Chapter 13

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MOLLY

Dance with Blake? Yes, please. But at the same time, I'd better not. Without making eye contact, I tell him, "I … I … I … should go."

He reaches for my hand to stop me. "Where? Why?"

"I think I'll get another drink." Although, it'll probably be water. One martini is my limit if I don't want to do something I'll regret around this guy. Not to mention the difficulty communicating I seem to have when talking to him.

"Trina gave us an order," he says. "And by being here, we've agreed to follow the rules." Blake sounds like a good soldier, which isn't how I would have classified him. I'd peg him as the rebel type.

"You don't want to dance with me." Looking around the room, I add, "Maybe your kindergarten teacher is waiting for you."

"Don't be a party pooper, Molly." Blake pulls me into his arms with enough force that I have no option but to follow. My face lands smack into the crook of his neck. One whiff and I'm done for. From this moment forward, orange and clove, with a hint of bay rum is my new favorite fragrance.

I'm quite literally rendered speechless by this man. His arms, his scent, his overwhelmingly possessive embrace. If he showed any interest in me whatsoever, I'd run away to a deserted island with him and spend the rest of my days eating bananas and beating our clothes against the rocks to keep them clean. I wouldn't even mind all the sand that would surely invade every corner of our beachfront hut. Somehow in my fantasies we're roughing it like castaways.

Blake starts to hum along with the melody of the song, and I feel the vibration to the very core of my being. Yes, Blake, I'll fly to the moon with you. I'll swing on the stars…

But of course, this is real life and not a romance novel, so instead, I trip over my own foot which causes Blake's hold on me to become something of a death grip. "Are you okay?" he asks.

I'm mortified is what I am, but I somehow find the nerve to tell him, "That was something I saw on Dancing with the Stars . If you hadn't stopped me, I would have hit the floor and started to break dance."

Blake's laughter fills me with joy. "I would have liked to have seen that. Want to try it again?"

I shake my head. "It's a maneuver that requires spontaneity."

"Maybe you'll do it later."

I hope not, but I don't say that. "I never try the same move on the same guy."

"Molly …" Blake's warm breath hits my skin and causes goosebumps to pop up everywhere.

When he doesn't continue talking, I counter with, "Blake …"

"I like …" But again, he doesn't finish his sentence.

"What do you like?" The feeling of me in your arms? The softness of my hair as it tickles your nose? The promise of a new love?

"I like pineapple."

"Excuse me?" Is he likening me to fruit?

He pulls me closer for the briefest moment before pushing me away to the point where a high school chaperone would not only approve, but she'd also wonder if I had a world-class case of BO. "I'm trying a new line on you. I figure if I'm going to find love while I'm here, I need to up my game. So, what do you think?"

I think I'd like to knee him in the knutz and tell him not to practice his wooing techniques on me unless he's interested in dating me . My delicate sensibilities can't handle it. "I think that if it's true love you're after, you should let the woman you're interested in discover the kind of fruit you prefer in a more organic way." I sound like a schoolteacher scolding him for throwing spit wads.

"Like on our honeymoon?" His voice is full of humor which makes me want to jump into his arms.

"Or when you take her out to brunch," I say sourly.

"I have an idea," Blake says. "I think we should buddy up and help each other while we're here."

"Buddy up?" I'm more insulted than I've ever been in my life.

"Yeah, you know, hook up and consult with each other about the people we meet. Help guide each other."

"Hoo … hoo … hook up?" My mouth goes completely dry at the very thought.

"You know, have meals together that aren't part of the mixer."

"Oh."

When the song ends and Blake steps away from me, I wind up stumbling forward like I'm trying to get back into his arms. How mortifying. Reaching out to steady me, he says, "So what do you think. Should we be each other's dating pals?"

The words dating and pals should never be used in the same sentence. It's mean. Hurtful. I think of how my mother has always told me to know my worth and not chase after a man, and she's one hundred percent right. There's no better way to show Blake I'm not romantically interested in him than to be his bud.

With that in mind, I tell him, "Sure, let's be pals ." Now all I have to do is convince myself that's all I want.

"Good," he says. "There's no breakfast get-together tomorrow, so what do you say I pick you up at your room at eight?"

I nearly forgot that Blake and I are practically roommates. We actually might have been had he not told the desk clerk we weren't together. Still, having him right next door to me is sure to cause some sleepless nights. Even though I know I'm only making my life more difficult in the end, I tell him, "Fine. Good. I'll see you then."

"Are you going somewhere now?" He sounds surprised.

Glancing over his shoulder, I say, "We should get out there and mingle if we're going to have anything to talk about over breakfast." Yet, Blake could probably read the menu to me, and I'd totally be riveted.

He bobs his head up and down. "Good plan. I think I'll look for Krista."

"The kindergarten teacher?" My tone is full of disgust. What does she have that I don't? Other than maybe a massive glue stick collection.

"Yeah. How about you? You going to find the guy in the suit?"

"I just might," I tell him. Then without another word, or even a backward glance, I turn and walk away. I'm so butt hurt that Blake doesn't return my interest that I don't pay attention to where I'm going, and I wind up walking right into Kyle. Fun times.

He's carrying two glasses of wine, and nearly spills both before righting himself. "Molly, hey."

"I thought we weren't going to talk," I hiss nastily.

"We weren't but that was before you almost ran me over."

Taking a step back, I say, "Sorry about that."

I'm about to walk away before my ex announces, "I wish there was some way you could forgive me."

I can't seem to stop my eyes from rolling, not that I'm trying too hard. "I suppose if you found a time machine we could go back in time. Then you could not cheat on me."

"What do you think our lives would be like now if I hadn't?"

The question causes a deep-rooted angst to bloom inside my belly. I shouldn't answer him, but I'm so caught in the moment that I say, "I suppose we might be married by now. Maybe even be buying a house and expecting a baby."

I should be pleased by the look of longing on Kyle's face, but I'm not. Surprisingly, I almost feel as sorry for him as I do for myself. "That would have been nice," he says. "I'm sorry I messed things up so badly."

"Are you?" I want to know. "Or are you sad that you don't have those things with Amelia?"

He considers his answer for long enough that I know his answer without him saying anything. For the second time tonight, I feel the sharp stab of rejection. "Is there any way we can be friends?" he asks despondently.

"I don't see how," I tell him truthfully. "I don't let men lie to me, and I sure as heck expect better from my friends."

"Can we at least try to not be enemies?"

I think about something my mom always says about forgiveness. She says you don't forgive someone to appease their hearts, you do it to ease your own. And while I plan to be angry at Kyle forever for his blatant disregard of my worth, I don't love him anymore. Being that I truly did like him once upon a time, I decide, "We don't have to be enemies."

"That's a good start."

I shake my head. "Not a start. The end. Full stop. We don't go anywhere from there." And while I should enjoy the look of sorrow my words invoke, I don't.

"I guess I'll see you around then," Kyle says. He pauses long enough that if I stopped him, I'm sure he would stay. But I don't. I simply watch him walk away toward a pretty woman wearing a black cocktail dress and an expression of raw hope.

I instantly know I don't have the intestinal fortitude to continue with this mixer. I know I told Blake I was going to mingle, but the only thing I want to mingle with right now is a hot bath and trash TV. Turning to leave the room, Trina catches my eye. She walks toward me with a pep in her step not often seen by someone who isn't an NFL cheerleader. "You're very popular tonight!"

"Not really," I tell her.

"What about that tall hotty you were dancing with? That looked promising."

"Blake has made me an offer," I tell her. Her expression morphs into one of a child receiving a kitten on Christmas morning. "He's asked me to be his dating buddy. Apparently, he wants someone to talk to about other women." She suddenly looks like her kitty got hit by a car.

"Really? That's not at all how it looked. What about the guy you were just talking to? I just saw the back of his head but that looked decent."

There's no shame quite like public shame and the emotion fills me to the brim. "He and I dated for a year before he left me for someone else."

"No!" It's humbling to know my social life is such a disaster it can surprise a trained professional.

I nod my head. "I know, right? I'm thinking I might be better off just working on your gift shop and avoiding these little get-togethers."

"Don't give up yet," she says. "There are a couple of guys here I think might be great matches for you."

"I'm not sure I can take much more disappointment," I tell her.

"Give me two more mixers, and if you aren't feeling it by then, I won't say another word if you walk away."

If I have two more experiences like tonight's, I might move to the woods and become a hermit. But it turns out I'm something of a glutton for punishment because I hear myself tell her, "Fine. I'll give you two more events."

Leaving the room, I wonder if I should go back into town and see if someone isn't selling a full suit of body armor. I have a feeling I might need it.