Page 32 of Bed and Breakup (Dial Delights #15)

Robin

“Too blue,” Molly says firmly.

I point to another paint sample on a square of cardstock taped to the dining-room wall. “How about this one?”

Molly shakes her head. “Too green.”

“So something in between? Teal-ish? Basically whatever color you dye your hair?”

Molly looks toward the hummingbird window that faces the front porch. “The walls used to match that blue green on the hummingbird’s feathers,” she says. “God, why didn’t we write down the paint colors back then?”

“Even if we had, who knows if they make them thirteen years later?” I shuffle through the thick stack of samples we picked up at the hardware store yesterday and hold a new one up against the wall. “How about this?”

“Better, but it’s a tad dark. Don’t you think?”

“We don’t have anything like that but lighter.

” I look between the walls and the window, trying to picture how it used to be.

I served hundreds, thousands of breakfasts in this room, yet I can’t remember the walls.

“Let’s sleep on it. We picked colors for all the other rooms, so we’re making good progress. ”

I’ve been trying to take some initiative over the past week to prove I’m not dead weight in this project.

So far, I’d say it’s going all right. Molly’s clearly more knowledgeable, but I picked up a thing or two while overseeing the design of my restaurants.

I place the stack of paint samples on a table and look at my watch.

“Want to move some more furniture before I start dinner?”

I found some guy online who owns multiple vacation rental homes in the area and jumped at the chance to buy all our bed frames, dressers, and nightstands for a low price.

He’s picking them up tomorrow. I’ll be at the restaurant, but I’m doing my best to get everything down on the main floor and ready to go beforehand so it will be easier for Molly.

And I’m staying on her good side by keeping her well fed.

We’ve already cleared the new furniture on the second floor, besides the Zinnia Room where I’ve been sleeping, so we start with the third floor.

Luckily, the fact that it’s all cheaply mass-produced means it’s fairly light.

Moving the antique furniture from the basement and the storage unit will be way harder.

Still, my back aches from yesterday. I savor the break from the stairs as we wrap plastic covers around the mattresses, which we decided to keep.

The management company bought them shortly before the inn closed, so they’re practically good as new.

At least one thing they bought was an improvement instead of tragically hideous.

When we’ve finished emptying the unoccupied bedrooms on the third floor, we stand in silence by the pile of furniture, wiping our dusty hands on our shorts and deciding how to address the thing we’ve both been pretending hasn’t occurred to us.

“So, um, the last two bedroom sets,” I say as if it’s a brand-new thought. “We could leave the Zinnia Room mattress on the floor and I could—”

“We should both move to the penthouse,” Molly says quickly, as if she’s been working up the nerve to suggest it. “It makes the most sense. Right?”

“The penthouse…” I say, trying to hide my surprise.

“I’d rather not sleep on a mattress on the floor and live out of a suitcase,” Molly says. “And fixing up the guest rooms will be easier if we’re not living in them.”

She has a point. But I also remember the freaky sensation of seeing the penthouse again when I considered it for a cooking space.

Molly and I have shared a bed a few times without things getting too heated—in a sexy or a murdery kind of way.

But living together in our old apartment feels like a much bigger deal.

“It won’t be…weird? Being there together again? ” I ask.

Molly blinks. “Not if we don’t want it to be weird.”

“Okay.” I nod, realizing that this is it: the moment I’ve been waiting for since that chat over cake nine days ago, when we agreed to maritime law for our relationship inside the inn.

I can’t stop thinking about that time we kissed at One More Round, and the mornings we woke up snuggled together.

Could those things happen again? Could more happen?

Because I’ll admit it: I really fucking want more.

Based on the way Molly’s looking at me right now, I’m pretty sure she feels the same.

“I can move my things upstairs real quick,” I offer.

Molly nods. “I’ll do the same.”

“All right, then.” I push my sweat-dampened hair off my forehead, feeling as bubbly as a schoolgirl with a crush. I grin at Molly and say, “See you in the attic.”

—

We drop our bags in the penthouse, and Molly and I empty the furniture from the rooms we’ve been sleeping in for the past month. For dinner, I whip up a quick pasta with veggies from the garden and a white-wine butter sauce, which we both devour, starved after all that physical labor.

Then, both of us acting as if it’s completely normal and not at all like we’ve somehow traveled back in time to our twenty-two-year-old selves, we go to the attic.

I light a couple candles to freshen the stuffy attic air, then unpack my things into my old half of the closet and double dresser while Molly takes a shower.

When she comes out, a towel wrapped around her torso, her hair wet, the scent of her favorite tea tree and mint shampoo wafting off of her, I catch myself right before kissing her out of sheer muscle memory.

Instead, I gulp, look away, and lock myself in the bathroom for my own shower.

Molly’s in bed when I finish, reading some serious-looking novel in a pair of green reading glasses.

I’ve never seen her in glasses before. They make her look older.

In a good way. Like, I can see how mid-thirties Molly will age into forties Molly and fifties Molly and even sixties Molly. And she’s going to look hot as hell.

When I slide into bed next to her, Molly inhales sharply and adjusts her posture.

“Something wrong?” I ask.

“It’s just my shoulders and neck,” she admits. “Not as resilient as they used to be.”

“I feel you,” I say. “My knees have been creaking louder than that fifteenth stair. Would a massage help?”

I doubted she’d take me up on the offer, but she immediately says, “God, yes, please.”

She ties her damp hair in a bun on top of her head, whips off her loose sleep shirt to reveal a black sports bra, and sits up, turning her back to me. As soon as I make contact with her skin, there’s a tiny shock.

“Static electricity,” I say. Secretly, I think it was the ghost of all the energy we’ve expended in this bed before.

As I get to work on Molly’s muscles, she groans, melting into the palms of my hands.

All the bread and pasta dough I’ve kneaded over the years has made me a pretty good masseuse.

It’s all about feeling the give-and-take of what you’re working with, stretching to the limit before easing back, making sure no kinks get left behind.

She leans back into my chest the moment I stop, resting the back of her head on my shoulder. “That was so good,” she sighs. “I feel reborn.”

“Glad I could help,” I say, my heart rate increasing as I take in the view directly down her sternum into the V of her low-cut sports bra.

Molly sits up straight, swiveling toward me. “Your turn?”

“You don’t have to.”

“You moved heavy stuff around all day,” she says. “You’re going to feel it tomorrow.”

God, Molly looks so good. It’s hard to imagine a massage feeling better than simply staring at the tattoos wrapping around her ribs, water droplets sliding down her neck, the way she bites her pouty bottom lip while looking back at me.

“Yeah. Thanks,” I say, pulling my eyes away and turning my back to her.

“Don’t you want to take your shirt off?” Molly says, sitting up on her folded legs.

“I’m, uh, not wearing a bra.”

Molly says a breathy “oh,” then starts rubbing her thumbs into the muscles of my shoulders.

She’s right; I didn’t realize how sore I was until she starts working out the knots.

Molly’s got strong hands too, from hours cutting glass and soldering and whatever else goes into the windows she creates. It can’t be light work.

I also, admittedly, wish I didn’t have a shirt on.

I want to feel Molly’s hands on my bare skin.

But going nips-out on our first night in the penthouse together seems a bit forward.

During the massage, for just a moment, I let myself truly wonder what it would be like to make love to Molly now.

It’s a thought I’ve been holding back for a month.

For years, actually. But it’s a hell of a lot harder to block out when she’s in the same room.

When Molly trails her nails down my spine and creeps them up under the hem of my shirt, I wonder if I’m dreaming.

She glides her fingertips over my lower back, and all of my skin responds with goosebumps.

The room is so silent that I don’t think either of us is breathing.

Her hands move upward, pulling my top along with them.

I feel the heat of her torso, leaning in, her knees on either side of my hips.

My shirt is pulled all the way up when Molly’s palms reach my shoulder blades.

The vibe has shifted; however casually this started, it’s gone somewhere else now, and I wouldn’t dream of going back.

I feel the soft pressure of Molly’s lips against the back of my neck, and this is it, we’re at the top of the roller coaster, ready for the plunge.

And then there’s a meow and the squeak of bedsprings as Marmalade hops onto the mattress.

Startled, Molly and I jump away from each other like teens whose parents just caught them making out. Part of me wants to shoo the cat out of the room and keep things going. The other part of me thinks it’s a sign we needed to pump the brakes.

Molly makes the decision for us. She clears her throat, puts her shirt back on, and turns off her bedside lamp. “Good night,” she says, her voice tight, pulling the quilt all the way up to her chin.

“Good night,” I reply, my pulse racing. I’m certain I’ll never fall asleep with this whirlwind of emotions.

But with the sound of Molly’s steady breathing, the scent of her shampoo on my pillow, and the warmth radiating from her body, I fall into a deep slumber and dream of green eyes gleaming like colored glass.