I’ll just keep telling myself all the effort was for my mom and sister, and not for Molly.
Speaking of Kendall, she got freakishly excited too, singing that annoying-ass song—“Weston and Molly sitting in the tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G”—over and over before I bolted from the house.
Unable to concentrate, I lean back and take off my cap, running my fingers through the hair that’s no longer there. I keep forgetting how short it is. Damn.
I raise my eyes as I set the hat down on my head, brim to the back, and I swallow hard as Molly walks into the room. She’s stopped at the circulation desk, leaning over on her elbows across the counter with a slip of paper extended toward Mrs. Stalworth, the dumpy old librarian, who takes it and grins.
As they continue quietly chatting, I’m checking her out…
Obviously.
Even in casual school clothes, she makes my breath hitch, and I reach up to flip my hat back around so no one catches the expression in my eyes, which I’m assuming is akin to adoration. Let’s just get something straight right now: Weston McGrath doesn’t get caught checking chicks out—ever.
And just so we’re clear, he also doesn’t do girlfriends.
But hell, why is she so much goddamn cuter than I remember?
Molly leans against the counter, still oblivious to the fact that I’m watching her from the corner of the room. It’s the first glimpse I’ve had of her since Saturday, and the sight of her gets my blood flowing, especially in those tight blue jeans, which hug her ass like a second skin.
She straightens to a stand, and my eyes rake hungrily over the navy blue and white striped tank top that’s pulled tightly across her breasts (nice), over which she’s wearing an unbuttoned gray cardigan. A thin brown leather belt is wrapped around her waist, and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail with the cutest fucking white bow in it.
Now how in the hell am I going to concentrate?
Finally she turns and scans the room, looking for a place to sit. I sit at attention, my posture a little straighter, and silently will Molly to notice me in the back of the room. Shit, why did I have to sit back here? Oh, that’s right, because I’m a fucking idiot.
Patiently, I wait.
I’m rewarded when our eyes meet and she takes those first tentative steps toward me—but then she falters. Biting on her lower lip, she is obviously measuring whether or not to approach me, and I mentally chastise myself for not having texted her after our date. It was a great date—so great I was hard for two days afterward—but let’s be honest, this isn’t going anywhere. Despite that, I feel like a world-class jackass, and I wouldn’t blame her if she sat somewhere else, even though I know she won’t.
Because Molly Wakefield is classier than that, and I doubt she tolerates bullshit. In fact, I would kind of expect her to waltz over and bitch me out for not calling.
Weaving her way through the tables that have been staggered around the room, I think she is going to come over to my table.
Then she shocks the crap out of me.
In a library full of people, instead of choosing to sit with me, she parks it at a table with some random emo chick I’ve never seen before and who is wearing all black. Her chair is facing me, and she shoots me a smile that I can tell is forced even from here, despite my lack of a sensitivity gene. Molly then lobs her black backpack onto the table’s surface in front of her, and I watch as she unzips it and takes out a notebook then a calculator.
Fine, ignore me. See if I give two shits.
I glance at the clock. Forty minutes left in the period. I can handle that.
Only…I keep stealing glances at Molly, who has her head bent, the ends of her ponytail flirting with her collarbone. The little bow pinned in her hair is a nice contrast to the tight fit of her shirt, and my eyes wander to the bare skin above her neckline.
Staring at her neck reminds me of how fantastic she smells, how her smooth skin tasted against my tongue, and I shift in my seat, the memories making me hard—in the damn library, of all places. Watching her sit there, completely ignoring me like I’m not even in the room, is bringing out all of my narcissistic tendencies, and now all I want is her attention.
I really am a fucker.
Yup, that’s right—my resolve lasted all of five minutes.
Look up, Molly, I quietly chant to myself. Look up.
And then on cue, as if she can hear me, she does.
* * *
Molly
He’s got my attention. Now what’s he going to do with it?
I watch as Weston stares me down, and to say I’m totally confused right now is an understatement. For two whole days I waited for him to contact me—they felt like a freaking eternity. I carried my phone around pitifully because I didn’t want to miss that ping of a text alert or a phone call, hoping it would be him and being let down and disappointed each time it wasn’t.