by Neesa Hart
“What am I supposed to wear?”
He shot her a dry look as he reached for the phone. “This might not mean anything, you know.”
“Maybe not,” Molly conceded. “And when is it, exactly? I have to check my schedule.”
Sam punched a number into the phone. “I have no idea. I’m not planning to go.” She could hear the phone ringing on the other end through his speaker phone.
“Liar,” Molly shot back. “You’re not going to disappoint your sister.”
He raised an eyebrow as the phone continued to ring. “When did you develop such a high opinion of me? Two days ago I was smug and prone to tantrums.”
Molly fought a blush. “I wouldn’t say I have a high opinion of you—I just recognize you for what you are.”
Someone answered the other end of the line. “Miss Bradson’s office.”
Sam grabbed the receiver and held it to his ear. “Hi, Carolyn, this is Sam Reed.” He paused. Molly watched him as he propped the phone against his shoulder and visibly relaxed. He was back in his comfort zone. Tracking down a business lead was easy. Talking about his birthday had been driving him crazy.
She factored that observation into her emerging picture of Sam. Meeting his stepmother and aunt had provided another interesting revelation about his life. He was a little edgy about his family. Though he had taken Edward Reed’s name at some point, he still stood apart from the Reed clan with an aloofness that Molly found fascinating. Though fully aware of his role as one of Edward Reed’s heirs, something she couldn’t quite define said he’d accepted the mantle through necessity and had never quite forgiven himself for it.
Sam finished his conversation and hung up the phone. “You were right,” he said, “Cobell’s contractor for the transportation hub is the same firm that was investigated last year in Atlantic City for that casino project. They changed their trade name after they filed for Chapter Eleven bankruptcy protection.”
“It doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“No,” he conceded, “but it might.” He passed her the piece of paper with her notes from the day before. “Stay on it. See where it takes you.”
Molly stuffed the note back into her pocket. “I plan to. Now, about the party.”
“You aren’t going to let it drop, are you?”
She shook her head. He hesitated for a moment before he slid one arm around her waist and pulled her forward until she stood between his slightly out-spread legs. He was still leaning against the desk, and she could feel his corded thighs on either side of her hips. Her ears started to ring.
Molly took a shaky breath. “Sam—” This was exactly what she’d feared. The strong tug of attraction she’d felt yesterday had not ebbed with a good night’s sleep. Last night’s kiss in the boathouse still had her feeling unsettled.
He raised one large hand and cupped the back of her head. “I missed you last night,” he said. “In my bed.”
Molly’s lips parted slightly as her breathing turned shallow. “Oh?”
He swept his thumb over her lower lip. “I told you I wouldn’t rush you.” Sam dipped his head and pressed a moist kiss to her forehead. “I’m a very patient man.”
Her hands were shaking, so Molly placed them on his chest. Immediately, she realized her mistake. She could feel the strong thud of his heartbeat and the heat of his skin through his starched shirt.
Sam urged her a little closer. “Tell me how well you slept.”
Molly’s gaze dropped to the spot where his collar rested against his tanned throat. “Not very well,” she confessed.
He swept a hand down her spine. “I’m glad to hear that.”
When she raised her eyes again, she saw the carefully banked fire in his gaze. He bent his head to bring his face close to hers. “Let me kiss you, Molly,” he said softly.
The appeal was so unexpectedly quaint that Molly forgot her very reasonable objections that they were in his office where someone might enter, and that she couldn’t guarantee how far a kiss might go after the effect he’d had on her last night. Her common sense told her she was way out of her league. As she’d lain on her bed last night, her skin unexpectedly warm and her lips still tingling from his kiss, she’d been unable to shake the image of the wide leather sofa in his office and the fact that she’d see him again today.
Instead, she shifted slightly, bringing her body into exquisite contact with his, and whispered, “Oh, yes, Sam.”
He took his time with the kiss, beginning with a soft, leisurely exploration of her upper lip, then her lower. His hands moved up and down the planes of her back, rubbing gently, persuading her to melt against him. Molly was fairly certain she heard bells ringing and bees buzzing, but she ignored the intrusion with a soft sigh and wound her arms around Sam’s neck.
Just when her knees felt they would buckle, Sam ended the kiss with a soft curse and reached for the phone. “Reed,” he barked into the receiver.
Molly blinked, slightly abashed when she realized the ringing in her ears had been the sound of Sam’s phone. Sam kept one arm around her waist. He pressed the mouthpiece of the receiver against his shoulder and mouthed, “Sorry.”
Molly shook her head as she extricated herself from his embrace. Pulling the note from her pocket, she waved it at him. “I’m going downtown.”
Sam covered the mouthpiece with his free hand, leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss. “Great. I’ll call you tonight.”
“Good. I still have questions about the party.”
Chapter Six
But Sam didn’t call her that night. Nor did he come to the office the following day, or the rest of the week. Molly arrived at work Wednesday morning to find a message from him on her voice mail. A family emergency had demanded his return to Boston. He’d call, he said. He’d let her know what was happening.
By Friday, she still hadn’t heard from him. She knew from conversations at the Sentinel that Sam had remained hands-on, despite his absence. It seemed everyone else at the paper had spoken with him that week. Only Molly had been left out of his loop. She hadn’t been able to decide exactly how she felt about it. She was partially annoyed, partially intrigued, and very frustrated.
Against her better judgment, Molly gave Sam more than a few of her second thoughts. In between, she was dodging questions from her family about her relationship with him, avoiding the prying eyes of her friends, neighbors, and co-workers, and researching Fred Cobell’s transportation project.
She hadn’t been able to shake the image of him, one hip propped against the desk, his crisp, white collar smooth against a tanned throat, watching her with eyes that held an indefinable glint as he talked about the birthday party. She suspected he’d been seriously disconcerted by her insistence on knowing the details of the party. She was certain that both his sudden departure for Boston, and his apparent avoidance of her all week had something to do with the event.
Friday night found Molly alone at the office, still thinking about Sam and wondering what in the world she’d gotten into. She finished organizing some notes and glanced at the clock. Almost time for her friend JoAnna’s weekly call. Molly had been dying to talk to her since the previous week when she’d fired off that god-awful personal ad about Sam. Had JoAnna not been out of the country on assignment, Molly would have tracked her down with the story of her impending demise and Sam’s bizarre response. But this week, it seemed that even JoAnna was bent on making Molly nuts.
The phone rang right on schedule. Molly snatched up the receiver. “Jo?”
“Hey, Molly. What’s kickin’, Chicken?”
“Have I got a tale for you.” Molly exclaimed with a smile as she leaned back in her chair. She propped her loafer-clad feet on the desk with a soft sigh and began the soothing ritual of pouring her heart out.
SAM SHOT A QUICK GLANCE at the speedometer and eased his accelerator foot a tad. Once he had cleared Boston’s thick Friday-afternoon traffic, he could set the cruise control and quit worrying that his linger
ing frustration and simmering anger would land him in traffic court.
His sister had begged him to stay the weekend. He was exhausted and mad as hell, she’d argued, and it probably wasn’t a good idea for him to be on the road—even if the trip to Payne was only a little over two hours.
Sam hadn’t wanted to explain to Taylor, or to himself, why he had to get out of Boston. For the first time since he’d taken Carl’s offer to bail out the Sentinel, he found himself craving the quiet environs of the small, peaceful community. He liked the pace. He liked the quaintness.
And he liked Molly Flynn.
A lot.
That, Sam knew, was really what had him riding the accelerator and grinding his teeth at the traffic. He’d been unable to talk to Molly all week. The Boston situation had been worse than he’d expected, and each time he’d found himself dropping into bed well after two in the morning, he’d fought the urge to call Molly.
She’d have a unique perspective on this, he thought with perhaps his first smile of the week. He imagined Molly’s reaction to the hell he’d been put through. Her color would rise. Her eyes would sparkle. Her freckles would blend together as a peach-tinted flush filled her cheeks.
He’d want her. He felt a familiar twist in his gut when he thought about it. Molly, soft and natural, confident and genuine—so different and refreshing compared to the brittle women who populated his world.
Molly smelled like lemons and mown grass. He’d finally decided on the description one morning after sharing an elevator with her in the Sentinel building. He was also fairly certain that whatever scent she wore, it did not advertise itself as the scent of lemons and mown grass.
But it should. Until he’d met Molly, Sam had no idea that lemons and grass could be so alluring.
More than once he’d squelched the urge to ask what her scent was. He had known women who smelled expensive, but Molly—Molly smelled intoxicating.
He glanced at the clock on his dashboard. Nearly seven. If he pressed it, he’d make it to Payne by nine. He could try calling Molly on his cell phone, but he’d promised to call her earlier this week. He hadn’t, and he didn’t want to explain. Not on the phone, and not while he negotiated the heavy traffic. He wanted Molly seated across—or better yet, next to him—so he could see and touch her and fall into her warmth. Tomorrow, he’d take her to the duck races. Tomorrow, he’d lose himself in the simple pleasure of her company and the gentle amusement of Payne’s Duck Races Festival. He hadn’t anticipated an event so keenly for longer than he could remember, and he was smart enough to know his anticipation had nothing to do with ducks and everything to do with Molly.
At this thought, Sam checked the left lane for on-coming cars and accelerated around a pickup that was moving too slowly to suit him. Every mile, he realized with satisfaction, took him farther from Boston and closer to Molly. Somehow, he didn’t think that should make him feel so good, but at the moment, the thought sustained him, like a life-preserver thrown to a drowning man.
AT EIGHT FORTY-FIVE that evening, Molly let herself into her townhouse with a weary sigh. The warmth of the old place soothed her, as usual. Despite her parents’ concerns about upkeep and maintenance, Molly had fallen in love with the hundred-year-old building and its charming oddities. Once providing elegant homes for members of Payne’s upper crust, the row of townhouses had fallen into disrepair during the 1950s. A grant-funded reclamation project had renovated the buildings and surrounding area, and though the contractor had managed to make them safe and livable, they maintained their authentic charm.
The floors creaked. The plaster sagged and flaked from the ceilings. The pipes groaned. The winter wind whistled in the windows.
And Molly was fairly certain there was a ghost or two in the attic. Her father swore the noises coming from beneath the roof were squirrels, but Molly had tried two different exterminators who found no evidence of squirrels—or anything else.
So Molly gladly settled on the explanation that she had a couple of friendly ghosts—remnants of an earlier age. She’d take ghosts over rodents any day.
Now she caught her reflection in the hall mirror and grimaced. The stress and long hours of the week had taken a toll. She looked worse than she had on Monday when she’d gone to work expecting to lose her job.
Getting fired, she thought with a grimace, would probably have been easier than adding the complication of Sam Reed to her life.
Molly scooped up a pile of mail her postman had slipped through the slot and thumbed through it. Two catalogs, a postcard from her cousin, Sadie, who was on a college trip to Europe, and an announcement that she’d won a million dollars—for the third time this year. As she dropped most of her mail into the antique potato bin she used for a trash can, she felt a warm rubbing sensation at the back of her legs. Molly stooped to scratch her large, chocolate-brown cat between the ears and apologized for neglecting him that week. “Sorry, Errol,” she told the purring ball of silken fur. “It wasn’t intentional.”
Errol seemed unconcerned. By now, Molly figured, he was not only used to the long hours he spent alone in her quiet little row house, but he had grown to like them. He’d adopted Molly after trying out several other houses on the street. She’d attempted to give him away five or six times, but Errol had always returned with a slightly chastising look in his wide, blue eyes. Finally, Molly had given up trying to get rid of the large, tailless cat, and had taken him in.
In many ways, he was the perfect housemate. He never complained about her hours or her cooking. He cleaned himself meticulously. He kept the rodents out. And he was always glad to see her. She’d had boyfriends with less to recommend them.
She dropped the remaining mail on the hall table and gathered up the large animal. Purring loudly, he arched his back against her throat. “I didn’t do it on purpose,” she assured him. “I was just really busy.”
Errol seemed to understand. Errol, God love him, always seemed to understand.
Weary from her long week and several sleepless nights, Molly made her way to the kitchen. A peanut butter sandwich and glass of milk were decidingly tempting. After her conversation with JoAnna, she’d stayed at the office another couple of hours. She’d told herself she wanted to work on the transportation story, but her eyes had strayed continuously to the phone where the red message light still blinked, indicating the saved message from Sam on her voice mail. He still hadn’t called. Irritated with herself for waiting, Molly had finally stuffed her belongings in her bag and headed home.
She could work on the story here just as easily as she could at the office. And maybe, if she pulled on a pair of ratty pajamas and her bunny slippers, she wouldn’t be so distracted by thoughts of Sam Reed and his strange behavior.
Errol followed her into the kitchen. Feeling guilty for leaving him alone so long that week, Molly pulled a carton of cream from the refrigerator and poured a cupful into his bowl. Errol gave her an adoring look as she set the bowl on the floor.
Errol lapped his cream, pausing occasionally to twine affectionately around Molly’s legs while she made a sandwich. She filled the cat in on her discoveries about the mayor’s transportation plans. Errol listened attentively, purred on cue, and waited while she finished eating. If only men were that simple.
She straightened the kitchen and climbed the stairs. She could almost hear her favorite pair of flannel pajamas calling her. Hot pink with a hearts-and-lips pattern. She’d pulled them fresh from the dryer last night. Her nieces had given them to her for Christmas last year, knowing Molly’s penchant for loud and cozy pajamas.
As she descended the stairs wearing them five minutes later, Molly wondered why no one had ever studied the therapeutic effects of fuzzy pajamas and comfortable slippers. The big, pink bunny slippers flopped on her feet in a merry rhythm, while the soft, worn flannel brushed her skin like a treasured old blanket.
She had just made herself a cup of tea and settled on the sofa to watch a late movie when her doorbell rang. Errol gave
her an expectant look, and Molly glanced at the clock. It had to be her landlady. Nobody but Mrs. Pickernut would ring her bell this late without calling. The older woman had probably read something in the paper she didn’t approve of, and as was her habit, walked next door to bend Molly’s ear about it. Mrs. Pickernut lived alone, and Molly had figured out years ago that the woman’s frequent visits to complain about the Sentinel merely showed a need for companionship. Mrs. Pickernut routinely watched through the curtains to see when Molly’s battered orange Beetle returned to the curb in front of her townhouse.
Molly looked at Errol. “All right,” she told the cat. “I’ll open the door, you create the distraction. Maybe this won’t take long.” She pulled open the door to find an exhausted and rumpled-looking Sam Reed on her welcome mat.
“Sam?”
“May I come in?” he asked wearily.
Molly was acutely aware of her hot-pink pajamas and obnoxiously oversized bunny slippers. “Um—”
“I’m beat,” he said unnecessarily. He certainly looked it. His shirt was wrinkled and damp, unbuttoned at the collar and rolled back at the cuffs. His silk tie hung loose around his neck, and his face had an angular look, suggesting he hadn’t slept well in days.
Molly stepped away from the door with a slight frown. “Sure.”
He eased into her house, pushing the door shut behind him. He leaned back against it with a soft sigh, like a man who’d made an arduous journey through untold terrors before finally reaching the safety of home. “I should’ve called,” he said quietly.
“You look like hell.”
He rolled his head to one side and gave her a quizzical grin that knocked some of the edge off her worry. He was still capable, clearly, of teasing her. “Really?” he said, his mouth kicking up at the corner. “You look kind of cute.”
Molly scowled at him. “I wasn’t expecting company,”
“Lips and hearts, Molly?” He examined the pajamas. Molly had a strong feeling he was looking at more than just her pajamas. Despite the baggy fit, she had to fight the urge to cross her arms over her chest. When Sam met her gaze again, his eyes held a banked fire. “I didn’t think that was your style.”