Page 108 of The Premonition at Withers Farm
Yes. Yes, so did Molly. She was missing the entire conversation because Trent’s fingers were weaving into the hair at the nape of her neck. No one noticed either. Why would they? A husband absently caressing his wife’s neck wasn’t unusual. But for them?
Molly dared a glance at Trent.
His sky-blue eyes met hers briefly. His lid dropped in a wink.
There it was.
The killer wink. The wink that usurped any other killer’s story of the night.
Trent shut the door.
His arm snaked around her waist and he pulled Molly against him, her back pressed into his chest. He lowered his head and nuzzled behind her ear.
“That was one sexy emoji,” he whispered.
Molly was sure she had reverted back to her teenage years for all the butterflies exploding in her stomach. She twisted in his grip and lifted her chin. “You liked it?”
The expression on his face told her it had both stunned and thrilled him. “Just a little bit.” He lowered his head, but before Molly could even process his movement, he had claimed her lips.
The kiss was desperate. Filled with the sort of agony that separation of heart created and the collision of renewed hope inspired. Molly reached up to wrap her arms around Trent’s neck. The feel of him. The strength in him.
She had to tell him.
Had to be honest.
Molly pulled away, Trent protesting in his throat and following her, his mouth settling on the side of her neck. “Trent?” Molly gasped. God help her. Her nerves were going to make her throw up.
“Yeah?” Trent’s voice was filled with the gravel of desire.
Molly hesitated.
Trent must have felt it. He paused, pulling back a bit to search her eyes.
What to say? Really. How did one summarize loss and grief and anger and melancholy and hope and faith and fear and haunting? She should have kept her mouth shut. He wanted her.Shewantedhim. For the first time in forever, things felt ... better. God knew in her heart of hearts, everything inside her had pulled toward Trent’s soul when his thumb had touched her neck. But now? How did onerectify the truth? The truth of who they were to who they had been?
It was grief that they shared. It was grief that spread its icy fingers on her skin, making her feel another presence in the room. It was that gut-wrenching, soul-agonizing emotion that mystified anyone not walking through it themselves. She was not alone, because grief never left her, and she had opened her heart to it like a home, enhanced by whatever physical detriments the pregnancies had left behind in her body to assist in the hospitality of such numbing despair.
Grief had taken up occupancy in the spare room of her soul and, like a spirit, haunted her with a rabid persistence.
Trent furrowed his brow. He threaded his fingers with hers. A solid lifeline for the first time in forever.
“I need help,” Molly whispered. It was all she could say. All she could muster the strength to explain. She waited. She waited for the questions. She waited for him to tell her how much she had hurt him—hurtthem. She braced herself for him to matter-of-factly remind her that life needed to be lived and the lost needed to be let go of. She willed herself to not react when his replies to whatever she would say next were placid. Void of expression. It was the Wasziak way. She could do this. She could get through this. By the grace of God she could—
Trent’s caress was gentle. He kissed her slowly now, but it wasn’t searching or seeking. It wasn’t expectant of anything more. His kiss was an end to the chapter of her melancholy.
His whisper in her ear soothed her more than any other words could have. “I’ve got you.”
Then, in the stillness, Trent’s kiss turned to holding her. Simply holding her.
Accepting.
Of her.
In all her mess.
No questions asked.
He was finally here.
