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His lips thinned, and his expression changed into something darker and dangerous. “Like a storm to be avoided.”
Was he right? Did she view every man as an inevitable disaster that could only be circumvented through fortification?
“It’s not unwise, you know, to protect yourself against the elements,” she replied.
“You don’t need to protect yourself from me.” Brass’s declaration was as bold as it was tempting, especially as the very mouth that proclaimed it hovered inches from her own trembling lips. She didn’t want to think about the wiggle room in his words or how his slight touch on her skin settled more than just her nerves. The longer he sat with her, kneading her tension away with soft sensuality, the more his shoulders seemed to relax. Whatever had gripped him in the car right before they spun out had fled just as thoroughly as any lingering doubt she had about this man.
And then, like frickin’ clockwork, she said the first thing that popped into her mind. “You’re like a cat, you know that?”
The energy between them didn’t diminish but lightened to a comfortable flutter. “A cat?” Brass lifted a brow.
Well, since she couldn’t call her embarrassment back into the bag, along with the damn cat, she had no choice but to commit and give further voice to her thoughts. “It’s how I think of you sometimes. Like a stray cat who follows a deli worker around because they always smell like tuna.”
Those big shoulders lifted on a merry chuckle, which was adorably endearing for a man so serious. “I don’t know if that paints you in the most savory light, but continue.”
“I just mean you’re always around, even when I need the space to deal with whatever I need to, you’re kind of just there, lurking.”
“Lurking,” he said, testing the word while he scratched beneath his chin. “I don’t think I like the sound of that. Makes me sound like a predator.”
“Okay, maybe not lurking so much as . . . hovering? Or, maybe like a stand-in for an athlete or an actor. Prepared, poised to move if need be, but always just . . . there.”
The wine she’d had was clearly winning the evening, and damn if the hits didn’t keep on coming. Her mind and tongue had been thoroughly loosened, and there was very little to hold her frenzied thoughts back.
“This is going to sound crazy,” she said, leaning close enough to take him into her lungs, “but sometimes I get the impression I do reek of tuna, not literally, obviously, but like there’s some lure swirling around us.” Molly searched his eyes for confirmation. “Is that— That’s nuts, right? I mean, this is just?—”
“What happened with Braden?”
And just like that, he’d thrown out the one name that could shut down her alcohol-addled spiraling theory. Brass dropped his hand from her neck and shifted uncomfortably, as if her words had stung him.
His reaction was a slap to the face, more due to her confusion than obvious rejection. Had she said something out of line? Was she way out of left field with her assessment of their chemistry? Because, surely, there was something there, right? Men didn’t just offer to pry a woman’s pain out of her if there wasn’t a vested interest in being a part of the healing journey.
Or, like always, she reminded herself, maybe other motives lurked beneath the surface that told more of the story.
And there was always more to the story.
Molly recoiled, did her best to don the mantle of indifference that had gotten her so far in her career, and drained her wine glass before giving him the courtesy to finish what she’d started.
Not that she was entirely sure he deserved it.
“Not much to tell. We worked closely together on the Cinco de Mayo event for weeks. He encouraged me to incorporate more of my ideas into the spread, all the off-the-wall creations that I normally didn’t get a chance to express, and I even sketched out some future concepts in my notebook to help him visualize things when I didn’t have the materials to bring them to life. Then, a week before the event, Braden took a tasting menu of my dishes, along with my notes, to the head chef. When he came back, chef raved about them—along with the rest of Braden’s menu ideas.”
Brass’s eyes darkened. “He took the credit.”
“Not only did he take the credit,” she sneered, “but he didn’t even look at me when chef lauded him for his originality and ingenious problem-solving in front of the entire catering staff.” Molly sat back and braced herself for the boulder to the chest that always hit her whenever she thought back to those years. “A few months after Cinco de Mayo, Braden was promoted while I was let go in a round of layoffs once the bustle of the wedding season died down.” She lifted misty eyes to Brass and didn’t even try to tame the hurt in her voice. “Did you know he went on to work for a Michelin-starred restaurant in Paris? Asshole didn’t even know how to spell the damn word until I told him how I’d love to work under a Michelin chef one day.”
She sniffed away the clog of emotion and forced herself to continue. “And that was just one bump of many in the long road of shit luck that’s always followed me around. Before that, it was not graduating on time because even though I studied abroad for a semester and triple-checked that all my credits would transfer, there had been an administrative error and I had to redo the entire semester. Oh, and then there was the time my car broke down on my way to a major job interview, my very first one out of school. I was forty-five minutes late and was told I should have anticipated the delay and figured out how to show up on time regardless.” The memories kept railroading her, and the only way she could survive their onslaught was to name each and every painful one.
Molly counted off on her fingers. “Age sixteen, meningitis the week of junior prom; age eight, my father lands the best job of his career, only to be diagnosed with stage 1 lung cancer two weeks into his new health insurance’s waiting period, so nothing was covered.” She let the rest of her breath out, only to make enough room for the largest tsunami to crest over any remaining good thoughts Brass may have had about her. “And the pièce de résistance,” she said quietly into the belly of her wine glass, “age eighteen months, birth parents are killed in a car accident, and for reasons that were lost with them, they never recorded my birth with the national hospital. Because of my lack of identity and health information, I spent a full year in a Latvian orphanage as a toddler before I was able to formally be added into the adoption data banks, adopted by my new parents, and brought here.”
Before her, Brass had already cleared her plate away, leaving just the right amount of room for her to brace her arms across the table lest she fall over from being scooped out hollow. “I’ve learned to make my own luck, because no one has ever handed it to me. I wasn’t just born under a bad star but followed around by some trickster with a sick sense of humor. I’ve stumbled more times than I can count and learned how to stitch up more wounds because of it. Everything I’ve earned has come on the backs of countless late nights and even more early mornings, while the men in my industry get to sleep late and watch others climb the ladder for them, holding their place until they can find a way to tag in and capture the flag on someone else’s merit. So forgive me if self-preservation is more important than the egos of others, especially those I work with. Excuse me.”
Before Brass could say anything else, Molly made her long-overdue retreat and shut herself inside her bedroom. Once huddled against the door, vibrating from the torrent of all she’d confessed, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to erase the look on Brass’s face when she’d dared mention whatever energy seemed to curl around them.
Revulsion. Rejection.
He was right, she concluded after the shaking finally stopped. Maybe she did look at him like a storm to be avoided and fortified against.
And what better way to do that than by walling up her most fragile parts?
