by Cara Colter
Finally, he set her down, inspected her closely. The laughter still lightened her features. Her hair had always been the most remarkable color—like maple syrup in a glass jar, with the sun shining through it. Her hair was shorter than he ever remembered it being, but if cutting it had been an attempt to tame those crazy curls, it had failed. Half of them corkscrewed wildly around her face, and the other half were smooshed to one side.
The darkness of her freckles over her snub of a nose, the faint golden tone of her skin, spoke of a life outdoors, and her eyes were still as green as the lushness of a mountain meadow in spring.
And her lips—those cute little bow lips—were as plump and inviting as a field-grown strawberry. Still, he wasn’t going to look at them for too long. Even though it had been six years, he remembered the taste of them, the surge of energy that had gone through him that nothing and no one else in his life had ever replicated.
So, really, he had a mission here that would not be advanced by the study of her lips.
Molly and he were going to say goodbye to his brother together.
Just seeing her again, he was acutely and deliciously aware of how much this friendship meant to him.
“How can you look just the same?” he asked her. “You were eighteen years old the last time I saw you!”
“It was probably the same outfit,” she said wryly.
He regarded her: the khakis, the wrinkle-free green shirt that made her eyes look greener, though he was sure that was unintentional.
“I’m pretty sure it is the same outfit,” he said thoughtfully, and was rewarded with her laugh.
He didn’t add that she looked as good—better—in that casual outfit than most women would look in an evening gown.
“You know how I like to shop. Once I find something that works, I just get ten of it. Though sometimes...”
Her voice drifted away, and she looked faintly embarrassed.
“Sometimes, what?”
“I’m just tired.”
“No, what?”
She seemed to consider. “I guess sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be a real girl. You know, with a wardrobe that had a dress in it. Like I say, I’m just tired.”
He couldn’t miss the tiny bit of wistfulness in her voice. It was true that being raised by a single dad she had probably missed many of the feminine touches in her upbringing that her mother would have provided. She had always seemed so secure in herself, that it had never occurred to him before that she might have secretly longed for what other girls took for granted.
He made a note to himself and filed it away.
Molly cocked her head at him and studied him solemnly. “You’ve changed. A lot.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “In what way?”
“You’re sophisticated. I think your haircut might be better than mine. No worn high-top running shoes that don’t match. I guess I was hoping for a T-shirt that would make me laugh.”
“I’ve got a great new one. It says, Scientists Do it with Energy.”
Her blush actually deepened, and he felt a sudden need to change the subject. What had made him say that? The last thing he needed to be thinking about when he was with Molly was that. Particularly since he was taking her home.
He wondered, a little too late, if he had thought this thing through enough. The truth was, he hadn’t thought it through at all. Molly had always brought out an impulsiveness in Oscar that he usually did not indulge. She had also always been a disruptive force in his ordered life.
“Let’s head to the baggage claim.”
“I’ve got it all here. My legacy from Dad, pack quick and tight.”
He looked at the medium-sized bag hanging from her shoulder. Even as it underscored his sense that she had not changed—how many women could pack everything they needed for a trip in an overnight bag—he thought he heard a touch of wistfulness again.
From the size of the bag, it looked like her visit wasn’t going to be extended. He’d left the ticket open, so she could book her return at her convenience. She was, just as her father had been, a rolling stone. No surprise there.
“I have enough to last me for a while. I didn’t actually book a return flight yet. I thought we’d just see how it goes,” she said, as though reading his mind.
The part of Oscar that liked order—that needed to know exactly how many groceries to buy, and made reservations weeks or months in advance—cringed at that. But another part of him didn’t. Because even though she seemed unchanged, she was right.
He was changed.
He knew, as he had not known before, that efforts to control things, to put them in order, were largely an illusion. The world did what it wanted.
And he was aware he had changed in another way, and that way seemed to involve an acute awareness of her.
“It’s probably half cameras,” Oscar said, focusing on her bag instead of her.
“I have my travel wardrobe down to an art,” she said. She cocked his head at him, and that familiar smile teased her lips. “Or would that be science?”
“Let me take it, at least.”
For a moment, she looked as if she might argue, fiercely independent even about such a small thing as surrendering her bag. But then she shrugged it off and gave it to him. There was an odd look on her face. What was it? Could she possibly enjoy being looked after somewhat guiltily?
“I’m looking forward to hearing about some of your travels,” Oscar said. And he meant it. Molly Bentwell had always had a way of finding an adventure.
But a little voice in his head insisted on reminding him that she had gone on to have her adventures without him.
She had left what they had shared together with the most perfunctory of goodbyes.
This is what he needed in his newly single life: deep friendships, uncomplicated by other agendas. That feeling of being supported and seen, without the complication of other, well, feelings.
Feelings. Pesky things to his scientific mind. Complicated and rife with consequences that couldn’t be predicted.
It was raining hard when he held open the door for her. Without thinking about it, he shrugged off his jacket and put it around her shoulders.
For just a moment, that look of familiar stubbornness crossed her face, but then she relaxed and snuggled into the coat.
“Ah, Galahad,” she said. “My prince.”
“Galahad wasn’t a prince,” he said. “He was a knight.”
“Trust you to know that,” she teased him.
If ever there were a woman who made him want to play the part of a knight in shining armor, or a prince riding in to the rescue, it was Molly.
Thankfully, Oscar thought, his pragmatic nature, and the loss of his brother, made him immune to the charms of fairy tales. Plus, she was the woman least likely to ever play the role of anyone’s princess.
Outside the airport, Molly paused at Oscar’s vehicle. “But it’s not a truck,” she said.
Oscar shook his head. This was one of the things he remembered best about Molly Bentwell.
He came from a world where every status of wealth and success and accomplishment was collected and displayed, as if that said who you were in the world.
But Molly had always dug deeper, required more.
“The only girl in the world who would look at a sports car of this caliber and say that,” he replied dryly.
“It’s not that it isn’t gorgeous, it’s just not what I expected,” she said.
He stowed their things and held the door for her, then he got in the car. He couldn’t help but show off just a little bit. The car was exquisite in its power and ability to maneuver in and out of choked traffic. The windshield wipers slapped at the rain, and inside it felt cozy and oddly intimate as her scent took over the small area.
“Humph,” she said, unimpressed, and appa
rently not feeling the intimacy at all, thank goodness. “If you can drive a car like this, you could easily drive a truck in this traffic.”
“Molly, I don’t have any use for a truck.”
“Humph.”
“What do you drive?”
“I don’t have a car. But if I did—”
“It would be a truck,” he said, wryly. “You haven’t changed your opinion on that since kindergarten.”
And then they were both laughing, a familiar ease flowing into place between them. He felt as if he had last spent time with her yesterday, not six years ago. And yet, it had been six years and now there were so many blanks that needed to be filled in.
“How did you end up in Frankfurt, this time?”
“I know it seems weird, what with there not being a wild animal in sight, but it’s central, it has a great airport and flights are cheap. Africa would be a couple of days travel from Canada and Asia even longer. So I can get to most of the wild places that are left in the world in pretty short order from where I live. And the biggest market for my photos is European, so it just makes sense.”
All the places had made sense, Oscar thought, and yet she never stayed in any of them. She had moved at least six times in the six years since she had been away and he knew it was only a matter of time before she moved again.
She confirmed this by saying, “I’m thinking of moving.”
“Again?”
She lifted a slender shoulder and yawned. “I’m feeling restless.”
He was pretty sure what she was feeling was pain, pure and simple, just like he was. Could he say to her, Oh, Molly, there are some things you can’t run away from?
It seemed too personal, the six years of separation yawning between them.
“What time is it, here?”
“Nine p.m. Are you going to have jet lag?”
“No, the secret is to get into your new time zone as quickly as possible. So, it’s five a.m. in Frankfurt. I’m just getting up! I’ll be good for a few hours. Did you have a plan for tonight?”
“I do,” he said. “It’s a surprise.”
CHAPTER THREE
MOLLY SLID OSCAR a glance. As if the way he looked wasn’t surprising enough!
“I have a surprise for you, too,” she said. “But it’s a secret. Don’t even try to pry it out of me.”
“One cinnamon bun, and you’d talk.”
“No fair using the secret weapon.” The truth was she wanted to tell him, to share her excitement. But no, for once in her life she would keep a secret from him. So far, she had two confirmations and a tentative venue to celebrate the beautiful life that had been Ralphie’s. But things could still fall apart, so she would say nothing about it and totally surprise Oscar with it, if it all came together.
She considered the fact that Oscar has planned a surprise for her tonight. Everything about him seemed to be a surprise: the new suave look, the sleek car, her awareness of him. His jacket, settled around Molly’s shoulders, was deeply comforting in a way that had little to do with its protection from the damp.
The frog had remained a prince, but now he looked like one, too. She slid him another look, taking in the changes. He had filled out substantially, his youthful skinniness giving way to a broadness of shoulder and a depth of chest it had never occurred to Molly that he would achieve. He’d always been tall, but with the stick-like long legs of a crane. Now, she could see the large muscle of his thigh being molded by the fabric of dark denim. The jacket draped around her shoulders was expensive and in taking it off he had revealed a crisp white dress shirt, open at the throat. He had on a leather belt that matched the buff of his brown leather shoes.
The sophisticated haircut showed off the lines of his face: the wide intelligent forehead, the straight nose, the extraordinary cheekbones, the full sensual lips.
Lips she had tasted. Kissed. In that one moment that had changed everything.
Had she come here thinking she could put that behind her? That they could just be the best of friends again? Sitting in the tight confines of his car, she just wasn’t sure about that, especially since he had matured so exquisitely. The sharp angles of his face had filled in, making him handsome in that extraordinary way that turned heads and elicited smiles from strangers.
At the airport, when she had first caught sight of him, a well-dressed woman—she had had a moment of envy for just how well-dressed the other woman was—had looked at him with interest, bumped him “accidentally” and apologized. How endearing that he’d acknowledged the woman with the briefest nod, hardly glancing up from his phone.
Everything about Oscar—his looks, his clothing, his impeccable grooming, the way he was standing—made him look sophisticated and confident, the man least likely to send an email that said he needed someone.
He had started a company while he was still in university. When she had asked about it, in their infrequent emails, and even more infrequent phone calls, he’d said it was fun and it was doing okay.
What exactly had he said his company was doing? Saving the world, one piece of garbage at a time, he’d told her. Recycling. So Oscar. And also, so Oscar to downplay his success.
It was obvious, from the car and from the clothing, that he was very successful. Nothing in his offhand job description had prepared her for this.
But that was what he came from. Wealth. Stability. Success.
That was what his mother had reminded her all those years ago. That Molly and Oscar came from different worlds and that Molly had no hope of ever fitting into his.
Nastily, his mother, having witnessed their kiss, insinuated Molly might use her body to try to wheedle her way into the Clark world.
I won’t allow you to trap him with a tawdry pregnancy, and you don’t seem suited to raise a child, period, let alone on your own.
Molly remembered her words now, feeling that same horrendous shame she had felt at the time.
So nearly everything about him was a surprise except the fact he had a plan, which he always did. And except for the fact he was still Galahad: the perfect knight, always known for his courage, gentleness, courtesy and chivalry.
Oscar to a T, in other words.
Molly had always made it clear that she was the woman least in need of rescuing. She could look after herself, thank you very much.
And yet his eyes and his smile were so much as she remembered them, and gave her the same feeling. A delicious sense of being at home with someone, comfortable with them, safe, able to relax her defenses.
But the new look and the new physique didn’t feel safe at all. Instead, they felt faintly dangerous.
Somehow, she had thought his apartment, a glass-and-steel condo building located close to the ocean, would be more “scientist geek” in its decor: a few experiments on the go, an absent-minded jacket tossed by the door, interesting books scattered about, maybe a gerbil or two in a cage.
But when they took the elevator up, it opened to a corridor with only one front door—his. His space, to her photographer’s eye, looked ready for a photo op for Houzz, the home renovation website. Nothing was out of place. Everything was new, and clean, and shiny. The decor, the space, like his clothing and his car, were exquisitely sophisticated, and reflected a level of success she had not known about.
As she surrendered the jacket, Molly reminded herself, this was what he came from. He had grown up in a home very much like this one, beautiful, but faintly impersonal, like the very best of hotel rooms.
She was aware he was watching her.
“What’s that look on your face?” he asked quietly.
“It’s just not what I expected.”
“In what way?”
“It doesn’t look like anyone lives here!”
“It doesn’t?” he said, looking around with a frown.
“Where are the books about all t
he millions of things that interest you at any given time? The Sex Life of Geckos, Secrets of the Volcanoes, Beyond Black Holes. Where’s all that?”
“I’ll have to put The Sex Life of Geckos on my reading list,” he teased her.
Molly hoped it wasn’t a Freudian slip that she had mentioned any kind of sex life to him. She decided to deflect.
“Where’s the milkshake maker? The popcorn machine? The T-shirt collection? The socks on the floor?”
To her great relief, Oscar tossed the damp jacket carelessly on the couch.
“It probably looked more like that before. When Cynthia and I got engaged, I gave her free rein of the place. I didn’t care what it looked like, and she did. And then, as it turned out, she never moved in anyway.”
“I’m sorry, Truck.” Why would she feel relieved that Cynthia had never lived here?
He lifted a shoulder, but his eyes were sad as they came to rest on her, and then moved away.
“Plus, the housekeeper was here today. I wanted it to look nice for you. She loves to hide my stuff. I’m not sure why she puts away all the appliances. It’s not handy.”
He wanted it to look nice for her. Somehow, that simple statement made her feel a little more relaxed in the opulent space. She looked around. It was very open. The far end of it was completely taken up with a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that gave an incredible view of the rain-washed nighttime Vancouver skyline, and the ocean beyond that.
Then a movement caught the corner of her eye. Her mouth fell open.
“That’s not—”
“One and the same,” he said, watching her.
She fell to her knees. The cat marched over to her, and began to meow loudly.
“Protesting your long absence,” Oscar said dryly.
“Georgie,” she crooned, opening her arms. The cat climbed into them and she buried her face in his fur. He was, as he always had been, the world’s ugliest cat. His gray fur was too long in some places, and too short in others. He had a permanent scowl on his face and a tail shaped like a question mark.
But his purr made up for all of his defects. “I can’t believe you have him,” she whispered. “I wanted to ask, but I think I was scared of the answer. I think your mom only tolerated him for Ralphie. I recall she was furious when I gave him the cat. Apparently there was supposed to be a long consultation process.”