“Are you a Los Angeles July Fourth evangelist, Molly Marks?”
“I guess I am. It’s this pure, magical night. You should come sometime.”
She seems to take in what she said exactly in tandem with me—it makes her visibly gulp, and makes me sweat a little.
“I mean, you know,” she says quickly, “you should visit LA for the Fourth sometime, not—”
“Yeah, I get it,” I assure her.
“Not to be rude, it would just be weird if—”
“Molls,” I say, taking her by the shoulders and lowering my voice. “I get it. You’re not inviting me to come stay at your house for Fourth of July. It’s okay. I’m not offended. I’d rather visit you over Thanksgiving anyway. I make incredible pumpkin pie.”
She relaxes.
And then we are standing in the moonlight, on a gorgeous beach, and I am holding her, and she is looking into my eyes, and she is so beautiful.
I know what I have to do.
It’s the law, and I am an officer of the court.
CHAPTER 7Molly
Slowly, Seth leans in.
Slowly, I step forward and put my lips to his.
And then 2002 takes over our bodies.
Seth knows exactly how to kiss me. Or perhaps he just invented the model, and now it’s the standard by which I judge all other kisses.
Either way, he pulls me into him, wraps his fists in my hair, and jerks my neck a little bit—which is the end for me.
For such a sensitive guy, he was always surprisingly dominant in “bed”—or more literally under piers, in the backseats of cars, and in empty guest bedrooms at friends’ house parties.
Manhandling works on me. It forces me to be, as my therapist says, “present.”
To this day I keep my hair long so guys can pull it the way Seth used to.
I go at him hungrily, and before long we collapse onto the sand. This is bone-white, fine-as-sugar barrier island sand, so it immediately makes a film over our bare skin and lodges into our clothes.
We don’t care. We are consuming each other.
“Wait,” I gasp, coming up for air. He instantly stops the pleasurable—extremely, intensely pleasurable—thing he is doing with his fingers, which are underneath my panties.
“This is literally illegal. You’re a lawyer. You could be disbarred.”
“It might be worth it,” he says hoarsely.
I sit up. “Hotel,” I say. “We need to go to the hotel.”
“Molly Marks”—I can hear the Flamingos in his voice—“are you inviting me to your room?”
“Use it or lose it, Rubes.”
He hops to his feet (impressive core strength) and reaches a hand down to help me up.
“Do I look like I just did hand stuff on the beach?” I ask, trying to brush sand out of my hair—which is now tousled into knots from all the delectable pulling.
