“I’m gonna go.” Karl heaved himself to his feet with a sigh, exhaustion stamping crow’s-feet at the corners of his eyes. “See you at the bakery tomorrow, Dearborn?”
“Yes. Definitely.” Directing an apologetic smile at Janel, she stood too. “I’ll walk him to his car, then be right back.”
To her surprise, Karl raised a staying hand. “I’m good. You stay and chat.”
Despite his beard, the small smile curving his mouth wasn’t hard to see—or interpret. He might be impatient for her company, but he was pleased by his night’s work, and for good reason. After he’d ensured her attendance, everyone in the Nasty Wenches book club had amply displayed the kind of warm, fun, and supportive in-person community she could have... if she left behind her entire life in California.
Her quiet, lonely life. Where no one could hurt her, because no one trulyreachedher. Where her blood pressure kept creeping upward and her headaches turned ever more vicious, both conditions likely exacerbated by her isolation.
But she could make friends out there if she really tried, obviously. Finding necessary social outlets didn’t require uprooting her entire existence. Besides, if she moved to Maryland and things went bad with Karl, this ready-made community might disappear too. It was too much of a risk. Right?
Bending down, Karl pressed a quick, firm kiss to her mouth. “See you soon.”
That kiss, Molly reflected as he strode away, was like everything else that evening: a taste of what could be. What she could have if she did what he wanted and stayed in Harlot’s Bay long-term.
His tactics might not be subtle—but she couldn’t say they weren’t effective.
16
“Don’t even think about it,” Karl told a squirrel the following Saturday.
The fluffy-tailed little rodent kept eyeing the sandwiches.
Karl met the squirrel’s inquisitive, unafraid stare. Glowered. “Swear to Christ, I’ll speed up evolution and make you a flying squirrel ahead of schedule.”
Molly had to laugh, even as she shook her head. “I’m not entirely certain why flying squirrels would become the dominant species, evolutionarily speaking, but—”
“Theyfly, Dearborn.” Karl sounded outraged, and he turned his glare from the squirrel to her. “’Course they’ll be naturally selected as squirrel kings and queens.”
She lifted a finger. “Technically, they don’t actually fly. Theyglide.”
He rolled his eyes to the cloudless sky above. “Oh, here we go. Come on, tell me what I got wrong, even as a diseased, hairy rat without sufficient fear of humans snatches our goddamn sandwiches.”
The man had a point.
“Quit befriending the local wildlife, Dean.” The nearest enormous, wax paper–wrapped Brie, truffle, and prosciutto sandwich was calling her name, and she intended to answer immediately. “I’m hungry. Let’s eat.”
After one last longing look at their plastic container of potatochips, the squirrel scampered away. Easing his vigilance, Karl turned his attention to the enormous duffel bag that contained their carefully packaged picnic dinner and several other mysterious items, none of which he’d let her examine as they’d driven from his bakery to Historic Harlot’s Bay.
At first, she’d thought he intended to guide them back to the site of their first almost-kiss as teenagers, the arbor beside the Mayor’s Mansion pleasure gardens. Instead, they’d climbed down the steps leading to a colonist-made fishing pond and spread their quilt on a flat, grassy spot not too far from a picturesque wooden footbridge, under a stately old weeping willow. The arched branches surrounded them on most sides, the leaves almost brushing the grass—which offered them a bit of privacy and dappled the golden sunlight pleasantly.
In short, it was a perfect place to eat. For them, and apparently for Harlot’s Bay’s various fauna too.
“I can unpack the food.” Karl waved aside her offer to help. “Relax for a minute.”
In between calling a nearby woodpecker a “plague-ridden, asshole jackhammer” and informing a nearby wild apple tree that if any fruit dropped on their heads, he was “going full George Washington on your woody ass,because gravity’s already fucking invented,” he unearthed endless items from his duffel. Not just umpteen food containers, but also a bottle of sparkling cider, sturdy plastic flutes, cloth napkins, mini salt and pepper shakers, and actual silverware, all of which he arranged just so on the quilt.
Bracing her hands behind her, the cotton fabric soft and smooth against her palms, Molly stretched out her legs and tipped her head back to bask in the gentle heat of the September afternoon. The breeze tugged at the grass and her hair, the insects droned, andthe autumn sun soaked into her bones until they seemed to sag, heavy with warmth. Or maybe that sensation could be blamed on Karl instead, and the thoughtfulness evident in everything he’d prepared for them today.
After a full week of ceaseless, grinding work in the bakery—work she’d personally witnessed, since she’d kept him company every day—he’d somehow managed to prepare everything for this outing too. That sort of thoughtfulness and care, his prioritization of her and their time together... well, she’d witnessed stripteases she’d found less seductive.
“Eat up, Dearborn,” he finally told her, after taking out the last bowl. “Before that damn rodent comes back with all his rat friends, takes our damn food, and gives us weird-ass squirrel diseases.”
Energized by the prospect of their early dinner, she sat up straight and reached for the plate he held out to her. By the time they finished their sandwiches and chips, the mint-flecked berry-balsamic salad, and the oversized s’mores cookies in companionable silence, though, her eyelids were drooping more than she cared to admit.
“That was beyond delicious.” Her jaw cracked as she stifled a yawn. “Thank you.”
His brows had formed a single ruddy line. “You need a nap, Dearborn.”
