Page 59
Aster inhaled his curry, he laughed so suddenly. It was only after he’d coughed, gulped his water, composed himself, and frantically apologized to the table beside them, that he finally managed, “There’s way too much history to tackle when we’re halfway done with our meals.”
She glared at him. “You know, Eli has me partly convinced it’s something terrible. He wouldn’t even sit on it.”
That earned her another hearty laugh. “He regularly warns others away from it too. Waters got an earful at our housewarming party a couple of years ago.”
She crossed her arms. “Come on, what is it? A Bishop family curse? Tough night with tequila?”
“Fine, you can have one of its many illustrious secrets, but that’s it. Tonight is supposed to be for making new memories. I think we need a moratorium on reminiscing.” He paused, perhaps waiting for Molly to disagree. When she didn’t, he drew in a breath and said, “Eli has . . . walked in on things. Between us, on that sofa.” Molly’s eyes widened as she grasped his meaning. “On more than one occasion,” he concluded. Then he smirked. “He’s . . . slightly better about knocking these days.”
Struck by the absurdity, Molly dissolved into a fit of laughter.
The rest of their meal played out with a perfect, almost rehearsed normalcy. They engaged in light, safe conversation, and Molly practiced making Aster smile, something that had the potential to become a dangerous new hobby if she didn’t manage it properly.
He had such a nice smile.
She had a sudden urge to text Eli and tell him all about the brief hand-holding they’d done, because it made her feel wild and unsteady and she’d loved it.
When they arrived back at their apartment, Molly leaned against the door, facing Aster, not quite ready to reenter their home.
“Thank you,” she said. “This felt like progress, didn’t it?”
The word irreparable tried to claw its way out of hiding. She ignored it, forging ahead, needing to savor the lovely little thing they’d planted and nurtured and grown over the last several hours. “I’m trying. You’re trying. It’s been nice. So, thank you. For being patient with me, especially.”
She reached out, a fingertip lightly trailing down his forearm, acknowledgment in the form of a tentative touch. She couldn’t quite resist it.
He stepped closer.
Molly’s breath caught, momentarily stunned by the intensity behind his eyes.
He took another step, effectively caging her against the door. The silence between them sat heavy, punctuated only by the rush of Molly’s pulse roaring in her ears.
“I have been patient,” he breathed in agreement. She barely heard the words as they washed over her. She felt them more than anything. “I’ve been so patient,” he repeated.
And he was so close, barely a blink between them. Six years hanging between lashes and lids and lips.
Molly’s eyes fluttered shut as she drew in a shaky breath, suddenly unmoored in her want.
“Please, Molly,” he rasped. Her eyes shot open. His right hand had found its way against the door beside her head. His gaze locked with hers, truly begging. “Could I please?” he asked again, something lethal lingering beneath the surface: permission and a promise.
She swallowed, struggling for words, and nodded.
She expected him to kiss her.
Instead, his left hand met the side of her neck, fingers finding a place in the curls at the base of her skull, tiny points of pressure cradling her head as his thumb skimmed the length of her jaw.
She nearly blistered beneath his touch, and yet the only thought her mind conjured in that moment was, he’s left-handed.
Her head fell back against the door, incapable of coherent thought.
His hand slipped to the front of her neck, trailing downward until the tips of his fingers rested on the hollow at the base of her throat. His palm lay against her chest, directly over her heart.
He must have felt it hammering, almost painful as it tried to escape her ribs and run away with the delicious feeling of his skin against hers. She reached out, her own hand finding purchase against his soft cotton shirt, buttons pressing into her palm. His heart pounded just as fast. Her fingers curled, gripping his shirt fabric.
She thought of his words the last time they’d been this close: a man on the gallows.
“I’m willing to offer a stay of execution,” she whispered, her fingers curling tighter.
He pushed.
