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At the top of the stairs, I pause. What the fuck am I acting so cheery for? I should’ve punched Remy for the stunt he pulled last night. Diabolical fucking asshole.
Does Molly even know I left early last night?
She would if she’d bothered to check her phone.
The soft twang of country music reaches me in the hallway outside Molly’s bedroom. My mouth turns up when I catch Molly’s soft voice singing along.
“Sometimes your white knight rides a Harley,
Sometimes he saves you from drowning,
When you’re only in three feet of water…”
The door’s open a crack and I stop.
Pink socks. She’s lying in bed on her stomach, feet in the air, and that’s the first thing that comes into view. Pink socks with little red cherries dotted all over them. Long, bare legs. Loose, black cotton shorts with pink flamingos that show off every curve of her butt. Black, long-sleeved T-shirt, lifted a little, baring her skin.
I rap my knuckles against the door. She clicks the music off, closes her book, and glances over her shoulder.
“Griff?” She rolls to her side and sits up. “What’re you doing in my bedroom at this hour?”
“Need to talk to you.” I lift my chin toward the small red speaker on her nightstand. “Were you listening to Shelby Morgan?”
A quick grin stretches across her lips. “Yeah.” She yawns and runs her hands over her hair, gathering it into one hand, then letting it loose. Her happy surprise at seeing me seems to fade into sadness. “Did…did you stay over?”
“No. I went home right after you left.” I nod to her bed. “Last night.”
She tucks one leg under her butt and her curious blue eyes meet mine. “Does Remy know you’re up here?”
“Yup. Just saw him.”
“Oh.” Her gaze flits around the room, looking at anything but me. “Okay.”
“Can we talk?”
This calls for me to be a hell of a lot closer, so I step all the way inside. Haven’t been in her room since the night I carried her up to bed. Before that, it must’ve been when I helped Remy move her into the house. Once I realized my feelings for Molly had changed, it seemed like a bad idea to get too comfortable in her space—or anywhere near a bed whenever she was around.
As I approach, her lips twitch into a shaky smile. “What’re you doing?” she whispers.
“Talking to my girl.”
Another raised brow. “Your girl?”
I drop down on the bed next to her and take her hands in mine. “Yeah. My girl.”
Her jaw tightens and she pulls her hands out of my grasp. Is she thinking about last night? About Layla in my lap? Is she mad I didn’t chase after her?
It doesn’t matter. None of that matters now.
“I’m not your girl,” she whispers but then her voice gains strength. “Looked like Layla was your girl last night. She seemed awfully cozy in your lap.” She glares at me. “Didn’t look like her first time sitting on your throne, Royal.”
Her jealousy’s kind of cute. She has no idea that I felt nothing but annoyance when Layla touched me.
But Molly’s tough-girl act is just that—an act. There’s nothing cute about the hurt in her eyes.
“No other girl will ever touch my lap again,” I swear with the solemn tone of a priest taking a vow. “I promise.”
She presses her fist into the mattress and slides a few inches away. “Don’t make fun of me.”
