think she would ever understand how a woman could walk away from her child like that—cutting all ties and never looking back. Instinctively, her hand went to her still-flat tummy. Though her baby was just starting to be, she was already overwhelmed with love for her child and she vowed silently but vehemently to always be there for her baby.
Which meant that she had to start giving serious consideration to the day-to-day practicalities of parenthood. In particular, she needed to consider what was she going to do when she had a child of her own—could she continue to serve customers with a playpen behind the bar? And even if that worked for the first several months, she couldn’t keep a toddler confined to a mesh-cage for a six-hour shift any more than she could allow him free rein to crawl around the restaurant.
But what other option did she have?
Sell.
The answer popped into her head from nowhere—or maybe it had been lurking in the back of her mind since Abbey had first spoken of the possibility after their father died.
Her sister had broached the subject a few more times since then, but Molly had always balked. Shea’s was their legacy, the only thing they had left that was their father’s.
And even if they sold the bar, even if they found a buyer, what would she do after? Who would hire her? She had no real skills, no experience, and now she had a baby on the way.
You could write.
This time the voice in head sounded suspiciously like her grandmother’s, and the words were a familiar refrain.
Even as a child, she’d had stories in her head. Her father had enjoyed the fanciful tales she’d spun and appreciated that her narratives entertained his customers; her grandmother had always insisted that Molly was a born storyteller. Molly only knew that there were characters and scenes constantly spinning around in her mind and she had a drawerful of notebooks in which she’d jotted down those ideas in an attempt to clear them from her mind.
But while she might occasionally fantasize about being a writer, she didn’t have any illusions that she could simply decide to make that kind of career change and expect to pay the bills. So what could she do?
She felt the sting of tears in her eyes as the questions came at her from all directions. Questions without apparent answers. Problems without any solutions.
She sat on a stool and pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes and wished again that her father was here. Since he’d passed away, she’d been the mature and responsible one—the one everyone else turned to for help, the shoulder that others cried on. For once—just once—she wanted a shoulder to cry on, strong arms to wrap around her, someone she could count on and believe in and—
She shook her head, furiously pushing aside the image of Eric Santiago that managed to steal into her mind. How could she even think about leaning on him when he was the one who’d started her world spinning out of control? She couldn’t. No way, no how.
Molly would handle this current predicament as she’d handled everything else in her life since her father died—on her own.
Eric managed to stay away from the restaurant and the temptation of Molly for three days. On day four, he decided he wanted to go out for lunch, and found himself driving toward Shea’s. She was right in saying that they didn’t know one another very well, but what he found more interesting than this assertion was her determination to keep him at a distance so that she wouldn’t get to know him.
This time when he entered the restaurant, he saw Molly not standing behind the bar but seated at it, talking to another woman beside her. He wasn’t going to interrupt, but it was almost as if she was as attuned to his presence as he was to hers, because she looked up and her eyes met his.
He smiled, and she smiled back, albeit tentatively.
As if cluing in to the silent exchange, the woman seated beside Molly looked up. The two women looked enough alike that he would have guessed they were sisters, though he hadn’t known that she had a sister, which again proved her point that there was a lot they didn’t know about one another.
Molly was wearing slim-fitting jeans and a sleeveless blouse with tiny little flowers embroidered on the collar. Practical yet feminine, he thought, and so perfectly suited to Molly. Her sister was wearing a dress with a criss-cross tie down the back that drew attention to her curves and strappy sandals with pencil-thin heels. Her hair wasn’t as long or as dark as Molly’s and was streaked with lighter strands.
His gaze moved back to Molly, noting the hair that was pulled away from her face in a ponytail, the deep blue eyes surrounded by thick dark lashes, full lips that were slicked with clear gloss, and he felt the now-familiar stir of desire low in his belly.
“Just in the neighborhood?” Molly asked.
“Just hungry,” he said. “And I heard they serve a pretty good lunch in here.”
“You heard right,” Molly said. Then, at the nudge from her sister, she made the introductions.
“This is my sister, Abbey,” she told him. Then to Abbey, “Meet Prince Eric Santiago.”
“Prince Eric?”
“Scott’s best friend,” Molly explained to her sister.
“The best man,” Abbey said, and lifted a brow. “And are you? The best, I mean.”
Eric looked at Molly, who rolled her eyes.
“You’re married,” she reminded her sister.
“Separated,” Abbey said.
“And Eric came in for a meal, not an interrogation.” Molly stood and, grabbing a menu from the counter, led him to a booth in the corner.
“I wouldn’t mind some company,” he said, sliding into the booth.
“You want me to send my sister over?”
“I meant your company,” he clarified.
“Sorry, I have to finish up next week’s schedule.”
He hadn’t really expected that she would accept his invitation.
For reasons he couldn’t even begin to fathom, she was edgy around him, almost antagonistic. Instead of dissuading him, her attitude only made him all the more determined to break through her barriers and rediscover the warm, wonderful woman he knew was inside.
“You could do that here—unless you think I’m too much of a distraction.”
“You’re just too much.”
He grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You would.” She dropped the menu on the table, then with a sigh, she slid into the seat across from him. “You have a way of irritating me so that I forget I’m trying to be nice.”
“Why does it take such an effort?”
“Because you rub me the wrong way.”
He
