Even over a cell phone speaker, Athena’s personality sparkled. She had charm to spare and an open demeanor, matched with obvious intelligence. If Molly were staying in Harlot’s Bay permanently, Athena Greydon would be someone she’d—
It didn’t matter. In a month, Molly’s plane would haul her back to California.
“That’s my fault,” she told the other woman. “After I left town at the end of senior year, I didn’t really stay in contact with anyone.”
“Gotcha.” Athena conducted a brief, muffled conversation with Matthew. “Okay, making-out time is upon us, so have Special K send your number to me, and we’ll text to work out all the details for tonight.”
A few hurried goodbyes—and one loud grumble from Karl—later, the call ended.
“Greydon’s a damn menace.” When his timer went off, a stab of his finger silenced it. “Speaks to me like a fucking toddler sometimes.”
Molly lifted a shoulder. “If the onesie fits...”
Middle fingers aloft, he turned his back to her and stomped out into his work area, but not before she spotted the grin splitting his ruddy beard. She followed him, something long-knotted in her chest fraying at the edges. Loosening. Unraveling.
Rob had bemoaned her missing sense of humor so many times, she’d finally believed him. But in the past several days, she’d made both Lise and Athena laugh. Broken through Karl’s fake grumpiness until he couldn’t hide his amusement any longer. Felt truly likable andconnectedfor the first time in years.
Why hadn’t she seen it sooner?
In her marriage, in too many of her abortive would-be friendships, she’d been sending out messages in bottles that kept bumping against the wrong shores, landing in the hands of people who couldn’t read what she’d written. And after years of silence in return, she’d mostly given up. Stopped launching her bottles, stopped believing her offerings could be deciphered by anyone but herself and maybe Lise.
But one of her last remaining missives had finally bobbed ashore at the right place.
Her messages could in fact be decrypted by someone. Possibly several someones. And those messages were worth reading. They were worth returning. Which meant they were still worth sending.
She didn’t trust easily. She might harbor more than her fair share of cynicism. That didn’t mean she had to burrow beneath her shell and give up on companionship forever. Lise was a dear friend, as Molly had only just realized. Possibly even a best friend. She could make other friends too, if she put in the effort.
And she had Karl’s nonexistent death to thank for that revelation about her life.
Suffused by warmth that had nothing to do with the kitchen’s balmy temperature, she propped her butt against his office doorway and watched him multitask like a freaking sex god. Not graceful in the traditional sense of the word, but sure in every action, with no wasted gestures or energy. Strong. Fierce. Eminently capable.
Complaining all the while, beard net and gloves back in place, he removed several heavenly smelling baking sheets from his two large ovens, slid the hot pans onto a rack, and wheeled the rack out front, then returned to shove yet more trays of unbaked treats into the ovens and set several timers.
Under his age-thinned tee, his triceps flexed with each heft of a loaded pan, each shove of his rack. His thighs tensed and released. His thick shoulders rose and fell. His sharp eyes narrowed beneath the brim of his cap as he focused on his creations, and starbursts of tiny lines appeared at their corners. The tendons in his hands shifted beneath those tight blue gloves, delineating his tiny adjustments to temperature and placement and timing, tweaks whose purpose she couldn’t begin to fathom.
Then he was evidently done. After removing his gloves with twin snaps of nitrile, he whipped off his apron and beard net and turned on his Croc-clad heel.
His stare locked her in place.
When he stalked toward Molly, her pulse thudded faster. Harder. So fast she could feel the tick at her throat. So hard she could no longer hear soft jazz or the murmur of customers or anything but her heartbeat and the faint rasp of her quickened breathing.
Her words sounded muffled to her own ears. “Do Matthew or Athena know about my alter ego?”
He halted only inches from her, and she didn’t know whether to be outraged or relieved.
His brows thudded together, creasing the pale skin between. “’Course not.”
“Why didn’t you tell them?”
“You use a different name. Figured there must’ve been a reason, and I won’t share information you want kept secret.” His jaw ticked. “Could have an abusive ex. Stalker. Other privacy issues. No way for me to know.”
Another knot of tension and uncertainty unwound in her chest. “You were protecting me.”
He nodded, then bridged that final gap between them, steppinginto her space fully. Shadowing her against the glare of the fluorescent overhead fixtures, pressing belly to belly, the denim of his jeans brushing hers. She bit her lip against a gasp, and her knees weakened beneath her, melting like ice beneath a blowtorch.
“After my coffee break, I’ve got a follow-up with my doctor,” he rasped. “Means the rest of the day is fucked. Don’t know how much attention I’ll be able to give you when I get back, Dearborn. Not enough for my liking.”
The man had a job to do. Honestly, he’d already devoted more time to talking with her than she’d even hoped.
