In his occasional emails to Molly, he didn’t tell her. Too humiliated. Too unsure whether the breakup would stick that go-round.
It did, though. He didn’t hear from Becky after that. Meant he had a clean shot at things with Dearborn again.
So he began to email more often. Began to hint at his interest in a closer relationship and subtly feel out whether she might be interested too. Because maybe she lived across the country now, but who knew what’d happen after she graduated from UCLA?
He still didn’t say he’d been dumped. No need to sound pathetic. Once he knew she wanted him too, he’d tell her what happened.
Without warning, she stopped writing him back. Sent one last, terse message—“This doesn’t feel right. I’m sorry”—and that was it. His messages started bouncing back to him.
He was a dumbass, but not oblivious. He knew what he’d done wrong.
He should’ve told her he was single. Might’ve made a difference. Or maybe she just wasn’t interested in him that way. He’d never fucking know now, would he?
She’d probably gotten a new email address at the university. He didn’t have it. No one else in Harlot’s Bay did either. He had no way to contact her. Even if he did, he couldn’t override what she’d told and shown him she wanted—and what she wanted wasn’t his sorry ass.
It was distancefromhis sorry ass.
Somehow, he’d managed to lose her without ever reallyhavingher.
His regret—his longing for the one person who’d seemed to understand him from the very beginning, without his even needing to try—never fully disappeared over the years. He thought of Molly every time one of the junior interpreters came by the bakery for brownies. He thought of her whenever a flame burned hot enough to turn that same gorgeous shade of pale blue. To his shame, he sometimes thought of her while he was in bed with other women, although he tried like hell not to.
Just like with Becky, none of those women ever said they loved him. Including the girlfriends he’d dated for months. His best guesses as to why? His long hours at the bakery didn’t give him enough time to deepen casual relationships. He wasn’t especially lovable as a boyfriend. And maybe, on some level, his partnerssensed that a small corner of his heart wasn’t theirs, even during sex. Couldn’t be, because he’d given it away long ago to a girl who’d left him far, far behind.
He told himself that was why he’d stopped declaring his own love. Because he didn’t have a whole heart to offer any girlfriend. Not because he was scared of the silence that might follow his declaration.
After all, he should be used to silence—and not just from Becky. After Molly’s last email, he hadn’t heard from her. Hadn’t seen her. Didn’t expect to do either, ever again.
But one random afternoon, eighteen years after graduation, he left the bakery as a customer was eating a sandwich and listening to an audiobook in her car with her windows open. Some story about a guy who could turn into a guppy, which was beyond bizarre. Especially since the fishy asshole was apparently ripped and had weird fin things on his dick.
He shook his head. Kept walking.
Then the narrator’s voice registered, and he stopped dead in his tracks.
Velvety. Calm yet expressive. Subtly wry.
He knew that fucking voice. Had loved that fucking voice.
His knock on the hood startled the hell out of his customer, who was clearly caught up in the story, and he felt bad about that. Not bad enough to mind his own business, though.
“What are you listening to?” He’d meant for that to sound like a casual question, not a demand, but... whatever.
The woman flushed. “I’m sorry. I can roll up my—”
“It’s fine. Keep ’em down. I don’t give a shit.” He thrust his finger toward the dashboard, where he assumed her audio controls were located. “I just want to know who that is.”
“The author?” The customer’s thin brows drew together. “Sadie Brazen.”
He gathered every crumb of his patience. After eighteen goddamn years, there was barely enough left for a starving ant. “Not the author. The narrator.”
“Oh. I don’t know. Let me...” She fumbled for her phone and tapped at the screen a few times. “Her name is Molly Cressley.”
Molly. It was her. Had to be.
TheCressleymeant she was probably married, but that didn’t matter much, did it? She was long gone from his life. He would never see her again.
But now he couldhearher again. Finally.
“Thanks,” he rumbled, slapped the hood in farewell, and went back into his bakery. Back into his office. Back onto his computer. Where he promptly bought and downloadedDesire, Unfilteredby Sadie Brazen, as narrated by Molly Cressley.
