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My eyes widen. “Burt, that’s so kind! But are you sure—”
“Trust me, no one in Little Haven is going to order twenty gluten-free pies in one afternoon of sales. Judging by my usual clientele, I’d guess that at least half our population could have a medical emergency if they suddenlystoppedgetting their daily dose of gluten.”
I giggle at that, stepping back to glance over at Gray as I twirl the phone cord around one finger. “Pies and cookies would be amazing. We were already skimping on some of the treats because of my budget, so this would be a huge help.”
Gray’s eyes meet mine and he mouths the wordFree?with a questioning look. I nod, a smile taking over my face.
“I’ll be right over to pick them up,” I tell Burt. “I have a guy coming over to check out some plumbing for the inn, but as soon as he comes and goes I can be—”
“I’ll go,” Gray says, already grabbing his coat from off the hook by the door and motioning to me. “Stay for the plumber. Are these from Burt’s place?”
I nod, that strange pinch in my stomach returning as I watch him button up and fish his gloves out of his pocket.
“I’m sending Gray Smith,” I say into the receiver. “He’ll be there in five.”
“Thanks, Molly.” Another shuffling sound, and I hear Burt complain to one of his workers aboutentitled Atlanta folk with their gluten-free diets and substitution requestsbefore the line clicks off.
I turn around, ready to say goodbye to Gray before he heads out, but the door is already swinging shut. There’s that pinch in my stomach again, nestled just behind my belly button.
He was so quick to get out of here. Gone without a word of goodbye after we just had that tender moment…
I clear my throat and shake my head. Don’t overthink something good, Molly. I put my hands on my hips and glance around the lobby once more. The light Gray installed looks really good, and I’m so close to finishing up my work.
Everything is illuminated, just as it should be. Everything is in place. Just breathe.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: GRAY
GUNDERSON: Scheduled with HR for noon tmrw. Be ready.
Unlike the last text he sent me, I read and reread this one. I memorize every word and turn their meanings over in my head, rolling them around like that will somehow make everything fall into place the way I want it to.
This was never supposed to be a decision. A choice. It was supposed to be a given: I was always supposed to put in my time in Little Haven, keep my head down, and return to New York like the past few weeks never happened.
Molly Moore was never supposed to be part of the equation.
Hell, when I last left Little Haven, she was just my best friend’s kid sister, even if she was always cute and funny. We’ve been operating under this pretense that the world will magically order itself. My NBA team will be bought out in Little Haven or Molly will decide to sell the inn and move to the city, and through all this both us and Hunter will magically get cool about me screwing his sister—a fact that he can make jokes about, but I know him well enough to guess it would still freak him out a little.
It’s this goddamn place. It’s the same as it ever was, even more than a decade later. Little Haven, Georgia lives up to its name: it’s a haven from the real world. A place where someone can go to pretend that adult life doesn’t exist.
I spent an entire childhood pinching myself; while my peers all resigned themselves to dying here, I was going to get out. I was going to pierce that veil, see what was on the other side. It was a fight, but I battled. I put in everything I had to be the best, and I actually pulled it off. I’m an NBA coach, for crying out loud. It’s the dream job of sports lovers everywhere.
But as I’ve stayed here, the snow has kept piling and piling on the roof of the Little Haven Inn, trapping me in further where I worked so hard to escape. Molly calls this stuff Magic Miracle Christmas snow. It doesn’t feel like that when you’re suffocating in it.
I know what I want to do, right? I’ve always known. So why the hell am I hesitating? Why the hell am I reading and rereading Gunderson’s message like the letters might rearrange to say something else?
I come crashing back to reality as something packed and cold slams into my neck. I whip around, disproportionately mad, given my brewing frustrations.
Baker and Brady are walking the sidewalk behind me with some of the other boys, looking anywhere but at my snow-drenched coat. Baker’s lips press too tightly together, and I suspect he’s having to work to hold back a laugh. The breath I’ve trapped at the top of my chest comes hissing out between my teeth, the audible signal of some small relief.
“You forget I’ve got the professional arm. Strength trained for precision, kids.”
Brady smirks and elbows a teammate. “No idea what you’re talking about.”
I turn back around, shoulders tensed as I listen to the boys behind me. There’s a shuffle, a crunch, and then…
I whip around, expertly smacking a snowball away from the front of my peacoat. I point a finger at Baker, whose gloved hand is still poised in the throwing position.
“Told ya to practice your fakes. You went for the throw too early.”
