Page 12 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)

Robin

I watch through the kitchen window as Molly blazes across the yard and locks herself in the shed.

I really thought that kitchen encounter was going to end differently for a second.

It’s been a long ( long ) time since I’ve kissed Molly, so maybe I forgot how close that about-to-make-out vibe is to fighting.

The extended eye contact. The physical intensity.

The way her lips get all pouty and I can hardly keep myself from running my thumb along them to see if they feel as soft as they look.

Nope, that was definitely a fight. And our relationship is messy enough already. Kissing is, objectively, a Very Bad Idea.

Especially because I’m angry at Molly, I remind myself as I shake the frustration out of my body like a wet dog and carry my lunch to a table in the dining room.

She’s not the only one here allowed to be upset.

I have just as much right to hold a grudge as she does.

We had a chance at a shared future, an opportunity to build something bigger than this inn, this town, this soul-crushingly red state, and she didn’t believe in me, or in us, enough to try.

Maybe my restaurants would have succeeded if we’d built them together.

If I hadn’t been fighting to get them off the ground alone.

And just because she’s afraid of planes and decided the Hummingbird Inn was her safety blanket doesn’t make her the sole arbiter of its fate.

Sure, she managed it without me while I was filming and for a few months after I moved to Portland.

Yes, she did the lion’s share of the renovations and upkeep.

But I painted some of these walls. I cleaned up the yard and planted the gardens.

I interpreted all the legalese in the mortgage and contributed half of the down payment.

I helped keep Miss Addy’s legacy alive, even if I didn’t know until now that she died and dammit, I’m heartbroken because she was special to me.

But this is our inn, not Molly’s. And if she’s going to rip a hole in the kitchen wall, I think as I take an aggressive bite from my grilled cheese, I should at least get some say.

Besides, I still have my doubts. I did some googling, and I’m not convinced I saw a leaky pipe in that wall. I wouldn’t put it past her to try and inconvenience me enough to scare me off. But if she’d seen my bank account, she’d know I have a compelling reason to stick it out.

I’ll admit it: I suck at living on a budget.

I grew up in the old money part of Little Rock, going to the best private schools, never went to bed hungry.

If my parents and I fought over buying new clothes, it wasn’t over the price, but because I wanted the dykiest ripped-up jeans and flannel shirts I could find, while my mom thought I should always be dressed for surprise stops at the country club.

It was honestly shocking how well they handled me coming out.

But even now, I think they wish I were a different sort of lesbian.

More like Penelope Ratcliffe, who fits in networking with doctors and lawyers better than playing pool with dishwashers and line cooks.

The worst part, I admit to myself while chewing on a bit of burned crust, is that they might have been right.

Working some desk job probably would have been smarter.

I couldn’t swing it as a chef, and now I’m barely eking out a living on my last few paid social media partnerships.

Looks like I’m barreling toward a career change, whether I want it or not.

Unless we manage to whip the inn back into shape and sell it to Clint.

Then I’d have enough money to fuck out of Molly’s life forever.

Isn’t that what she wants? To never see or speak to me again?

Isn’t that why the inn has sat here unused for so many years, because she’d rather let it rot than face me?

But no, apparently, I’m hopelessly incompetent because I don’t know how to attach a stupid drill bit.

So maybe what I need to do, I think as I look around at the poorly redecorated dining room, is prove I’m not a useless idiot. Take some initiative. Even if Molly’s refusing to renovate with me, I can stake some claim and show her I have just as much right to be here as her.

After I’ve polished off both grilled cheeses and made Marmalade do some cardio by chasing a string on a stick, I hear Molly come in through the back door.

She walks down the hallway right by me, not even glancing my way, goes upstairs for a few minutes, then leaves through the front door.

I peek through the hummingbird window to watch her walk toward downtown.

Once she’s out of sight, I go back to the kitchen, which still smells like burned plastic, and gather a portable cooktop, a slow cooker, a pressure cooker, a giant toaster oven, and an armful of cooking utensils.

If I can’t have the kitchen, I’ll create my own makeshift workspace.

The dining room has lots of natural light for photographing dishes for social media.

And the check-in counter is the perfect standing height for food prep, so I find an extension cord and start plugging in all the small appliances I gathered.

The fact that Molly will have to walk right through my new kitchen setup every time she comes downstairs is a bonus.

I’m so proud of myself for this plan that I almost forget that I don’t have a real reason to test any recipes.