Caged (Mastered, #4)(88)
So Molly had handed Black Arts the golden opportunity to prove to Deacon that without a girlfriend, and the rage about that driving him, Con Man would become the fighter he needed to be.
She might be sick.
No wonder Ronin had felt the need to come here personally to explain and soften the blow.
“Molly?”
Ronin’s ninja senses were unparalleled, so she couldn’t let on that she knew it was over between her and Deacon. “Sorry.”
His golden-eyed gaze sharpened. “About?”
“All of this drama. I hate that Amery is in the middle of it. She’s got a business to run. And with me being on autopilot the past few days, I haven’t pulled my weight.” She snatched another tissue. “Amery deserves better. So I’ll do as my grams advised. Pull myself up by my bootstraps and do what needs done. Move on.”
“But that’s not—”
“It’s fine.” Molly stood and offered Ronin a watery smile. “Thanks for talking to me.”
“Molly, wait—”
She didn’t hear anything else after she shut herself in the bathroom. Staring at herself in the mirror, she gave herself the mother of all silent pep talks.
This too shall pass.
You can’t miss what you never really had.
Don’t let a broken heart break your spirit.
Just keep swimming.
When all else fails, make a list.
The first thing on that list would be to find a new gym.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FOCUSING on Fee’s birthday party for Katie Saturday night provided Molly with a much-needed distraction. She’d hauled booze, set up seating areas, spooned out dip and hummus, loaded platters of crackers and chips.
So when Katie started micromanaging the placement of the bowls of gourmet olives, Fee banished Katie to her bedroom and put Molly on babysitting duty, warning her to get ready.
“Get ready” was girl code for—you deal with the crazy bitch when she starts strutting around in just her hot rollers.
It sucked to be the modest one in a sea of nymphs.
Sure, in the dojo locker room Molly could strip down to her bra and panties. But strolling around buck-assed naked in front of her friends? No way. Not even if she had a killer birthday suit like the birthday girl did.
Rather than sit on the counter in the bathroom, Molly parked herself in the bedroom, barring the door, keeping Katie in, rather than keeping others out.
“Hey, jailer,” Katie yelled from the bathroom. “Take a look at the outfits on the bed.”
Molly wandered to the alcove housing the four-poster, lake-sized bed. Swaths of sheer, shimmery blue fabric were artfully draped across the metal rods above the mattress, creating a canopy. Her gaze caught on leopard-print fur-lined handcuffs—a pair dangled from each side of the headboard.
An image popped into her head of being locked in cuffs as a man teased her with yards of silk.
Not a man. Deacon.
Dammit. Stop thinking about him. It’s over.
She focused on the clothing displayed on the pristine white comforter, as if arranged by a boutique salesperson.
The first outfit was a pale pink baby-doll dress—holy crap was it short, even with the puffy rolled layers of chiffon at the hemline. The neckline had been trimmed in white marabou. The silver stilettos on the floor were also festooned with pink fluff.
It screamed . . . retro. If anyone could pull off the sixties sex-kitten vibe, Katie could.
Outfit number two paired skinny jeans—Gucci, of course—with a shirt that started out a brilliant blue across the shoulders. The colors gradually lightened to a pale blue that reminded Molly of Deacon’s eyes. The fringe mimicked the ombré look of the fabric—but in reverse. The boots Katie had picked were killer: black leather with a cuff that covered the knee and the needle-sharp heels were at least four inches.
It screamed hot and sexy. No one wore a pair of fifteen-hundred-dollar jeans better than Katie.
The last outfit had a tiny red leather skirt, a sleeveless white V-neck silk shirt, and a sequined bolero jacket in tones of red, cream, and black. The black ankle-strap heels completed the ensemble.
Katie poked her head out. “So? What do you think?”
“Does the little red number come with a cape and a bull?”
She grinned. “It might attract a certain bull rider I’ve invited.”
“Won’t Ivan get jealous?”
“I’m counting on it. But tell me what you think of the others.”
“I like the fluffy pink baby doll.”
“But?” Katie prompted.
What Molly knew about fashion was cribbed from two sources: Fashion Police and InStyle magazine. So she hesitated to be truthful with Katie, who attended fashion week in New York. “Well . . .”
“Spit it out.”
“The shoes make the outfit boudoir wear. If you had white go-go boots, then it’d be perfect.”
Katie squealed. “I have a pair of those! Can you grab them out of my shoe closet?”
“Sure.” Katie had multiple closets in this mini-mansion. But the shoe closet was actually a small sitting room she’d remodeled for her vast footwear collection.
Since it’d be easy to get distracted by the shoe mecca, Molly headed straight for the boot section of the closet and found the shiny white vinyl boots on the second shelf.