Page 63 of The Secret of Emerald Cottage

Chapter Thirty-Six

Gulp. Yes, she understood all right. Wiping the wetness from her eyes with shaky fingers, Molly stared out the window while Brec turned on the radio, her body still humming from a kiss that had caught her completely off-guard. Oh, yeah, with shocking awareness she understood—painfully—that against her will, she was falling in love with Breccan McGill, a drop-dead gorgeous player extraordinaire. One who not only cheated on his fiancée by “comforting” his best friend’s girlfriend, drunk or no, but denied a faith as slim as her trust in godless players. Which didn’t bode well for a woman burned by a fiancé who actually claimed faith.

Of sorts.

No matter how shallow.

It was still more than Brec’s. Which meant that no matter the attraction—and the growing affection—between her and the man beside her, one unsurmountable wall still remained.

His lack of faith.

And—obviously—her pathetic lack of control.

A slow reedy breath leeched from her lips as she stared blankly out the passenger window, which meant one very critical thing: friends was all she could ever be with Breccan McGill unless those two critical points changed.

Period.

But Molly sure wasn’t holding her breath because that shade of blue was not her best color. Eyelids weighting closed, she said a silent prayer—for the zillionth time—begging God to open Brec’s eyes to the truth, just as Miss Lilly had been doing for years. Her mouth slid sideways.

Obviously a tough nut to crack.

“Well, then get crackin’, girly.” Molly’s lips tipped in a smile, one of Miss Lilly’s favorite sayings coming to mind as a kaleidoscope of autumn color flashed by, the beauty of fall lifting her spirits along with Miss Lilly’s wisdom. “Yessiree, missy, I’m doin’ my part with a-prayin’ and poker wins that have that boy all the way to the book of Exodus, so you need to work on him too.”

“But he’s thicker than the blessed Blarney Stone himself, Miss Lilly,” she’d whined to Brec’s aunt just last week, groaning as she dropped her head back in dramatic fashion. “Every time I even mention God, he’s like a runaway mime, disappearing without a word.” She issued a grunt. “Talk about ‘Exodus.’”

Chuckling, Miss Lilly had tapped a finger against the sleek silver-white bob Molly had talked her into. “That’s cuz ya gotta pick your battlegrounds, don’t you know.”

Molly scrunched her nose. “Don’t you mean battles?”

“No, sirree, I mean ‘battlegrounds,’” she’d emphasized with a heft of her chin. “Hit that boy up when he cain’t run, like on your lake jogs together or when you’re in the car. And iffen he won’t talk, you just do it for him, filling that Irish noggin of his with the Word of God every chance you get.”

Molly’s smile slowly bloomed as she stared out the window, not seeing the passing scenery for the brilliance of Miss Lilly. Her battlegrounds—of course! A dual battleplan, like now in the car, where he couldn’t run away. And the next time he tried to kiss her?—she flipped the visor down to check her soggy face in the mirror—preaching up a storm so he wouldn’t!

The haunting sound of Billie Eilish filled the car with “No Time to Die,” and Molly couldn’t help but think it actually was the perfect ‘time to die’ for Brec regarding all the bitterness and unforgiveness he carried around for his father. And the perfect battleground.

“Hey,” she said, heartrate finally returning to normal after they’d traveled several silent miles, “I have an idea of something we can do after shooting.” She turned to face him with a bright smile that defied the spike of her tear-stained lashes.

He gave her a sexy, half-lidded look out of the corner of his eyes along with a lazy smile that put a blip in her pulse. “Oh, yeah? So do I, but I’ll bet they’re not the same.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, McGill,” she said with a flip of her hair over her shoulder. “You just got out of church.”

“No, you just got out of church, Princess, not me. I was doing penance as the dutiful nephew.”

“The shooting range is in Bloomingdale, which is not that far from Eden—”

He was shaking his head before she even got the words out. “Oh, no you don’t, Princess. Not today.”

She shifted against her seatbelt to face him head-on. “Oh, come on, Brec, Sloan needs your father’s photos, and we’re heading in that direction anyway.”

“No.” It was a definitive, clipped response with a mulish press of lips.

“Then give me the address, and I’ll go. You can wait in the car.”

He pinned her with a glare. “No.”

“What are you afraid of?”

“I’m not ready.”