“Haha. I’m not raising her. I’m just helping. And I know they appreciate that. In fact, I’m sure they’d love for me to let Winn, Ava’s fifteen-year-old brother, move in with me for the next few years. That kid is a handful.”
“Wow. Do you intend to, uh, adopt your brother? Make him your roommate?”
“Oh, hell no.” I assure him. “My family members on both sides lean on me a lot. I think I’m listed as the emergency contact for about thirty people. And I’m happy with this arrangement. I’m a fixer. But there is no way I’m inviting my moody, stinky, grumpy, hungry brother to move in. I don’t want kids of any shape or form. Not my own, and not anyone else’s. But I have no problem pitching in when I’m needed.That’s why I can’t wait to be an auntie to Elaine’s baby.”
Ev’s fingers still for just a second at my words and then they resume their rhythm, as though there was no interruption. But I felt it. What is going on? Is he bothered by the reminder that I’ll be in his niece or nephew’s life just like he will? Is it the fact that I’m so family-oriented? Is he turned off by my admission that I’m not going to have children? Whatever it is, I’m not in the mood for heavy conversation right now. And besides, we really are just friends. And none of my choices or opinions change that.
“Ugh. Don’t mind me. I’m just being whiny.” I stretch my legs out in front of me and roll my ankle to ease some tension. These are not busy day shoes. I should have known better than to wear them, but I can never resist them.”
Releasing his grip on my shoulders, Ev pulls his chair right next to mine, draping my legs across his knees as he grips the offending pink wedge heel and plucks it off my left foot. “Is that because they’re your favorite color or because you know you look fucking hot in them?” He questions me as he treats my tired foot to the same ministrations he just lavished on my neck.
So here I sit, in the lobby of a downtown hotel, on a Friday afternoon, with Ev Madigan stroking the everloving shit out of my feet as though it’s the most normal and natural thing. His touch is powerful—not too hard, but not soft and gentle, either. It’s an echo of the care and attention he showed me back in December when we spent the night together. And now, like then, his fingers are having quite an effect on me. Before I can give in to the sensations or allow myself to indulge in the pleasure of his flesh on mine, I hear our names being called from the reservation desk.
“Ms. Randall and Mr. Madigan?”
“Guess that’s our cue.” I lean forward and untangle my legs from his lap. He extends his hand to steady me, and I take it, more for its warmth than anything.
“It would seem so, but we’re not done here.”
God help me, but that commanding voice does something to me. Heat shoots through me at his words, though they’re not especially salacious or provocative. But I know the promise that lies beneath the surface. And, more importantly, I know that this man can make good on his promise.
Ev turns to greet the wedding planner, seemingly unaffected by his own words or the moment we just shared, but I know better. Sure, his voice is steady and clear, and he’s all ease and charm, but I can see the tick of his jaw and the tension in his posture. He’s as affected by our chemistry as I am.
That gives me an odd sense of satisfaction. I don’t really want to be in this situation, but at least I’m not the only one in it.
“Hi, I’m Charlene Powell, the event planner here at the Admiral Inn.” Charlene’s hair is a brunette helmet lovingly coated in a protective layer of hairspray and her smile is plastered in place. She’s talking, but her face is barely moving. She has that former beauty queen look about her, and this is clearly not her first wedding consultation.
Charlene walks us to the ballroom for a brief tour and then invites us into her office to outline the finer points. She breezes through these as though she recites them several times a day, which is likely true.
Ev and I nod at all the right times and respond politely to all of her coupley puns. We smile when she tells us that the chef’s recipes are “bride and true,” and we laugh along when she says that Simon and Elaine’s chosen time frame is tricky, but she thinks she can “pull some rings.”
Forty-five cheek-aching minutes later, Charlene sends us on our way with an informational folder and a parade-worthy wave.
“That woman’s face really doesn’t move when she talks,” I say when we’re out of earshot.
“I am not remotely interested in talking about that woman or her oddly immobile face.”
His hand encircles my wrist in the way that I love, the way that silently claims me, the way that is so beyond friendly. I shouldn’t, but I give in and flirt. “What are you interested in, Ev?”
He chooses his words carefully, the way he always does. “I want a drink, Molly.”
“Yeah? That can easily be arranged. I mean, it’s one’clock, but the bars are open.”
He shakes his head as his other hand grips my waist. “I want to have a drink in my hotel room,” he clarifies. “With you.”
This is a terrible idea. But such a good terrible idea. I’m on the cusp of giving in when my phone buzzes from my purse at an alarming volume.
The spell broken, I take a step back and root through my bag, just as Ev pulls his ringing phone from his pocket. No wonder the noise was so loud. He talks on his phone as I type on mine.
Winn: Molly? My mom’s not answering her phone.
Winn: Molly? I’ve got a migraine.
Winn: Can you come get me?
Molly: On my way, kiddo. I’ll call the office and sign you out. Text your mom and let her know.
Winn: Don’t call me kiddo.
