Page 80 of The Wild Card
CHAPTER 17
Collin
“Honey, I’m home,”I call out in a loud, sing-songy voice even though I’m the one lounging on the couch, not the one walking through the door.
But my words make Molly laugh—exactly as I intended them to. She looks tired but happy as she makes her way inside, flopping down on the couch beside me. Closer to me than I thought she might sit, but not as close as I would like.
Her hair is in a ponytail, and her blue eyes look tired but happy.
“Hey.” Molly grins, then yawns, kicking off her shoes. They land in two separate spots across the carpet. She doesn’t even seem to notice, and I suddenly feel quite certain that she’s messy. The kind of woman who would kick off her shoes and leave them wherever they are for days.
Which I guess makes me the kind of man who will be constantly picking up after her.
The thought makes me smile. That is, until I remember that all this is temporary, and I find myself clenching my jaw instead.
“I’m surprised you don’t have some kind of tray of snacks or drinks waiting for me,” Molly says. “I might have to send a letter of complaint to your supervisor.”
“Ah, don’t be so hasty to assume I don’t.” I tap her on the knee as I stand.
Her eyes go wide as she tracks me walking into the kitchen. “Wait—Collin, I was kidding. You don’t really have something for me, right? You know you don’t have to do that. It was a joke.”
“I know.” I hide my smile with the open refrigerator door as I grab the platter I put in there about twenty minutes ago.
She stops any hint of protesting when I return with chips and guacamole and instead digs right in. “Ok,” she says around a mouthful, “you don’thaveto do this, but I really like it.”
“Good. Because it’s kind of fun playing the part of househusband.”
I did actually enjoy making the guacamole—something I’d never done before. Guacamole, as it turns out, is surprisingly simple. I usually don’t do much in the kitchen. Never had a reason to before. Now, suddenly, I find myself doing things like looking up guacamole recipes after hearing Molly make an offhanded comment at dinner with my family about how much she loves it.
I also threw away the two jars of pickles from Tank’s fridge.
Molly pauses, a chip halfway to her mouth. “Househusband?” She practically whispers the word, looking suddenly terrified.
“Houseboyfriend? Is that better?” I steal the chip right from her hand and pop it into my mouth. “It just doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
She gives me a mock glare for stealing her chip, but I grab another, dip it, and hold it out to her. Instead of grabbing it, shecurls her hand around my wrist, then takes a bite of the chip, her lips brushing my fingers, eyes fixed on mine.
Hello.
Can she feel my pulse racing under her fingertips? In my ears it’s as loud as a whole army of horses.
Molly releases me, snatching the rest of the chip and finishing it off while I’m trying to catch my breath. A simple touch shouldn’t have this effect on me. But it does.
Shedoes.
“Hey, would you mind if we did that again?” she asks.
Not even in the slightest. I scramble to drag a chip through the guacamole. But then I see she’s fiddling with her phone.
“It would make a good social media post. Cute. Coupley.” Her smile looks apologetic.
Right. I shouldn’t be so disappointed. And a moment later, I’m not, because we’re recreating the moment and, even with Molly filming, I still get to touch her and be close to her.
And also share the moment with more than a million strangers.
I wonder how she does this all the time—sharing even bits and pieces of her life? It already makes my skin itch, and I’m not even doing any of the legwork. I didn’t even look at the post online, only at the copy Molly sent me to keep.
Which I’ve watched no less than fifty times.
