“Wouldn’t miss it.” He pulled her closer to his side in a hug that lacked any and all feeling.
Her mouth went dry. Motions. He was going through the motions.
“Hey.” She wrapped her arm around his waist, not wanting him to pull away like she figured he was about to. “I need to talk to you.” Again, with the breathy.
“Okay,” he said, but his expression was totally shuttered against the world.
“Have you ever screwed up, Gavin?” she asked, low and quiet, the words only for him even though they had two matchmaking eavesdroppers listening in. “Because I screwed up. I’m really sorry I screwed up. I?—”
Peter made a sound in his throat.
She glanced at him as Chris whacked him on the shoulder. “Shh,” he said. “They’re reconciling.”
Gavin gave her a funny look, like he wasn’t quite sure what to make of all of this.
Well, join the club. This was new to her, too.
“I haven’t ever felt this way about someone,” Molly said, turning her body into his. Hoping he wouldn’t pull away. “And you’re right, it’s terrifying for me. Because I don’t want to make you unhappy.”
The shutters he’d pulled tight fell open, and the raw intensity she saw there made her seriously wonder what the hell she’d been thinking sending him to another woman. Sending him to someone else. Sending him away.
“So, if you don’t mind me messing up a lot more, I’d like another chance.” Her chest heaved because…air. Air was important.
“Molly.” Gavin did the touching her jaw thing again he was so fond of. “You have all the chances.”
Oh.
She wasn’t breathing.
“Take a breath, Molly,” he said.
She nodded. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
Peter let out a sigh. Molly glanced at him.
Chris whacked him on the arm again. “This is just getting good. Stop making sounds.”
“I brought you something.” Gavin held the box to her. “Was hoping you might still want it.”
Was it the necklace? No, he didn’t bring the necklace.
The box wasn’t the right size.
She took it, pulled the lid off, and there was her scarf.
The softest, pinkest, prettiest scarf she’d ever seen.
He’d made it with his hands for her, because she mattered. He wouldn’t leave her behind. He’d just keep knitting her scarves.
“Don’t cry, Molly,” he said.
She wasn’t crying. She didn’t cry in front of other people.
Ever. She just didn’t.
So why were her cheeks wet? Why were her eyes dripping?
“Damn,” she said, swiping at them. “Can I have it?” She reached for the scarf. “For real?”
