Letters to Molly (Maysen Jar, #2)(2)

I had to admit, he wasn’t a bad guy. The constant touching was annoying, but call it guy’s intuition, I knew Jamie wasn’t in this for an easy score. He liked her.

I leaned my elbows on the bar and signaled for the bartender. “Bud Light.”

He came over and checked my ID, then went to the cooler for my beer. I dropped some cash on the bar, took a healthy pull from the longneck and, in no particular hurry, began making my way back to our booth in the far corner of the narrow restaurant.

Even from a distance, I could spot Poppy and Jamie making eyes at one another. She’d never been like this around a guy before. A pang of older-brother possessiveness hit hard. I didn’t want to think of her as a grown woman. I didn’t want her to find a man who’d take over the things I did for her now, like changing the oil in her car or buying her Chinese food on Sunday nights. I wanted her to stay my little sister.

But at the same time, I wanted her to find a decent guy. One I wouldn’t want to sucker-punch on their wedding day.

“Oh, shit,” a woman cursed just as a slosh of cold beer coated my hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“No problem.” I switched my beer to the other hand and wiped off the wet one on my jeans. Then I looked at the woman who’d bumped into my arm.

My mouth went dry.

Framed by brunette curls was a face so stunning I wasn’t sure where to look first. Her brown eyes twinkled, their flecks of gold matching the shimmer of her eye shadow. Her skin was like porcelain, flawless and creamy except for the rosy blush of her cheeks.

Her lips were painted a pale peach. Their delicate, soft color was sweet, a sharp contrast to those chocolate curls bouncing down her shoulders. Those curls screamed sex. They begged to be twisted around my fingers. To be splayed across my pillow.

“You’re Finn, aren’t you? Poppy’s brother?”

I forced my eyes away from her hair. “Uh-huh.” Smooth, dumbass.

“I’m Molly.” She stuck out her hand, taking mine and doing the handshake for us both.

This was the roommate? Yep. The woman of my dreams was my sister’s college roommate. Fuck me.

“You don’t have freckles either,” she said, studying my face.

No, I didn’t. Poppy and I both had red hair, mine a shade closer to auburn than her ginger. We’d inherited it from our mother but hadn’t gotten her freckles. None of which I could tell her because I’d forgotten how to speak.

I took a swig of my beer as Molly glanced around the restaurant. I swallowed it down, remembering I was a senior in college, not mute. And definitely better than this with women.

“We’re back there,” I said, gesturing to where Poppy and Jamie were sitting—and kissing again.

Molly spotted them and groaned. “Those two are nauseating right now. I ate lunch with them yesterday and had to throw a chicken nugget at Jamie’s head before he even realized I was there.”

I chuckled. “Poppy didn’t have many boyfriends in high school. This whole PDA thing is a first for me. I’m not going to lie, I don’t like it.”

“I’m not much for PDA myself. Call me old-fashioned, but I’d take a heartfelt letter over sucking face in a restaurant any day of the week.”

“A letter? I think the most I’ve ever written to a woman was a question on a sticky note. Does that count?”

She giggled, the melodic sound stealing my breath. “No, a sticky note doesn’t count.”

My gaze wandered back to her hair, following the silky spirals up from the curve of her breast to the shell of her ear. I really wanted to touch it. Would it be weird to touch it? Yes.

“Excuse me.” The waitress pushed past me with another loaded tray.

“Sorry.” I shuffled toward an empty high-top table so I was clear of the aisle. Poppy was so focused on her new boyfriend, she hadn’t even noticed Molly’s arrival. “I’m in no rush to get back to the kissing booth. Care to sit? You can educate me on all of the other old-fashioned customs missing in today’s dating rituals.”

“Like bundling. They should bring bundling back. And the pet name darling. Not darlin’,” she drawled. “I hate darlin’. But darling is rather charming, don’t you think?”

“It is.” I grinned, pulling out her chair, then went to my own.

Molly glanced over her shoulder, dismissing Poppy and Jamie for the last time. When she turned to me and smiled, the whole restaurant disappeared. “Those two won’t even know we’re missing.”

“What two?”





One





Molly





Fifteen years later . . .

“Married, single or divorced?” the salesman asked, his finger poised above his mouse, ready to click the appropriate checkbox on the screen.

“Divorced.” Even after six years that word still felt strange on my tongue.

Why did they even need to ask that question? Every loan application, PTA volunteer form and church questionnaire wanted to know your marital status. I was going to start checking the single box. What was the difference? I was buying this car. The fact that I had an ex-husband didn’t make a bit of difference because me, myself and I had no intention of missing a payment.

“Address?”