Page 30 of Working for the Runaway Bride

“What? Why?”

The look of confusion on her face pinches me inside. But I’m done. I can’t contain myself and all I can do is be honest at this point. Maybe she’ll be so horrified that she’ll leave and this won’t be a problem for me anymore.

“I think you need to decide what you want before you come into my garage dressed like that and start looking at me the way you are.” I say.

Her breath catches. “Dressed like what?”

I drag my gaze down her body before I can stop myself. The movement is slow. Deliberate. When I meet her eyes again, her cheeks are flushed.

“That blouse,” I say.

“There’s nothing wrong with my blouse.”

“No.” My voice lowers. “There isn’t.”

Her lips part. “You keep staring at me,” she whispers.

“You should leave.”

“But you keep looking at me like you don’t want me to.”

I don’t answer. She takes another step. Less than a foot separates us now. Her perfume surrounds me. Something light and sweet that doesn’t belong in a place smelling of motor oil and metal. I brace one hand against the car beside me.

“Molly.”

A trace of uncertainty moves through her eyes. It should be enough to make me stop. Then her gaze drops to my mouth.

Every ounce of restraint I possess snaps. I reach for her. One hand closes around her waist, and the other cups the side of her neck. She gasps as I pull her against me. Her body fits mine too well. Soft against hard. Warm against every cold, empty place inside me.

I give her one last second to push me away. She doesn’t. My mouth takes hers. The first kiss isn’t gentle. It can’t be.

I’ve been fighting the need to do this since her fingertips brushed my palm in the classroom. Since she looked at me with those green eyes and smiled as if I were something more than the worst thing I’ve ever done.

She makes a soft sound against my lips. It destroys what little control I have left. I turn us, pressing her back carefully against the side of the Chevelle. My hand spreads across her waist, holding her close without trapping her. Her fingers twist into the front of my shirt.

I kiss her again. Slower this time. Deeper. She rises onto her toes and kisses me back with a hunger that matches mine.

That’s what makes it wrong. If she were startled, I could stop. If she resisted, I could walk away. But Molly opens for me. Her hand slides up my chest, over my shoulder, and into the hair at the back of my neck. Her lips are soft, tentative for only a second before instinct takes over.

I taste the faint sweetness of her lip gloss. My thumb moves along her jaw. She trembles. I want more. I want everything. The thought jolts through me.

I tear my mouth from hers, but I don’t release her. My forehead rests against hers as we both struggle to breathe.

“This can’t happen,” she whispers.

“No.” Her fingers remain buried in my hair. I stare down at her swollen lips.

“You’re Carter’s father.”

“I know.”

“My wedding is in five days.”

“I know that too.”

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“No.”