Chapter Fourteen
Shane took the puppies back to Waterford for Trace, freeing him and Molly up for a long, quiet dinner. Molly suggested Ricardo’s because the wait wouldn’t be too long. The wait for a table, that was. The wait to finally have a quiet, private time to talk about what they’d discovered that afternoon seemed interminable.
That wait wasn’t over until they’d settled into a booth and each had a glass of wine and, finally, complete privacy.
Trace lifted his to toast. “To secrets.”
“And how hard they are to keep.”
The glasses clinked, and she took a taste of merlot, but the real kick came from the way he held her gaze over the rim of his glass. A steady, still gaze that felt intimate and honest and nice.
“I found this in one of her journals.” He shifted so he could pull out a wallet, then slid a small piece of paper across the table for Molly to read.
Annie Kilcannon
555-492-8749
2:00 PM B.S.
“Mean anything to you?” he asked.
“That’s our old Waterford Farm house number, which was disconnected years ago. We all use cell phones, and there’s a business line now. That’s not my mother’s handwriting.”
“It’s my mother’s,” he said. “After skimming her diaries, I know that without a doubt. What’s BS? What Annie told her?”
“My guess is Bushrod Square. A meeting at two o’clock.”
He inched back. “Nice work, Sherlock.”
“My mother always met people there. She liked to get coffee, take one of her dogs, and walk the paths in the square.” Molly took another sip of wine. “So your mother must have been the ‘good authority’ who told my mother you were dead.”
He flinched a little, and Molly immediately regretted that theory, putting her hand over his. “I’m sure she thought she was protecting you.”
His look said otherwise. “Probably transferring her wishful thinking.”
Molly’s jaw dropped. “That you were dead?”
He averted his eyes on an exhale, quiet for a moment. “My father died in prison,” he said, the simple statement nearly taking her breath away.
“What?” She’d had no idea his father had been in jail, no idea about his father at all.
“He went in for armed robbery when I was really little, three years old. My mom moved around a lot, but finally settled in Bitter Bark and became…whatever the hell she was. A fake.” He lifted his wine and looked at it, deep in thought. “My dad had a heart attack, or so they say, when I was ten, and my mother started proudly calling herself a widow, which I guess was better than ‘married to a cell warrior.’ But she had a lot of bitterness and resentment, and I guess I look a lot like my old man. Every time she looked at me, it reminded her of the loser she married, and she constantly told me I was like him. Exactly like him.”
Molly tried—really tried—to imagine being raised like that and simply couldn’t. It also made sense why he never talked about his childhood.
From across the table, he gave a sly smile. “You look like you’re in literal pain, Irish.”
“I am. For you. It’s so wrong to have that put on your shoulders as a child. So unfair to you.” She realized she still had her hand over his and turned her fingers to thread them together. “You are not the sum total of that woman’s opinion.”
He looked doubtful.
“She stole your self-worth.” Molly spat out the words, and when he didn’t agree, she leaned closer. “Didn’t your therapist tell you that?”
“Yeah, but do you have any idea the percentage of prisoners who are second-generation? Third? It’s a legacy, Molly, handed down from loser to loser.”
She pushed back, breaking the contact to cross her arms. “I refuse to believe that, and if it’s true, it’s not nature, it’s nurture. Your daughter wouldn’t know how to break a law if she had to.”
He conceded that with a tip of his head. “Thanks to her mother.”
She looked at him for a long time, her heart softening for this handsome, strong, honest man who’d been given such a raw deal. Uncrossing her arms, she leaned closer again. “She’s half yours, Trace Bancroft.”
His smile was slow, and so real it reached his eyes and then climbed right into Molly’s heart to take residence there. “I couldn’t have picked a better mother for my child.” Reaching across the table with both hands, he took hers and added a light squeeze. “Look, can we change the subject? Can we not talk about my parents or our child or the past or the future or anything like that?”
She lifted a brow. “What’s left?”
“Life. Food. Current events. Dogs. Work. The way my heart feels like it might stop whenever I touch you. There’s so much to talk about on our dinner date.”
She stared at him, the admission about his heart doing the same thing to hers. “So, it’s a dinner date?”
He didn’t answer, because the waiter showed up with an appetizer to share and chatted with them about the specials like they were any couple on a date during a busy Saturday night in Bitter Bark. When they were alone again, Molly answered his question as she picked up her fork.
“Yes, Trace, we can talk about anything you like. Will you tell me how you train service dogs? I really don’t know that much about the process.”
That smile lit his face again, and for the next two hours, they did exactly as he’d wanted. With the exception of the casual reference to Pru or prison as part of the stories they shared, fourteen years fell away as they talked openly, ate heartily, and finally shared tiramisu for dessert.
By the time they left, Molly felt a glow that had as much to do with the company as the one glass of wine she’d had. They didn’t hold hands as they walked through the square toward Molly’s car, but their fingers brushed, and each time, a little electricity shot through her.
“Feel that, Irish?” he whispered as they meandered down a path.
“Yeah.” Why lie?
“That’s what I was talking about.”
She looked up at him. “Pretty strong stuff.”
“Always was with you.” They wandered past the statue of Thaddeus Ambrose Bushrod and past the wrought-iron fence around the Bitter Bark tree.
“Did you know that’s really a hickory?” she said, nodding to the massive tree. “Talk about dark secrets that this town kept for years.”
He laughed softly. “This town has really changed,” he noted. “So many tourists. So many more businesses and shops.”
She looked around, thinking about a meeting that might have taken place in this very square between two grandmothers at two o’clock one day. “When did your mother leave Bitter Bark? And not sell her house?” she asked.
He thought about it for a minute. “My best guess? Ten minutes after she found out about Pru. The house never sold and when she died, I signed some paper to take it off the market.”
For some reason, that hurt. “Why would she leave after finding out about Pru?”
“I don’t know.” He looked down at her and slid his arm around her. “I thought we weren’t going to talk about it.”
“Pru will want to know when we tell her.”
“Or that. We weren’t going to talk about that, either.”
“Trace, we have to—”
“I know, I know.” He added a squeeze. “Don’t ruin my first date in fourteen years by making me worry about stuff I can’t change tonight.”
“Your first…” She slowed her step and looked up at him, the white lights on the trees behind him blurring in her vision. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
“I did,” he whispered. “All through dinner, I kept thinking, whoa, this is what I missed. Dinner with a pretty girl in a nice restaurant with great conversation. And thanks to your brother, I could actually pay for it.”
She smiled up at him. “Was it all you’d hoped it would be?”
“No.” He slid his arms around her waist, very slowly and deliberately, easing her closer. Their jackets were bulky enough to add a barrier, but he was warm and close. “It was more.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “A good date. Our first.”
“And you know that no good date is complete without…”
“A kiss,” she finished for him.
He inhaled softly, holding her gaze, inches apart, the anticipation almost as thrilling as what she knew was about to happen. She felt suspended in his arms, floating closer, a little dizzy and achy.
But he didn’t move.
She bit her lip with a sly smile. “You think you forgot how?”
“I might need a lesson.”
She put her cold hands on his face, feeling the angles of his bones and the very first hint of nighttime whisker growth. “First, you get really steady.”
“I’m steady.” He tightened his grip on her waist. “You feel a little wobbly, though.”
“You do that to me,” she whispered, letting her gaze drop to his mouth, which was still as beautiful as the first time she’d kissed it.
“Then what?” he asked.
She lifted on her toes to get to the right height. “Then you line up.”
He angled his head one way, then the other, as if finding the right spot. “And?”
“And then you close your eyes.”
“But I can’t see you.”
“Use your imagination.” She closed hers. “See the person in your heart.”
“Molly.”
She dropped back on her heels and opened her eyes at the way he said her name, almost as if his voice cracked. “What?”
“I’m afraid.”
“Of what?”
“That our first kiss will be our last.”
His tender admission folded her heart in half. This rough, tough, tattooed former inmate was nothing but the kindest, sweetest, most humble man she’d ever met. She could hardly look at him her heart was pounding so much, filled with something she didn’t quite recognize. Affection. Attraction. Desire.
But something else, too.
“It won’t be,” she promised. “It will not be our last, Trace Bancroft.”
To seal that promise, she closed the space between them and pressed her mouth to his. She felt him sigh at first, then find that perfect amount of pressure, warm and delicious, against her lips.
Lost, Molly forgot about tiptoes and closed eyes and secrets and years and decisions they’d yet to make. All she could do was feel the smooth, sexy, sultry mouth over hers and taste the tip of his tongue as he deepened the kiss. She clung to his cheeks, then dragged her hands over his neck, melting into him, letting a whimper escape her throat.
No, it would not be their last kiss. She honestly wondered how she’d be able to stop at one. Or why she should.
* * *
How had he lived without this? How had he dragged his sorry ass through fourteen years of prison and punishment and abject loneliness? Trace had no idea how he’d survived without this kind of contact, but he knew one thing: He couldn’t survive without it now.
She tasted so good, so right and real and womanly that he honestly thought if he had to go another fourteen years without kissing Molly Kilcannon, he’d rather die.
At the warning of trouble in his head, he managed to break the contact, but she instantly tilted her head back and invited his mouth to taste her sweet jaw, her soft throat, her delicate skin. In the distance—or at least it sounded that way with the pulse thumping in his head—he heard a dog bark and voices, laughter and chatter.
It broke the spell and made him lift his head, looking from one side to the other, to realize the square was definitely not empty. And he shouldn’t be seen making out with Molly like a crazed teenager with no concern for the fact that she was well-known and loved in town.
“C’mon,” he said, wrapping an arm around her and pulling her into the shadows, away from the strings of white lights.
“My car’s on the other side of the square, parked behind my sister-in-law’s town house. You came with Shane, right? I can drive you back to Waterford.”
And come into his studio apartment? No, he couldn’t let her do that.
“How else are you going to get home?” she asked when he didn’t accept the offer.
“Don’t you have to pick up Pru?”
“I have half an hour. I can get you there and back.”
He nodded, refusing to let go of her until they reached her little blue car, parked in a quiet, empty alley behind that row of brick town houses. He kept a hand on her shoulder as she fished out her keys and unlocked the passenger side. He took the keys from her hands.
“Let me drive.”
“I’m fine.”
“It’ll keep me from leaning over and kissing you while you’re driving.”
“What’ll keep me from doing that?”
He gave her a good long look, caressing her lower lip with his thumb. “Common sense, remember?”
“I think you just kissed it out of me.”
Oh man. Why did she say things like that? It gave him hope, and if there was one thing Trace Bancroft had learned to live without, it was hope. “Get in the car, Irish.”
She didn’t move, looking up at him for a long time, silent, searching, her lips parted like she longed for one more kiss.
“You won’t get to Waterford and back in time to pick up Pru.”
“I have a better idea,” she said softly, and the way the words slipped out made his chest tight and his whole body hard. “Why don’t we pick up Pru together? Then we’ll drive you home.”
And that would be safe, no chance of begging her to come inside, no long good-night kisses that made him want to die of need.
“Yeah, okay.”
“Good.” She curled a hand around his neck and pulled him closer. “Time for more of this.”
The kiss shocked him, not only because he wasn’t expecting it, but the heat index had somehow risen in the ten-minute walk between there and here. Her kiss was openmouthed and hungry, holding nothing back as she let him taste the vanilla and coffee lingering on her tongue.
“Irish,” he whispered into the kiss. “Do you always have to kiss me first?”
“Looks that way.” She inched back. “Unless you want to try to beat me to it.”
He felt his lips curl up in a smile as he leaned her whole body against the car and braced himself in front of her. “This one’s mine.” He put his hands on her cheeks and cradled her sweet face against his palms. “Let me take my time.”
Her eyes shuttered closed as she drew closer. “Not too much time, please.”
He looked at her, eyes closed, lips parted, that mane of curls swirling around her precious face.
“Waiting,” she whispered, making him laugh.
“I’m memorizing you,” he admitted.
She opened one eye. “Excuse me?”
“So I can dream about you.”
“Where’d you learn the smooth lines, Bancroft?”
“Oh, I read romance novels in prison.”
That made her laugh, which changed her whole face, taking it from pretty to spectacular. The sound of her musical giggle echoed in the alley, her delicious body moving against him as she tipped her head back to laugh. She was the most beautiful creature he’d ever seen, this dog-saving, perfect-child-raising, first-kissing woman whom he thought of every single time he thought about sex, which was a whole helluva lot.
“Molly.” He whispered her name because it sounded as pretty as she was, moving closer to her mouth, holding her tight, and initiating a kiss for once. She kissed back with all her passion, with the spark that made her so unusual and bright, and enough desire to send all his blood thrumming south to make his jeans so tight, he wanted to scream.
His hands ached to get under the jacket to get closer, one touch. One single touch of her skin was all he needed. He ran his hands up and down her back, pulling her into him, aware of her fingers sliding into his hair, over his neck, and along his shoulders, like she was seeking a way under clothes, too. He vibrated with need, humming, pulsing, and he could feel her doing exactly the same—
“Wait, wait.”
He jerked away at her request.
“My phone is going crazy.”
“That’s your phone vibrating?”
“Among other things.” Pulling it out of the handbag, she sucked in a soft breath.
“What’s wrong?”
“Pru.”
He stepped away, a little stunned at the shot, like a hypodermic full of adrenaline had been stuck in this gut. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. But she texted me about ten times, and I didn’t even notice. She needs me to get her, now.”
He was already moving her aside, opening the door, nudging Molly into the passenger seat. “Let’s go.”
Closing her door, he jogged around to the other side, yanking the car door open, and moving on an instinct he hadn’t even known he possessed: protection.
He blew out a breath, the thought making him a little light-headed. “What happened, Molly? Is she okay?”
“She’s fine. She wants me to pick her up sooner.”
“She texted ten times. She must be in trouble.”
“Or impatient.” Molly clicked through the texts on her phone as Trace left the alley, then read him the address. “It’s not far from here.”
Even still, he accelerated hard out of the alley and onto the main street.
“Slow down, Trace,” she said. “There’s no reason to go back to prison.”
He shot her a look. “If that little prick put a hand on her, I will.”
“Wow.”
As he headed down the main drag, he glanced at Molly. “What, wow?”
“You really are her father.”
He started to argue, then stopped, tapping on the brakes when he came up to another car at the light. “Yeah, I guess I am.”
As he turned, Molly reached over and put her hand on his arm. “Which is almost as attractive as the way you kiss.”
“Almost,” he said, keeping things light, even though he felt anything but light.
Ten minutes later, when Pru came running down the driveway of a darkened house as they pulled up, any chance of lightness disappeared at the sight of her.
“Has she been crying?” Trace asked, hearing the tautness in his voice.
Molly didn’t answer, but the very moment the car stopped, she threw the door open and hopped out.
“Are you okay?”
It was all he heard, because she pushed the door closed as she took off to reach Pru, leaving Trace to sit at the wheel and watch the two of them carry on a conversation. He couldn’t make out the words, but he could read the body language of a young girl spewing a story, a mother listening, hushing, touching with comfort, nodding with understanding.
His fingers curled around the door handle, ready to jump, to fight, to defend, to do whatever was necessary to make that kid feel good again. He’d do anything for her. Anything.
The realization slammed his chest and literally took his breath away.
When did this happen? How? Were genes that strong? Was it real? This…this…love? How was that even possible, and what did it mean? If he’d do anything for her, would he leave if he had to? If that’s what she wanted?
The questions beat at his head, blurring his vision and squeezing his brain as Molly and Pru walked to the car.
“Hey,” Pru said, climbing into the backseat.
“Hi.” He studied her face in the rearview mirror. No sign of tears was visible, but her expression was pinched and unhappy. “You okay?”
“Fine.” She dropped her jaw into her palm and turned to look out the window.
But clearly she wasn’t. And he was not going to be fine with whoever put that sadness on her face.
Molly climbed in, silent, pulling her seat belt on. “It’s okay, Trace,” she said softly. “Just, you know, teenage girls arguing.”
Really? That’s what this was about? “Oh,” he said, glancing again at Pru, who closed her eyes as if she simply couldn’t bear to be where she was at that moment. “Well, that’s a new one for me,” he admitted.
Molly put a hand on his arm. “Let’s get back to Waterford Farm.”
In other words, his help, advice, and support weren’t wanted. Would it be different if she knew he was her father?
He didn’t know, and deep inside, he almost didn’t want to find out.