Page 39 of Quintessentially

“Tell me about Molly. Does she always eat breakfast with you?”

“Honey, the person with all the answers is in there.” She lifted her chin toward the back door of the store. “You just need to ask.”

That brings me to now.

My watch, which is now on the right time, tells me that Quintessential Treasures closed an hour ago. I’ve paced around this old house from room to room. I even checked my phone every five minutes in case someone gave Kandace my number. Unlike her, my number has changed from the number years ago.

Could that be why she never told me?

No. Grandma would have given her my new number.

I’m about to give up that Kandace is going to show and crack open the six-pack sitting in the refrigerator when the doorbell rings. There’s no way to explain what I’m feeling. It’s a mix of excitement and fear, happiness and sadness, highs and lows—in other words, I’m a fucking mess.

In hindsight, I’m thankful Kandace left last night, giving me time to think.

Taking a deep breath, I go to the door.

For a second, I hesitate.

It’s only a second.

Opening the door, I’m met with the woman who still takes my breath away. There’s exhaustion in her expression, yet her posture is straight and tall. Her hair is pulled back and her shirt says Quintessential Treasures over her left breast. I can’t let my gaze linger.

As the silence remains, I motion inside. “Please come in.”

There is more hesitation.

“You came,” I say.

“I came to thank you for bringing the holiday inventory to the store. I didn’t plan beyond that,” she says, still standing on the stoop. “I almost didn’t make it here.”

“I’m glad you did,” I reply with a grin. “Thank you for coming. And you’re welcome for the boxes and totes.” Again, I gesture inside.

With a nod, Kandace steps forward, but instead of coming into the house farther, she stops in the foyer as I close the door behind her.

“I have water or beer,” I offer.

“I need to get home.”

“To Molly.”

Her blue eyes meet mine. “Dax, you did your part. You don’t owe me or Molly anything.”

“How could you not tell me?” My question comes out harsher than I planned.

She stands tall, straightening her neck. “The last time I saw you, you told me you’d be back. That never happened.”

“Shit.” I run my hand over my hair. “You didn’t give me a chance.”

“I gave you six years.”

My tone mellows. “Molly is mine.” I’m not sure if that’s a question. I know the answer.

“No, she isn’t.”

It’s as if my heart drops from my chest. “She’s not? I saw the pictures of you pregnant. Who is her father?”

“I heard about the pictures.”

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