He ignored that. “Just imagine it, Dearborn. Walking into the gym, your fancy dresscrustedwith sparkly-ass sequins.”
She raised both brows this time. Directed a pointed glance down at herself.
“Okay. Yeah.” Rapidly, he edited his vision. “Imagine walking into the gym, you in your... sexy tuxedo? Or maybe one of those shit-hot suit jackets that opens to the waist, and you don’t wear a shirt underneath?”
Her lips twitched. “Better.”
Encouraged, he kept going. “And everyone’s like, ‘Oh, she’s here alone, poor Molly, we were obviously so right to torment her all those years.’ Then your love interest rolls up—”
“Just to confirm: You’re that love interest?” Her voice was as dry as those shitty snickerdoodles he’d overbaked last Friday. “The aforementioned ‘sexy bad boy’?”
“Stop interrupting, Dearborn.” At his glare, she held up both hands in surrender.
“Anyway, the sexy bad boy arrives, looking incredibly dashing in his tuxedo.” He frowned. “Which he should rent as soon as possible, now that he’s thinking about it.”
Assuming she agreed to his plan. Which was a big assumption, but whatever. He’d damn well make it happen.
“He should probably start a list. Let’s title it ‘Sexy Bad Boy Supplies.’” She started ticking things off on her fingers, looking highly entertained. “He’ll need one tuxedo, suitably dashing. One corsage, lavish enough to show up all the nonexistent haters. One boutonniere, chosen to complement said tuxedo and coordinate with the corsage. One limo, with rose petals scattered over the seats, for when we triumphantly ride off into the night together.”
Her forehead creased in thought, and her fingertips drummed against her thigh. “Preferably pink petals. Yellow’s fine too. Red looks like blood, so unless I’m playing a Goth in this story or he’s a sexy bad boy turned hometown hero turned vampire, I’d avoid that color.”
Jesus H. Christ.
“He’ll make his goddamn list later.” Manfully, he ignored her snicker. “As I wasabout to say, before I was sorudely interrupted...”
She mimed zipping her mouth shut.
Eyeing her with suspicion, he continued. “The sexy bad boy arrives. Without a single word, he sweeps her into his strong arms—”
“They didn’t ride to the reunion prom together? Does thatmean I have to make separate transportation arrangements for the night?”
“—and kisses the ever-loving shit out of her, then proceeds to make heart-eyes at her the rest of the night, much to the shock and jealousy of all the mean girls who made her high school life a living hell.”
“Another quick question.” She held up a finger. “Those mean girls: standard-issue, I assume?”
He loved her snark, but he still wasn’t going to honor that with a response. “And at the end of the night, they crown you Homecoming reunion queen—”
“No such thing, Dean.”
“—because despite their envy, they recognize that you’re gorgeous. The most incredibly gorgeous Harlot’s Bay High graduate ever. We drive away in our shiny limo, and—credits roll. It’s a triumph.” He pumped a fist. “The feel-good story of the fucking millennium.”
“That was quite a tale.” Her head tipped to the side. “Have you considered writing fiction?”
“Been there, done that. Got the clucking T-shirt.” Literally. Athena had made tees with a fake book cover forDown to Pluckplastered on the front, because she was a damn menace. “Don’t bother asking, Dearborn. I won’t tell you.”
If she found out he’d coauthored an erotic chicken-man romance with Matthew, she’d hassle him forever. Probably become lifetime besties with Athena on the spot, which was a terrifying prospect.
“Hmmm.” A swipe of Molly’s pink tongue wet her lips. Made them glisten. It was distracting as all hell. “In this scenario, I’d be incredibly gorgeous, huh?”
The way she’d hooked her arms over the back of her kitchen chair thrust her breasts against his tee and created lines of strain in the cotton. The fabric near the hem wasn’t quite wide enough, so it cupped the swells of her belly and ass. Beneath that hem there was nothing but boy shorts and her long legs, bare and beautiful.
She wasn’t an hourglass. More a column, like the ones they’d seen on school field trips to DC every year. Subtly curved, thick, elegant. Strong.
Statuesque, his grandma would have called her.Handsome.
But to him, she was just... perfect. Always had been. With that body and hair, those eyes, that pretty, round face, she should wear a crown. Should’ve risen from a fucking scallop shell in the ocean. Molly Dearborn could strike him speechless with a single look, when she wasn’t busy annoying the living hell out of him.
That was true even before he’d seen her buck-ass naked. Now that he had?
