Page 67 of Hex and the Kitty (Whispering Pines #9)
SIXTY-SEVEN
W arrick broke the kiss but kept his arm around Molly as they exited. The protective gesture spoke volumes—after nearly losing her at the ball, he seemed unwilling to allow even minimal distance between them.
The hospital’s automatic doors whooshed open, releasing them into the crisp autumn air. Molly inhaled deeply, savoring the mingled scents of fallen leaves, distant woodsmoke, and Warrick’s distinctive sandalwood-and-forest cologne.
“Freedom,” she sighed, tipping her face to the sun.
Warrick’s car waited at the curb—sleek, dark, and undeniably expensive, like everything he owned. He opened the passenger door, his hand lingering on her waist as she slid into the buttery leather seat.
“Thanks for the help,” he told David, clapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder.
“Just glad to see her upright.” David’s usual joking demeanor softened. “Take care of our baker witch, Chief.”
“Always.”
As David departed, Warrick circled to the driver’s side. Molly watched his fluid movements through the windshield, still marveling that this powerful, graceful being had chosen her. His tiger heritage revealed itself in the smallest details—the predatory awareness of his surroundings, the economical grace of his stride, the intensity of his focus when it landed on her.
He slid behind the wheel, immediately reaching for her hand. The gesture came so naturally now, when weeks ago it would have seemed impossible from the stoic fire chief.
“You’re staring,” he noted, starting the engine.
“Just admiring the view.” She squeezed his fingers. “Is that allowed?”
“Encouraged, even.” He pulled away from the hospital, navigating Whispering Pines’s winding streets with the ease of someone who had quickly memorized every inch of his territory.
Molly noticed they weren’t heading toward her apartment above the bakery. Instead, Warrick turned onto Maple Grove Lane—the exclusive neighborhood where his family estate stood among centuries-old trees.
The question formed on her lips, but something in his expression—a hint of vulnerability beneath the confidence—made her wait.
“I thought,” he began, his deep voice uncharacteristically hesitant, “that you might consider staying with me. Not just for recovery, but...permanently.”
Her heart performed a complicated acrobatic routine in her chest. “Are you asking me to move in with you, Chief Shaw?”
“Yes.” He navigated a turn, his eyes fixed on the road. “Though, if it’s too soon?—“
“It’s perfect,” she interrupted, her voice soft but certain. “After everything that’s happened, I don’t want to waste another minute pretending we’re not exactly where we should be.”
Warrick braked sharply, pulling to the curb. The car had barely stopped when he turned to her, golden eyes blazing with an emotion that stole her breath.
“Say that again.”
“Which part?” Her pulse quickened at the intensity of his gaze. “The ‘it’s perfect’ part or the ‘where we should be’ part?”
“All of it,” he growled softly, leaning across the console.
“I want to be with you,” she whispered, meeting him halfway. “Every day. Every night. No more pretending this is anything other than what it is—two people who’ve found exactly where they belong.”
His hand cradled her face with exquisite tenderness, thumb tracing the curve of her cheekbone. “Do you have any idea what you do to me, Molly Hues?”
Before she could formulate a clever response, his lips claimed hers. Unlike the careful kiss in the elevator, this one carried raw honesty—the passion of a man who’d feared losing his mate, the reverence of someone who understood the rarity of true connection, the promise of a future neither had expected but both now fiercely wanted.
When they finally parted, Molly’s fingers had somehow tangled in his hair, and his hands gripped her waist with barely restrained strength.
“We should probably continue this conversation somewhere more private,” she suggested, her voice husky.
The drive to Warrick’s home took less than five minutes, but Molly’s awareness stretched each second into an eternity. His hand returned to hers after each gear shift, his thumb tracing idle patterns on her skin that sent shivers cascading through her body.
They pulled up to his single-story with the large picture window she loved.
“Home sweet home,” Warrick murmured as they came to a stop.
The word “home” reverberated through Molly’s chest. How many times had she created that feeling for others through her bakery, her pastries, her welcoming smile—all while maintaining a careful emotional distance in her own apartment? The thought of truly sharing space, of waking beside Warrick each morning and falling asleep in his arms each night, filled her with a joy so intense it bordered on terror.
“Second thoughts?” he asked quietly, reading her expression with uncanny accuracy.
She shook her head. “Just realizing how perfectly this fits. Us. Here. Together.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It’s everything I never let myself want.”
Warrick brought her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Then let’s go inside, baker witch. Your new home awaits.”