Page 20 of The Wild Card
To my niece.
The thing is, the rest of my family seemed content playing along with no details whatsoever. And up until I flat-out told Jo that Molly’s my girlfriend, we could have played it off. Holding hands isn’t a love confession. It’ssomething, but something that could have stayed smaller and more contained, more easily brushed off.
Now … I don’t know what my family thinks, though they probably know I didn’t secure myself a girlfriend in the hour since I last saw them.
And while there would likely be an array of reactions to the story behind our charade, I think they’d mostly understand. Even if they’d flat out tell me we’re being stupid.
But Jo …
“It’s my fault,” Molly says. “I started this and dragged you into it with me. I’m sorry.” Her hands clutch at my shirt, and there’s a wobble in her voice.
Sliding my hand up to press gently between her shoulder blades, I draw her even closer. She doesn’t resist.
“I should have told you who I was the moment I recognized you,” I say. “Because when you asked for my help, you didn’t know what you were walking into. I’m sorry, Molly.”
“Well, I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you,” she says. Briefly, she reaches up and brushes a hand over my facial hair, smiling. “The beard really works if you need to go into witness protection or something.”
“Good to know.”
I find myself wanting to ask if she likes it or prefers the clean-shaven or mildly scruffy look I’ve sported for years. Now is probably not the time.
Not when her smile falls again.
“Hey,” I say, cupping the back of her head with my other hand. “It’s clear this job is important to you.”
“It’s notthisjob specifically so much as havingajob.”
“If you want to talk about anything …”
My words trail off as I think about how to finish that sentence.If you want to tell me why you need this job so badly, for example.
If you want to tell me why you’re desperate.
If you want to trust me, you can.
But Molly only shakes her head. “I’m fine.”
I’m not convinced that’s true, but I also can’t expect her to lay her heart out right this second.
Instead, I nod. “Well, if you need to talk to me, you can. And what we do next, it’s up to you. Okay? You set the tone, Molly. You tell me what you want.” I trail my hand from the back of her head to her neck and massage lightly.
She gives a soft little snort, still tugging lightly at my shirt, like she’s trying to anchor herself to me. “It’s that easy, huh? You’re just that nice of a guy?”
“I’m not so nice.” The huskiness in my voice surprises me.
It must surprise Molly too because she freezes. I start to pull away—becausewhat am I doing?—when she leans into me.
“Then why?” she whispers. “Why, when you knew who I was and knew I didn’t recognize you when I should have—why, when you’re apparentlynotso nice—why did you agree to help me? Why are youstillhelping me?”
“I don’t know, darlin’. But I don’t have any regrets.”
“Except for lying to Jo?”
She’s got me there. I sigh, gently rubbing the back of her neck. “Yeah. Except for that.”
“What are we going to do?” she asks, finally pulling back to look at me.
With the vulnerability and a light sheen of tears in her blue eyes, I’d do just about anything she asked.
