Both of us clinging to each other.
I lean in, even as my brain is yelling at me not to do it, not to kiss her, it will only make things worse?—
And then she ducks her head at the last minute.
I clear my throat and release her hand.
Half my age and twice as smart. My admiration for Molly only grows.
“Let’s get you some tacos,” I mutter.
Inside, she takes her time looking at the menu board and talking up the kid behind the counter. He, of course, immediately falls in love with her and promises to make the best tacosever.
She gives him a beaming smile that probably gives him a hard-on.
It fucking does for me, and I’m not even the recipient.
Since it’s too hard to decide, we get a big variety platter, and the kid promises that anything we don’t eat can get wrapped up and reheated later.
“These make a great midnight snack,” he promises.
I’m punched in the gut with a visceral image of Molly naked, except for maybe being wrapped in my sheet, or one of my dress shirts, licking salsa off her fingertips andlaughing at me.
A snack after a good, long, hard workout in the sheets.
Fucking hell, I want her.
I want her in my bed, I want her on my tongue, I want her in my life.
I want her to be my wife for real, and that’s not fucking happening.
But for tonight …
Tonight, sheismy wife. Tonight, this kid behind the counter is shooting me an envious look like he’s impressed I could get a woman like this, and damn it, he’s right.
I nod in acknowledgment. Yeah, bud. I’m a lucky man.You have no idea how lucky, and how fleeting.
“This looks good,” Molly murmurs as we settle at a table at the back, the platter of food between us.
I’m staring at her. “So fucking good.”
She lifts her head, another smile playing at the corners of her mouth as she reaches for her margarita to take a sip.
My wife.
She is, after all. At least until I can convince her to sign those divorce papers. Or until she can convince me that an annulment would be better.
And until either of those things happen, I’m her husband.
“Eat,” I say hoarsely. “I promised to feed you.”
“You also promised me a story about your first divorce,” she points out.
“Ah. Yeah. That.” I make a face. But that’s a good karmic punishment for the thoughts I was just having. “I got married way too young and for not the right reasons, in hindsight. We didn’t love each other the way two people need to in order to survive the ups and downs of pro sports. When she said she wanted out, it felt like a relief. Like I didn’t need to be splitting myself in two anymore. She happily moved on to another marriage. And I…”
“You married baseball?”
I roll my shoulders. “Yeah.”
