Page 141 of Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar 2)

“Just curious.” I stepped into the bathroom, squinting as my eyes adjusted to the bright lights bouncing off the white stone tile on the floors and the spacious shower. The marble counter had two bowl sinks resting on top. Finn was at one. The water ran for me in the other and a washcloth had been laid out along with a new toothbrush.

Finn finished brushing his teeth then dropped a kiss to my bare shoulder as he left the room. It didn’t take me long to join him in the bedroom, crawling under the corner of the sheets he’d turned down. The moment I was horizontal, Finn rolled on top of me, pinning me down for a slow, lazy kiss.

“I had fun tonight,” he said after tucking me into his side.

“Me too.” I rested on the pillow, but an odd, familiar feeling hit me. It was . . . I shot upright. “Is this my pillow?”

He chuckled as I fluffed it and skimmed my hands over the case. “Maybe.”

“It is

. You stole my pillow.”

He laughed harder. “So? You kept mine.”

“I thought you’d left it behind.”

“Only because I needed to make a clean getaway with yours. I didn’t want them both to go missing.”

I closed my eyes and wrapped an arm around his waist. “We wasted so many years.”

“Then we’ll make this year and all those to come count double.”

I nuzzled closer, taking a deep inhale of Finn’s earthy and clean scent.

“I love you.” Finn kissed my hair. “In case that wasn’t perfectly clear. I love you, my darling Molly. For the rest of my days.”

“I love you too.” And no matter what happened, I’d tell him every day. It didn’t take long for my body to relax. I was on the verge of sleep when another question popped into my mind. “Finn?”

“Hmm.” He was already half asleep.

“Where did you keep those letters when we were married?”

“In a box in the closet,” he answered.

“Did you take it with you when you moved into the loft at Alcott?”

He shifted to look down at me. “No. Why?”

“Well, the last letter was written right before the divorce. Did you put it in the same box?”

“Yeah. I came home to see the kids. Put them to bed. Wrote it before you got home.”

Those were the limbo nights before he’d found this house. He’d come to my house in the evenings to see the kids. I’d leave for a few hours to help Poppy as she set up the restaurant. I’d get home, the kids would be asleep, and Finn would leave for the loft at Alcott.

“Why do you ask?”

“I’m trying to—” The timeline of our divorce ran through my mind as I tried to recall exactly when he’d left and when that box should have been taken. “You packed up the week after the divorce.”

“Yeah. So?”

“So . . . are you sure the letters went with you? Or could they have been taken from my house instead?”

_

Darling Molly,

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