Page 2 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)
Robin
“Fuck,” I say, jumping like I just saw a ghost. “Molly?”
“What are you doing here?” we say at the same time. Dammit. Seven years apart and we’re still jinxing each other.
As if moving into the Hummingbird Inn after all these years isn’t enough of an ego check, now my ex-wife turns up? Okay, universe. I get it. I screwed everything up. Can’t I have a moment to catch my breath?
“I have a right to be here,” I say defensively as Molly edges toward the porch. “I’m still a co-owner, you know.”
“Oh, believe me,” Molly says, her tone scathing. “I know. I would have sold it years ago if it didn’t require talking to you. ”
“So you’d rather let it sit here and rot than make a phone call?
” I ask. Actually, selling the inn has crossed my mind too, considering the dire financial straits I’ve been in lately.
But I wasn’t going to be the first to reach out after years of radio silence.
I’d moved on. I assumed Molly had as well.
But based on how it seems like smoke might start billowing out of her ears any second now, maybe she hasn’t.
“Nothing with you is ever simple,” Molly says. “Besides, I figured you were busy with your restaurant group and your reality TV series and your brand partnerships. ” She makes my accomplishments sound like a list of biblical plagues. “How’d you find the time to visit?”
I try not to visibly cringe. I’m not here by choice. But I’ll be damned if I give her the satisfaction of knowing that. “I’m returning to my roots,” I say vaguely. “For inspiration for my next project. Could use a little peace and quiet for my creative flow.”
Molly looks me up and down, clearly skeptical.
I can’t avoid noticing how different she looks than the last time I saw her.
For one thing, she looks stronger. Tougher.
Grounded in her body in a way she wasn’t before, shoulders back, feet firmly planted in her Doc Martens.
And more tattooed, with new art stretching around her forearms and thighs.
The fine lines on her face suit her, especially against her youthful freckles.
Her naturally brown hair has teal streaks now, the same shade she had back when the Hummingbird hit it big, when we filmed that episode of Inn for a Treat.
“Well, you’re going to have to find somewhere else for your ‘creative flow,’?” she says, lifting her bags onto her shoulders. “Because I’m working here for the next six weeks.”
Seriously? This was supposed to be my secret lair for the next six weeks. Could be six months, if I can’t get my shit together and figure out where to go next. “Well, I was here first. So…dibs.”
Molly scoffs. “This isn’t a ‘dibs’ situation.”
Marmalade meows, upset that I’m not giving her the welcome home she deserves.
I scoop her into my arms, and she immediately purrs and rubs her head against my chin.
She’s a lot heavier than the last time I held her.
I worry that cuddling the cat will lose me some ground in this standoff with Molly, but then I see she’s irked at how pleased Marmee is to see me.
I snuggle the cat closer, reveling in how it makes Molly’s eyes narrow.
“Easy solution. There are a lot of nice hotels I’m sure you could stay at while you’re doing your handywoman projects or whatever,” I venture, remembering how Molly taught DIY skills to half the business owners in town when we lived here.
I can tell right away that I accidentally struck a nerve. “I’ve been commissioned to make custom stained-glass windows for several businesses in town,” Molly says, standing straighter. “So I need the studio space in the shed. You, though, can work in any number of kitchens.”
Is that what she does now? Stained glass?
I remember when she taught herself to repair the broken panes in the inn’s colorful windows and figured out how to make a few new ones of her own.
If she’s managed to make a career out of it…
I have to admit I’m impressed. But it also explains why she’d need a free place to crash. She’s probably a starving-artist type.
“I already stocked this kitchen for what I need,” I fib as I place Marmee back on the porch.
I’ve only been at the Hummingbird for two days now, most of which I’ve spent lounging around in pajamas feeling sorry for myself.
Molly didn’t believe I could become an internationally recognized chef back then, so I’m certainly not giving her the chance for an I-told-you-so.
“But hey, it’s a big house, right? Nine bedrooms. Four floors.
We probably won’t even see each other. At least for a couple days while you figure out somewhere else to stay. ”
“While you figure out somewhere else to stay.”
I widen my stance on the wooden planks, trying to convey a sense of ownership over the building I left seven years ago without looking back. “That kitchen is mine. I’m not going anywhere.”
Molly purses her lips. “We can argue later,” she says. “Can I please just put down these bags? They’re harder to hold than a greased hog.”
I bite down a laugh at the phrase, one of many she got from the old-fashioned Southern grandmother who raised her, then step aside, gesturing grandly to the inn’s front door. “Be my guest.”