Page 50 of Where's Molly

Molly fucking Devereaux is heading toward the counter, her eyes darting in every direction. Her shoulders are curved inward, and she's picking at her nails anxiously. Dark brown curls are deliberately arranged around her face, but those sad, green eyes and the scar on the apple of her cheek… it's a dead giveaway.

She was plastered all over the news when she went missing. And then her baby sister, Layla, eight months later. Most assume their father took Layla and ran, but neither has been seen since. Both girls with strange disappearances, which still haven't been solved to this day.

It's been almost six years since she disappeared. Now, here she is, in the flesh. And she looks no less sad than she did in her missing person poster.

“I got this one handled.” I jerk my chin at Silas, signaling for him to leave us alone. Without a word, he disappears in the back.

“They say that people who have eyes like yours are destined for a tragic death.”

There's a slight pause to her gait, but she pushes forward until she's a foot away, only a counter between us.

“Sanpaku eyes,” I clarify. “When you have a gap below your irises.”

“Do you greet all your guests by telling them they're going to go out in a ball of flames?”

“That's typically why they come to find me. I'm the one who saves them from the fire.”

She hums, distracting me from counting the freckles on her nose. I only got to fifteen, but I don't mind restarting.

“I'm just here for a TV,” she lies.

My answering grin is involuntary. “Sure, what kind?” I question.

“Uh—” She glances around and then points to a fifty-inch flat screen. And if I had to guess, far out of her price range. “That one.”

“That'll be five hundred dollars.”

Her wide eyes fly to mine. “Jesus,” she mumbles. “That's literally so unnecessary.”

I point toward our cheapest TV. It's a small box from a decade ago, but it has been refurbished.

“Fifty bucks for that one.”

Her nose wrinkles in distaste. “That doesn't look worth more than a dollar.”

“It's an antique.”

“It looks better suited to host a bonfire,” she retorts without hesitation.

I'm full-on smiling like a fucking fool.

“It probably is, but be careful, my employee might hear you. That's his pride and joy.”

She raises a brow. “My condolences to his wounded ego.”

Damn. I think I love her.

She clears her throat, realizing we've been staring at each other with stupid grins on our faces.

“So, uh, do you take payment plans for putting out fires?”

I lean my arms on the counter, now looking up at her from beneath my brows. I can feel how wicked it is, but I'm unable to hide it.

“First, tell me your name. Mine is Cage Everhart.”

She narrows her eyes, seemingly suspicious.

“You’re telling me you don’t know who I am? Legion didn’t tell you I was coming?”

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