I make an affirmative sound in the back of my throat and stop us, lifting a hand to flag a cab.
Holding the door open, I slide in after her and call directions to the driver.
“And?” she prompts as the cab pulls away from the curb.
“And?” I ask.
She rolls her eyes. “Is it a rom-com?”
“Of course. One doesn’t watch every Netflix Christmas special for no reason.”
She claps her hands together, shimmying in her seat. “A Christmas movie?”
I shake my head, lifting a hand to my mouth to mime zipping it shut.
“Hmf!” She punches me gently, crossing her arms. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet you’re in a cab with me.”
“Some things are unavoidable.” The cab stops at her address. “And you’re paying.” She kicks the door open and dives out.
The driver turns in his seat, hand out, offering me a sympathetic, “Women.”
I loathe Molly’s apartment. I’ve been here a handful of times for various family events, birthdays, and whatnot. Each time I walk in, I’m overwhelmed by a sense of wrongness.
The apartment itself is bright and airy, modern. Full of clean lines and minimalistic furniture. She moved in here after her divorce—and it screams settling rather than thriving.
Nothing about this space represents the beauty of Molly. It doesn’t suit her, and therefore I despise it.
Molly is warm tones and light that dances across earthy textures. Molly is nights curled up reading by a fire, she’s hand-knitted blankets, and oversized scarves. She is warmth and comfort, mixed with romantic whimsy in a package as earthy and raw as it is stunning.
“I’ll be right back,” Molly says, disappearing into her bathroom.
“Take your time,” I call, shrugging off my coat and settling into a seat at the breakfast bar. I pull out my phone, answering emails and getting into a text war with a friend while I wait.
“How’s this?”
I look up and immediately get hard. “No.”
Molly’s face falls. “No?”
Fuck. No.
She’s wearing black jeans paired with knee-high boots, and an emerald deep-V, long-sleeved top that shows more than a little cleavage. Her hair is pulled back, but she’s left it loose.
She’s gorgeous and I want to eat her up.
“I mean,” I cough, trying to pull my shit together. “Yes.”
Make your move, stupid.
“Wait—what?” She tilts her head slightly. “Yes or no, Josh?”
I can’t. She needs to be wooed. Damnit.
“Yes.” I stand abruptly, unreasonably agitated. I can’t let Molly think she looks anything less than delicious. Stripping away her confidence isn’t how I want to win her—just because I’m losing my grip.
Act Two: The hero makes his move. Beginning with eliminating the speed dating competition.
