dogs, and he honestly didn’t want anyone else taking them. “Sure. I’ll do it.”
Chloe beamed a thousand-watt smile at him. “Awesome! Now if I can get Molly and Pru to work the Waterford table, I’ll be all set.” She gave a tug on Ruby’s leash and backed away. “Is she in her office?”
“Yeah,” Shane said. “Molly’s working here today. And we’re going to be done in ten minutes, so don’t go far.” He threw her a kiss, getting rewarded with a wink and a sweet smile as she and the dog took off toward the vet office. Shane never took his eyes off of Chloe until she walked into the building.
Shane put his hand on Trace’s shoulder. “I owe you one, dude. Let me know if you ever need a favor.”
“I might need someone to help me navigate the white water of a puppy parade,” he said on a dry laugh.
“Get Molly,” he said. “She’d rather do that than run the table.”
“You think?”
“Can’t hurt to ask,” he said. “Come on, let’s get these dogs in shape. That golden doodle is a lunatic.”
Trace laughed, walking back to the dogs and trainers, but the idea of a Puppy Parade just took on a whole new level of possibilities. It wouldn’t be a burden with Molly. It would be…fun.
* * *
At the tap on her office door, Molly looked up from the patient notes she was typing into her laptop and silently cursed the deep, feminine reaction she had to the sight of Trace Bancroft standing in her door. Messed hair, dark whiskers, well-decorated muscles on display in a clean Waterford Farm T-shirt all managed to tilt her a little bit off-balance.
When was she going to get used to that?
“Am I interrupting?” he asked.
Yes. All her concentration was shot to hell at the sight, sound, and smell of the man. “Oh, no. I’m finishing for the day. And week. You came to see Meatball?”
“I actually came to see you.”
“Me?” And that tilted her world some more. But of course he wanted to see her. She was Meatball’s vet. To get a report. “I can tell you he’s a little antsy today.” Like the rest of us.
“Is that bad?”
“Actually, it’s good. He’s ready for a proper walk, I think, which might be why he’s whining and crying at a whole different level now.”
He laughed, shaking his head with a little embarrassment. “I’ve been able to train him to do just about anything except man up.”
“Most of them are babies when they get cooped up for so long.”
“You make a lot of excuses for him, have you noticed?”
She shrugged. “He’s won me over.”
“Oh, I’ll have to get him to tell me the secret.”
As if you don’t already know. “Would you like to take him for a walk?”
“If you’ll come with us.”
She couldn’t help laughing at the flirt as she pushed up from her seat, aware of his gaze dropping over her and how that millisecond of a glance made her feel so…attractive. How did he do that? He’d always done it.
“Come on,” she said, ushering him down the hall, insanely aware of how close they were, how strong he felt when their bodies accidentally brushed when she showed him into the recovery room.
Meatball was pacing the confines of his crate, but barked and raised up on his front paws at the sight of Molly, as he always did.
“Someone is feeling good today,” she said, going straight to open his latch. “Hey, Meatball. Want to take a walk?”
He barked several times at the word walk, padding his paws as if he couldn’t wait to get out.
Trace lifted the dog out of the crate, and quite easily, considering he weighed in at just under sixty pounds since surgery. As he lowered Meatball to the ground, Trace turned his face to offer a cheek, but Meatball went straight to Molly and nuzzled her leg.
“Whoa.” Trace, still crouched on the ground, turned to watch the exchange. “Color me forgotten.”
Meatball looked up at her and panted with a look of adoration it didn’t take a trained professional to recognize.
“He’s in love with you.” Trace sounded more than a little bewildered. And maybe jealous.
“He’s spent a lot of time with me.” Laughing, Molly snagged a leash and collar from a hook. “Take him on a walk, and he’ll forget I exist.”
He gave a little scoffing choke, pushing up slowly. “Molly, he doesn’t need a leash. Have you ever seen him try to run off?”
“This is the best he’s felt in a week. It’s exactly when he’ll run.” She held the leash out to him.
Looking up at her, he closed his fingers over her hand and gave the slightest squeeze, which she, of course, felt right down to her toes. “You never said if you’d come with us or not.”
She should say no. She should not encourage evening strolls and casual contact and long conversations with him. She should realize that he caused a string of electrical sparks that made her remember things like how he—
“Don’t think too hard, Irish. Life’s more fun when you’re spontaneous.”
“Fun? Maybe you forgot what happened the last time we were spontaneous.”
A slow smile pulled at his lips. “That was fun.”
She bit back a laugh. “There’s no winning with you.”
“There’s no losing, either. Just take a walk, okay? I want to ask you a favor.”
“All right.” It wasn’t like she seriously considered not going with him.
He didn’t say what his favor was, but a few minutes later, they both retrieved jackets from a coatrack in the lobby, stepping outside. There, Molly inhaled deeply and lifted her face to the sky, willing herself to calm down around him.
“God, it’s beautiful here,” Trace said, buttoning his jacket and looking around.
She took in the view with him, looking out to the horizon where the sun would soon disappear behind distant mountains. That left the foothills of Waterford bathed in the silver tones of a midwinter evening with a hushed quiet falling over the bare trees and patches of frozen grass.
“This is one of my favorite times of day,” she said. “I love those few minutes of transition between day and night. It always feels peaceful and familiar, with the day ending and life beginning.”
She turned to watch Trace adjust Meatball’s leash then stand tall, that fading sun sharpening the angles of his face and highlighting a five o’clock shadow that made him look dark, sexy, and strong.
“Life?” He gave a soft snort. “I’d call it my least-favorite time of day, but maybe that will change.”
“Why?”
He studied her for a moment, his brows drawn as if he considered how to answer the question. “Because daytime in a prison, if you’re smart and play the system, can be endured. There’s work to do, purpose, and people. Nighttime means an eight-by-eight cell with snoring, swearing, fighting, farting, and the occasional wail of remorse.”
She tried—and failed—to imagine the dark and desolate loneliness of that situation.
He came down the step to join her. “When I’d catch a glimpse out a window, which was rare, this time of day meant that was what was ahead.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. You didn’t kill anyone.”
The statement silenced her, compelling her to stick her hands deep into her pockets and make a fist of frustration. He didn’t actually kill anyone…but he did. What a miserable thing to have to live with.
“So why do you like this time of day?” he asked, adjusting his pace so that he and the dog walked in time with her.
“Well, I guess because the start of evening always signaled something good. When I was a kid, it meant the far-flung pack would be gathering soon, around a dinner table.” For her, that meant laughter and teasing and family and security. “When I became a mother, it meant school and work and all that distraction was over, and all that lay ahead were hours with Pru.”
“What did you do during those hours with Pru?”
So much, she couldn’t begin to list. “We played games and took baths in the early years, then homework and projects, like volunteering at shelters or baking something fun.”
Suddenly, it all sounded so light and bright and normal when viewed through the lens of a man who’d been in prison. And that made her heart ache for him and what he’d missed.
“I know you were gone and I had no way of knowing where you were,” she said, “but honestly, I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job of trying to find you. Of telling you.”
“No, don’t be. I’m glad I didn’t know.”
“You’re glad?” She found that hard to believe. “Why?”
“Because it would have made every one of those five thousand one hundred days even longer.”
Ouch. “You counted days?”
“Hours seemed like overkill.”
Molly’s shoulders fell as she imagined the weight of all those days.
“Bet you never realized you’d had five thousand-plus days with Pru.”
“No,” she admitted. “And every one has been amazing.” Looking up, she held his gaze. “I’m really, really sorry, Trace.”
“I mean it when I say don’t be sorry, Molly. I don’t want you delivering constant apologies. There will be five thousand more days, and five thousand days after that, and a lot more five thousands beyond. But right now? We have to get through the next five.”
“We will,” she promised, though she wasn’t quite sure how. The impending revelation to Pru still hung out there like a dark cloud, threatening stormy weather they both didn’t want to face.
He exhaled, burying whatever thought accompanied that sound, then nodded to Meatball, who was keeping pace but pulled his head to the left to let his displeasure with the leash be known loud and clear. “Not my fault, Meatman,” Trace said. “Doctor’s orders. Blame her. Oh, wait, I forgot. She’s your new best friend.”
Molly laughed, but didn’t relent. She’d seen a few dogs, when unleashed for the first time during convalescence, take off and set themselves back days in recovery.
“I know somewhere we can take him,” she said, suddenly wanting very much to bring Trace to a place that was so deeply special to her. “It’s a perfect walk for him, and by the time we get there, he’ll be tired enough that I’ll trust him off leash.” She paused for a moment. “It’s near where my mom is buried, and there’s a beautiful sunset over the mountains visible from there.”
“I’d like to see that.” They walked in silence for a few minutes, both of them watching each step Meatball took as he navigated the path. Most of the snow that had fallen last month had melted, but there were still patches where drifts had been, and the dirt was hard and cold. Meatball was moving slowly, but he finally seemed to be out of pain as he stopped, sniffed, and watered a few trees along the way. Mostly, he kept a perfect rhythm and pace with Trace.
“He’s back in tune with you,” she noted.
“We have been together for well over a year, and you’ve had him for less than two weeks,” he said, that little bit of jealousy in his voice again. “But this dog and me? I don’t think I’ve ever been that in tune with another creature.”
So he’d never been in love, Molly mused. And the last person he’d been with…was her. “I’m like that with Pru,” she said. “It’s a pretty wonderful place to be with another person. Or dog,” she added.
He waited a beat, then asked, “Why Pru?”
“Because we’ve been together constantly for thirteen years.”
“No, I mean why’d you pick that name? Is Prudence a family name?”
“No, not really. I liked the sound of it, kind of old-school Irish. Plus, the irony amuses me.”
“Irony?”
“Let’s just say I didn’t demonstrate any ‘prudence’ in my behavior the night she was conceived.” She leaned into him to make the confession more playful, but that only made her realize how solid his shoulder was. And how much she wanted to slip her arm through his and hang on to that muscular arm.
“Maybe I don’t know what prudence means, then,” Trace said. “Because you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Prudence means good judgment and discretion. It’s a perfect name for her.”
“Yes, it is. And maybe your judgment was off that night, but it seems you were discreet. Only telling your mother all these years.”
“Speaking of my mother,” she said softly, leading him to the crest of a hill. “See down there in the valley, that oak tree? She’s there.”
He followed her gaze, squinting. “I see three markers from here.”
“My grandfather Seamus and my uncle Liam, who died as a child. And my mother.”
“So you brought me to the family burial grounds?” he noted with a soft laugh.
“It’s one of the prettiest valleys at Waterford. We don’t have to go down there, although I often do when I want to talk to my mom. Grandpa Seamus put a bench up here for Gramma Finnie after Liam died. We all use it now. Come on.”
“This is beautiful,” he said as they continued along a worn path between more oaks and pine trees.
“Yeah. I come out here frequently, especially since my mother died.”
He eyed her, quiet for a moment. “Must have hurt to lose her so young,” he said as they made their way around the last grouping of trees. There, a wooden bench had been strategically placed to take in the vista beyond the hills to the horizon and also look down on the valley where some precious people rested in peace.
“It was agonizing for all of us,” she told him. “Especially my dad, but…it did result in Waterford Farm in its current iteration.”
“How’s that?”
When they sat, she told him the story of how losing her mother had inspired her father to bring all of his kids back to Waterford to start an elite canine training and rescue facility. Three of her brothers had been living in Seattle at the time, along with Darcy, but they’d come back.
“And the youngest one? Aidan? Shane said he’s a helicopter pilot in Afghanistan.”
“A Night Stalker, actually. So badass it hurts. He was home for a really short visit at Christmas. We’re all hoping he’s home for good soon.”
“He’ll leave the military?”
“Maybe. Probably.” She looked to the distance remembering the pain that crossed in her little brother’s eyes when he’d been home for that short visit. “He enlisted with his best friend, Charlie, and they went through boot camp and then Ranger training and something called Green Platoon to train on specialized helicopters. They’ve done multiple tours together, too. We don’t always know where Aidan is, but he’s been in Afghanistan for the last year or so, with Charlie until…” She took a deep inhale. “Charlie was Aidan’s door gunner on the Black Hawks he flies, but he was killed about six months ago.”
“Oh, man.”
“Yeah, Aidan’s really struggling and he told my dad when he was here in December that he might not re-up this spring. He enlisted at eighteen, and we were sure he’d stay in until retirement, but Charlie’s death hit him hard.”
Trace thought about that, nodding. “I didn’t know your family well, obviously, but every once in a while, I’d see some Kilcannons in town, and I remember a wild little blond boy always being carried on some big kid’s shoulders.”
“Big kid was Liam, no doubt. They’re the youngest and oldest, but surprisingly close. Liam was a Marine and I’m sure that’s why Aidan enlisted so young. So no doubt that you saw our Golden Boy, Aidan.”
He reached down to Meatball’s collar. “Now?”
“I guess I can trust him not to run.”
“You guess?” He snorted softly. “You underestimate my dog…and me. Watch.” He removed the leash and stood, snapping his fingers twice, exactly as she’d seen Shane do with a trainee a thousand times. Instantly, Meatball stood at attention, his usually floppy ears perking a bit, haunches down, his haunting green eyes pinned on his master in perfect stillness, waiting for a command.
“Meatball, walk four steps to your right.”
He turned like a soldier and walked four paces.
“Three to your left.”
When he followed that command, Molly gave a soft whistle. “That’s good.”
“Meatball.” When the dog looked up, Trace pointed toward the open area behind the dog. “Fifteen steps.”
Molly counted them and laughed when he stopped at fifteen, turn around, and looked expectantly at Trace for another command.
“At ease, Meatman.”
He flopped onto the hard, cold grass and put his head down.
“Well, I stand corrected about the leash.” Rubbing her bare hands together, she blew into them as she scooted to one side to make more room for Trace on the bench. “Is he being trained for a specific service?”
He shrugged. “I didn’t have him long enough to focus on one service, and once I knew I was about to keep him, I decided to, well, keep him. If I train him for service, he’d have to go to someone else. Not sure I could part with him now.”
“I understand.” She waited a beat, then asked, “So what was that favor you wanted?”
“Ah, yeah. My favor.” A smile pulled at his lips, a little shy, a little sly. “Something called the Puppy Parade.”
“Chloe’s event tomorrow night?”
He nodded. “I got roped into walking Natasha and Boris. Would you…” He hesitated long enough for Molly to know he wasn’t sure he should finish the question. “Be my puppy partner?”
“You want me to walk them in the parade with you?”
“I really don’t want to march through Bushrod Square all by myself with two crazy puppies that do nothing but draw attention.”
She laughed, imagining that, and maybe to cover up just how much she wanted to join him for that experience. “Well, I was going to help run the Waterford desk, but Pru could cover for me if I bribe her with dinner afterward. Let’s ask her when we’re at your house tomorrow afternoon. You can tell her how much you want a Puppy Parade partner, that is if it fits into her workflow chart, assignments, and a timeline.”
He grinned like a proud parent, which hit her in the gut. “That kid.”
“Welcome to the world of General Pru trying to win a state competition.”
His smile faded a little, then. “Speaking of irony, has it dawned on you yet that Pru has the same person for a community service project that her mother had?”
It hadn’t, actually. “Pretty sure we signed up for different reasons.”
“What were yours?” he asked.
She bit her lip, knowing it didn’t matter now, but she sure wouldn’t have wanted him to know then. “I didn’t need any more hours. I had my quota well met that year.”
A spark of humor danced in his dark eyes. “Yet you signed up to tutor me anyway.”
“Yeah.”
He leaned a little closer. “Crush?”
“Kinda.”
“Aw, Irish.” He reached for her hand, covering her fingers with his. “Why’d you wait two years to make a move?”
“I didn’t make…” Then she remembered her request in the car that night.
Kiss me.
Thought you’d never ask, Irish.
“I was scared,” she admitted. “Terrified of you.”
“What’d you think would happen?”
She laughed and turned her hand to hold his, loving the comforting touch of his rough skin. “I thought exactly what happened would happen. You’d take my virginity in the back of a van with a dog crate smashed against my backside.”
He laughed, then he stopped suddenly, pulling his hand away and holding it frozen in midair. “You were a virgin?”
“Of course I was a virgin.”
He grunted and closed his eyes. “I had no idea. You faked it well.”
“I didn’t fake anything.” The confession sent some heat through her and, by the look in his eyes, through him, too.
“One time and you got pregnant.” He choked softly. “What are the odds?”
“Apparently, good. My mother reminded me that I come from fertile stock. And you should probably check the dates on your condoms.”
His soft snort reminded her that he’d been in prison and not with a woman all this time. He searched her face, his gaze intense and direct. “You know, Irish, I got a confession myself to make about those hours in the study hall and library, too.”
She could feel herself drawing closer, imperceptibly so, she hoped, but he was magnetic and she couldn’t resist. “Yeah?”
“You got to me.”
Lifting both brows, she didn’t understand the admission.
“You had that…that thing. I never really could put into words what it was about you, but it got to me.”
She flicked her fingers, scoffing at the compliment. “It got you one night in a minivan after a few beers and a brush with danger. Otherwise, don’t try to pretend I was much more than a diversion during your study hall when you were forced to be tutored in chemistry.”
For a long time, he looked at her, silent. Then he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek with a featherlight touch she barely felt. “You are so wrong, Molly Kilcannon,” he said huskily. “I never made a move, because you were so completely out of reach for me. Then you walked up that driveway one night. You and that other girl…I don’t even remember her name.”
“Isabella Henderson. Dizzie Izzie, as I dubbed her.”
“She didn’t exist.”
“Then you were blind, Trace, because that girl was gorgeous, and she still is.”
“You’re friends with her?”
“I’m the vet to her dog, and our daughters are in the same class.”
He frowned. “She had a kid the same year you did?”
“Stepdaughter,” she corrected. “She married Allen Phillips. Do you remember him?”
He thought for a minute. “Lawyer? Loaded? Has to be in his fifties now.”
“That’s him. Criminal defense and family law, richer than God, and has every imaginable trophy, including Izzie.”
“Well, she had nothing on you. None of those girls did.”
Molly laughed softly. “You know, that’s funny you would say that, and even that you’d think it, because that night? I was feeling so down about myself. So not pretty, so not…worthy. That’s probably why I fell into your arms so easily.”
“And here I thought it was my good looks and great kissing.”
“That, too.”
He smiled, studying her again. “By the way, Irish, you don’t even belong in the same sentence as the words ‘not worthy.’”
“Tell that to a nineteen-year-old girl with a few pimples and curly hair.”
“I love your hair.” He reached for it, taking a handful and sliding his fingers through the curls. “It’s so…rich. And your skin is gorgeous.”
“Thanks. I guess I’ll be looking for wrinkles soon instead of blemishes.”
“You’re flawless.” The words were sweet, and his touch was even sweeter, making her tilt her head into his hand for the sheer delight of his fingers and this moment and…and…how close he was. A foot away, maybe, but close enough to count every eyelash and get lost in the depths of his dark, dark eyes.
“You’re flirting with me,” she said on a sigh.
“Not exactly.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Am I not allowed to do that? To make you laugh or talk to you or…touch your hair? What are the rules? Where are my boundaries?” Still holding a strand of her hair, he twirled it around his finger, sending chills up the back of her neck.
“The rules?” Probably that he shouldn’t give her chills. But was that so wrong? Being with him felt…exciting. “Just use common sense,” she whispered. “That’s the only boundary.” And she needed to remember that. She needed the same boundary.
“Got it.” He leaned a little closer and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Sensible enough for you?”
Much, much too sensible. “Yeah.”
“Then we’ll stop right there.”
No, no. Don’t stop.
But he stood, took her hand, and snapped his fingers for Meatball, who meandered over, happy to have had fresh air. “We better go,” he said. “It’s dark out here.”
Exactly. Dark and quiet and the perfect place for a kiss. She looked at him, long enough to let him know exactly what she wanted, but he smiled. “You still get to me, though.”
On a soft sigh, she nodded. No kiss. Only a compliment. A very nice compliment. “Nice to know.”
As they walked together, hand-in-hand, Molly knew what she should do.
She should let go. She should keep things platonic and forget parades and projects and the past. She should practice common sense.
But at that moment, in the deepening twilight, with frost and uncertainty in the air, Molly held his hand and loved it.