Page 28 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)

Robin

I know Molly well enough to recognize when her “I’m all good” is not, in fact, all good.

Based on how she practically sprinted out of my room yesterday and has been hiding in her shed since, I know she’s upset about something.

But as I busy myself with reorganizing the basement and taking stock of what’s down there, I decide Molly’s mood swings aren’t really my problem anymore.

Or at least they won’t be once we sell the inn and I get that sweet six-figure check for my half.

Seven figures, if we do this thing right.

My life is going to be so much easier. I can invest in a project I want to work on.

Produce my own show. Open a new restaurant.

The world will be my oyster, ready to be shucked and savored.

If only I knew what I wanted to do next.

As I pause to wipe the sweat from my forehead after digging through old documents we might need for our meeting with Clint, I think about what’s been bringing me joy lately: working in Jesse’s kitchen.

After all the TV shoots and big fancy restaurant concepts, it’s a breath of fresh air to focus on making a good dish and watching someone enjoy it.

It reminds me why I started cooking in the first place.

And I didn’t realize how much my soul needed this time to catch up with old friends.

Molly included.

I like being here with her, I admit to myself as I peek into some boxes of old holiday decorations, bits and pieces of past Christmases and Thanksgivings and Valentine’s Days.

I feel like myself in Eureka. The real me, instead of the version of me I bring to sound stages and Instagram.

So if I want to keep exploring where this path is taking me, I need to stay on Molly’s good side.

Show her I’m serious about putting in my fair share of work in the renovations.

I’ve got to soothe whatever panic she’s feeling.

I spent yesterday power washing the inn’s exterior, lingering outside to try to catch Molly to learn what’s been freaking her out, but every time she left her shed, she all but ran in the other direction.

She didn’t come to the Zinnia Room last night.

But all this stuff in the basement has given me a different idea to break down the wall she’s built around herself.

It’s easy to clear the old dining room. I’d mostly emptied it when I used the hallway outside of it as a cooking space.

I consider trying to sell the cheap mass-produced furniture on eBay, but a quick search turns up thousands of people selling the exact same things, so I just throw them on the street corner with a Free sign.

Bringing the old furniture up from the basement is a bigger challenge; it’s quality stuff made with real hardwood.

I heave the four-person tables up the stairs first, and after that, the two-person tables and the chairs.

The buffet tables where we used to display breakfast and coffee take what feels like forever, hoisted up one stair at a time until my lower back is screaming.

Then I turn to the most crucial part of my plan.

After staying up late watching YouTube tutorials on power drills, I’m ready to put my new skills to use.

I’ve been eyeing these horrible light fixtures the management company mounted on the dining-room walls: white plastic hands holding these big round bulbs that coordinate with the ugly thing in the middle of the ceiling, hanging where the chandelier used to be, that looks like a subway map with lights on the ends.

Taking that monster down is definitely beyond me, but I’m going to take a shot at the smaller ones.

I grab Molly’s drill from its charging spot in the kitchen and start with a little pep talk. “Hi, drill,” I say quietly. “I’m Robin. We’re going to be friends today, yeah? I’ll be gentle, and you’ll behave. No surprises.”

I squeeze the trigger a couple times and imagine the buzz is the drill agreeing.

“Okay,” I say as I pull a bit from the little yellow plastic case.

“Try this on for size, drill.” I turn the part I’ve learned is called the chuck and watch the space in front widen.

So far, so good. I place the bit in the hole, pushing it in as far as it will go, then tighten the chuck.

When I try the trigger again, the bit turns just like it did in the video.

“Nice,” I say to my drill friend, feeling pretty damn good. “All right, let’s do this.”

—

A little after five p.m., when I spot Molly leaving her shed through the kitchen window, I run into the dining room for the big reveal. A moment later, I hear the back door creak open and slam shut. Then Molly appears in the doorway and freezes, speechless.

“Surprise!” I gesture at the rearranged room. “I thought I’d get a head start.”

I watch Molly adjust to the change, her guarded expression melting away.

She smiles as she catches a glimpse of our favorite of Miss Addy’s antique paintings, a regal portrait of a basset hound posed on a velvet armchair.

“Colonel Wagsworth,” she says, the name I’d forgotten we made up for the dog. “I missed him.”

“Me too.”

She finally notices what I really wanted her to see: the blank spaces and holes in the walls. “You took down those creepy hands?”

“I did!” I say, bouncing a little with excitement. “Guess how.”

Molly’s lips tilt up just a hint at the corners. “With a butcher knife?”

“No.”

“With a butane torch?”

“No!”

“With the help of a handyman you found in the phone book?”

I blow a raspberry. “I don’t even know where to find a phone book in the year 2025.” I pull out the drill and make a big show of putting in the drill bit and giving it a squeeze.

“Wow!” Molly says, a full smile cracking across her face. “Congratulations! Now you’re as competent at home repairs as I was by the age of eight.”

“Hey!” I put the drill down and put my hands on my hips. “Give me a little credit. Eight-year-old Molly could never have reached that high on the wall without a stool.”

“You’re right. Great job being tall. But really, I’m proud of you.” Molly walks over to pat me on the back and notices the table behind me. “What’s all that?” she asks.

“I made a cake to celebrate,” I say, stepping aside. “A little one.”

Molly gets closer to the six-inch round cake covered in buttercream and topped with honeycomb candy and fresh berries. Her smile disappears. “Is it… the cake?”

“Earl Grey honey cake with lemon and blackberries,” I say, knowing full well the weight of my dessert choice.

I invented it by combining Molly’s favorite flavors to mark the first anniversary of when we bought the inn, when we were still working ourselves sick.

No days off, no other employees to lean on, and struggling to get guests in the door.

But that was when we needed a celebration the most. “I’ve tweaked the recipe a little over the years, but yeah. ”

I cut the cake and serve two slices. When I hand Molly hers, she hesitates to take it. Seems like whatever freaked her out yesterday morning is still rattling her.

“Look, I know being here together is weird as hell,” I say.

“But isn’t it also kind of nice? We’ve got plenty of bad memories here, but we have good ones too.

I’ve been remembering the good ones more lately, and I’m starting to think…

I mean, what are the fucking odds that we’d both show up within a few days of each other, after seven years away?

And of Clint showing up, offering to buy the inn from us?

Of us getting this chance to make things right after doing the Hummingbird so dirty?

Maybe the universe pulled us both back here at the same time for a reason.

It put our lives on hold so we’d get a shot at saying a real goodbye to the inn and Eureka. To each other, even.”

Molly puts her plate down on the table and collapses into a chair. “Yeah,” she sighs. “It does feel uncanny.”

I sit down across from Molly. “I want to leave this place on the right foot this time,” I say softly.

“Not while the inn’s future is murky. Not while we’re fighting.

I want to relive the good parts, and burn some sage or something to let the bad parts go.

I want to do this as a team, both all in to make it look as good as new.

Or, well, as good as old. Like it used to be. ”

Molly searches my face for a moment. “And what about us?” she says. “Will we be like we used to be too, while we’re here?”

I notice how she’s leaning toward me in her seat, how she keeps looking down at my lips, a pink glow beneath her freckles.

Her words might be vague, but I know exactly what she’s asking.

Of course that’s what’s been weighing on her.

We’ve definitely crossed some lines together.

It makes sense that she wants clarity on what we’re doing here.

My eyes dip to the tattooed blooms on her chest, peeking out from the neck of her tank top.

I think of how my body still fits perfectly against hers, how just looking at her makes me hotter than a wood-fired pizza oven.

Truthfully, I’ve spent a fair amount of time thinking about that kiss at One More Round.

Maybe we can relive our good days at the inn in more ways than one.

“I’m open to that,” I say carefully, hoping we’re on the same wavelength.

“You know, while we’re here. The inn could be a place where we don’t have to follow the normal rules. ”

“Like on boats,” Molly says, nodding. “Crimes don’t count on international waters or whatever.”

I let out a short, giddy laugh, surprised but totally into where this conversation has led. “I don’t think that’s how maritime law works,” I say. “But yeah, like that.”

Molly looks toward the hummingbird window, glowing in the afternoon sun. “And then, when we’re finished and we hand over the keys to Clint and say goodbye to each other, we’ll have no regrets.”

“Exactly.”

She looks back at me, her green eyes sparkling just like the window. “Okay. I’m in.”

I take a bite of cake on my fork and hold it up.

Molly does the same, clinking her fork against mine like a flute of champagne.

A divine expression crosses her face with her first taste.

I try it too. The tart lemon hits first, the honeyed sweetness right behind, the complexity of the tea lingering on the tongue.

The same flavors as when I created the recipe, but even better with what I’ve learned since.