Page 27 of Working for the Runaway Bride

By six thirty, the garage is empty. Luis leaves twenty minutes ago after asking twice whether I’m sure I don’t need help closing. I tell him to go home to his wife. He gives me a look that says he knows I have no intention of leaving anytime soon, but he knows better than to argue.

Headlights sweep across the garage. I look up as a small blue sedan turns into the lot. My body reacts before my mind does.

I straighten. My pulse changes.

Molly parks outside the center bay but doesn’t immediately get out. She sits behind the wheel with both hands gripping it, staring through the windshield.

For one second, I consider walking over and locking the door. If she finds the shop closed, she’ll leave. I’ll be disappointed. I’ll also be safe.

Then her car door opens. There’s no chance of saving myself now. Molly steps out. She has changed into dark jeans and a pale blue blouse with a low neckline. The fabric moves softly around her body as she crosses the lot. Her brown hair is down, falling over her shoulders in loose waves instead of the braid she wore two days prior.

My gaze drops before I can stop it. The blouse reveals the graceful line of her neck, the delicate silver chain resting against her skin, and more of her chest than I’ve ever seen. Heat hits me hard and low.

I look away. Engaged to my son. Five days from her wedding. These are the things I need to remember. I repeat every reason I shouldn’t want her until the words blur into meaningless noise.

She stops at the edge of the garage. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“Are you closed?”

“Yes.”

Her face falls. “Oh. I can come back tomorrow.”

I should let her. Instead, I walk to the wall and press the button that lowers the outer bay door behind her car.

“I’m still here.”

The heavy metal door begins to descend, cutting off the view of the street. Molly glances at it. The air changes. We’re alone now. Completely alone.

“I came to apologize.” She says.

“For what?”

“The principal.”

My hands flatten against the counter. “You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I should never have let her speak to you that way.”

“She was doing her job.”

“She made you feel unwelcome.” She looks down.

“I wasn’t approved to be there.”

“You were reading a book.”

“To children whose parents trust the school to decide which adults are allowed near them.”

“You wouldn’t hurt them.”

“She doesn’t know that.”

“I do.”

The certainty in her voice hits me squarely in the chest. I stare at her.