date anyone else, either, for that matter.” She waited for the disbelief, the inevitable questions. She’d been down this road before.
Moving to the opposite side of the bed, Devin automatically grabbed one end of the mattress pad and began pulling it into place. “You don’t date anyone? I guess your ex really did a number on you.”
Intent on making him see, Molly adjusted her side of the pad to fit. “Actually, my decision has little to do with him.” Which wasn’t exactly true, but close enough. “I simply don’t have time. My work at the café, including quite a bit of overtime some weeks, keeps me very busy. I take night classes on Tuesdays and Thursdays at Arizona State, except the summer session. During tax season, I work part-time for a CPA. With all that, I scarcely have time to get in six hours of sleep, much less a date.” She reached for the pale-peach fitted bottom sheet, wondering why she was bothering to explain herself to this stranger.
Maybe because he was so damn persistent. Grabbing his side of the sheet, Devin bent to maneuver it into the upper corner. “C’mon, Molly. Everyone needs a little R-and-R now and again. Haven’t you heard about all work and no play making Jack—or Jill—very dull?”
Why was it that men thought that their mere presence in a woman’s life would change dull to unbearably exciting? “I take time for myself. I have friends, two in particular, former college roommates, and Trisha. I go shopping with my mother, have an occasional dinner out with my sister, take my niece to the movies. Oh, and sometimes I baby-sit Trisha’s little boy when she goes out. I watch television, read, garden. I think my life’s pretty full.” She sent him a challenging look.
He didn’t let her down. “Were you always so reclusive, content with work, family, friends and TV? Don’t you get lonely for a one-on-one with a man? You probably dated a lot before your marriage. You had to have. I mean, a woman like you…”
Molly’s head jerked up from securing her corner. “What do you mean, a woman like me?”
Devin straightened, wondering why she was so defensive. “I mean a woman who’s very attractive and obviously intelligent. Why would you choose to spend all your free time with your mother, old college friends and a couple of kids?”
She had dated a lot in college and some after she’d first walked away from Lee. The problem was that by the second date, indeed if they’d waited that long, they’d been all hands and pressure and a wet, seeking mouth. So she’d stopped dating, stopped hoping there was someone out there who could care for her for all the right reasons, a mature man who was his own person. One who could love a flawed woman with a trampled heart.
After three years, she’d about convinced herself that no such man existed, and she didn’t want the other kind.
“It’s just easier, that’s all.” She picked up the top sheet and shook it out, then realized what she was doing. She was making up her bed with a near stranger, an intimate act if there ever was one.
Molly drew in a deep breath. “Listen, I can do this myself. Don’t you have some work to do?” Maybe rude was all he understood.
He’d watched the play of emotions revealed so clearly on her transparent face. “You really have a great deal of trouble accepting help, don’t you?”
Their conversation was exasperating her. “When I need help, truly need it, I’ll ask. But I’ve been making beds alone for years. Don’t you have a book you need to write, or is this part of your research?”
He smiled at that. “Are you worried you’ll wind up in one of my books?”
“Not really.” She began spreading out the top sheet. “My life is too dull to interest anyone.”
Despite her admonitions, he pitched in on his side of the bed. “I doubt that, not if someone were to dig deep enough. Readers like to read about people’s good points and bad. Genuine people, warts and all.”
“I have as many warts as a pondful of frogs.”
“Toads.”
“What?” She reached for two pillows, then their cases.
“Toads have warts, not frogs.”
“I stand corrected, since you’re the writer. Did you major in English or journalism or American Literature? How does one become a writer?” All right, so he was interesting to talk with. And, Molly had to admit, she had few adult conversations that didn’t center around a menu.
“I majored in Business Administration at my father’s insistence since he was paying the tab. But I minored in English and took all the lit courses I could squeeze in.” He stuffed the fluffy pillow into the case, struggling to get it to fit. “As to how someone becomes a writer, I think it’s something some people just have to do because they have these stories in their head they need to get out. And because they’re unable to fathom holding down a structured job, day after day, doing the same thing over and over. Like my parents did. Or rather still do.”
“What do they do?”
“They’re in hardware. Own and operate six stores in the L.A. area. They’ve worked twelve-hour days seven days a week as long as I can remember.”
“So it’s the long hours you want to avoid and the monotony?”
“Not even that.” He caught his half of the lightweight cotton blanket she spilled onto the bed. “Apparently they love what they do. Different strokes for different folks, as they say. I like to set my own hours. Sometimes I write half the night and sleep all day. Some weeks I work every day, other weeks only three days. Depends on how the book’s going and how close my deadline is. I like the freedom of making my own choices without punching a time clock.” Finished, he straightened, wondering if in stating his preferences, he’d offended her since waitressing was as structured as working in a hardware store.
Stopping to gaze out the window, Molly sighed. “I understand perfectly and I couldn’t agree more.”
Devin walked over to her side of the bed. “Tell me why.”
As Molly turned to face him, they both heard the toot-toot of Hank’s truck horn. “I’ve got to go.”
He touched her arm. “Later, maybe?”
“Maybe.” She walked around him, needing to go outside. Hank wasn’t in the best of moods and she didn’t want to upset him. She also didn’t want to reveal any more about herself right now. Devin Gray seemed able to knock aside her usual defenses and get her to talk about herself far more than usual.
Interesting, Devin thought as he walked toward the back door. He decided to go back upstairs so old Hank wouldn’t get his nose any further out of joint. Besides, he’d discovered that he and Molly Shipman had more in common than he’d thought.
Worth pursuing, he decided as he poured himself a cold drink in his kitchen. Definitely worth pursuing.
It was two o’clock by the time the last of her things had been brought over and unloaded. A grateful Molly opened two cold drinks and handed them to her helpers. “You can’t know how much I appreciate all you’ve both done, guys.”
“No thanks necessary,” Hank answered for both of them before tilting his head back for a long swallow.
Molly
