Wrong Man, Right Kiss (Gage Brothers 2)

Julian refused to think about Molly flying all alone to her solo exhibit. Getting chatted up by someone next to her in first class. By her fans and collectors at the gallery. It was an important time in her career. And Molly had celebrated…alone.

He refused to think about how he should’ve been there, always had been there.

He restlessly shifted in his seat, trying to console himself with the thought that at least Josh Blackstone, her gallerist, would be there with her. Julian’s old acquaintance was as ruthless as a hellhound, but fair with his artists and especially with Molly, whom he’d taken under his wing a long time ago when Julian urged her to submit her works for his consideration.

Blackstone had flipped, called it feisty and fresh, and the rest had been history.

“I’ve always loved her canvases, my dear. So bright and sunny. Like her. No wonder they do so well in the art market,” his mother casually told Kate, and the topic only incensed Julian to a whole new level.

“Remember how she used to save all those wrappers,” Garrett added in lingering disbelief. “And twine them around the tree trunks to make some weird…”

“Oh, yeah, the candy tree,” Landon said, lifting up his glass. “I think she has one in this exhibition. It’s considered to be her ‘early work.’”

“Remember that one review?” Beth said, turning to Landon. “You know the one, Lan… Where the reviewer said Molly was the kind of artist who could draw a simple sketch on a paper napkin and sign it and with that, not only pay for her dinner tab, but for the entire restaurant’s? Like it was rumored Picasso once did.”

The chair legs screeched like angry banshees as Julian pushed back his seat and rose, his face black with rage. With a shove-it-where-it-hurts look, he grabbed his drink to leave.

“Oh, Julian, dear,” Eleanor said, “Could you tell one of the servants to bring out the pies?”

He realized his drink was empty and slammed it back down. “Tell them yourself.”

Ready to call it quits on family time, he marched toward the dry clothes he’d left on a wood bench by the dock, angrily unzipping and yanking the top part of his wet suit down to his hips. His family kept talking of Molly’s artworks, how special they were, and yes, they were incredible pieces, amazing. But it was Molly whom he’d always considered the masterpiece. Living and breathing, coloring his world with passion and liveliness, making his every moment…worthwhile. God, he hated to remember how she used to make him feel.

Stopping in his tracks, he scowled at the wood bench. His clothes were nowhere to be found.

He stormed back to the group. “Where the hell is my stuff?”

Kate covered her cheeks with both hands, eyes wide. “Oh, I’m sorry! I hung everything in the closet at the cottage so it wouldn’t get wet or wrinkled.”

He rolled his eyes and stomped down the path to the spare cottage a good distance from the main house. Once he got there, he slammed the door shut behind him to keep the AC inside and went to the closet.

That was when he caught a shadow moving out of the corner of his eye.

He did a forty-five-degree turn and saw Molly. She stood by the window, like a virgin fire princess ready for the sacrifice of her life, her hair molten lava running down her rounded shoulders, wearing a sexy little strapless dress and glittery sandals, big earrings, big bangles and a big smile.

His body, traitorous, jumped to life at the sight of her as though twenty-three miserable, endless days of continual physical exertion were not enough to keep it numb. Oh, no, not around her. Her mere presence had flicked on his power switch. Now his blood rushed through his veins and his mind sparked to awareness, taking in every detail of her porcelain skin, her pale blue eyes, her shiny hair, her sweet, white, tiny little teeth she’d used to bite him lovingly. He took in every detail now only to torture himself with them later.

His palms itched, his breath hitched, and he said, “You.”

He heard shuffling outside the door, and then the sound of a bolt sliding into place.

Plunk.

And he realized too late, that his family had just locked him in with her.

* * *

“Me,” Molly agreed calmly.

And suddenly it didn’t matter that Julian obviously didn’t want to be here, that he didn’t want to see her. It didn’t matter that his eyes flashed reproachfully at her, that his stance was wide and defensive, that his lips were hard and pressed together in anger. The sight of him after all these painful days made her lungs throb and her head spin with the sheer joy of being able to look at him.

And he looked extremely good.

His torso was damp with lake water and tanned by the sun. His chest looked wider, his athletic form so incredibly sexy in the way the wet suit hung halfway down his body, emphasizing his narrow hips and waist. The shiny black fabric clung seductively to his thighs and to the prominent part of him that had once joined him with her. His hair was damp and slicked back from his face, revealing every inch of his formidable features. The features of a playboy, a Greek god, the man she loved—and the man who wanted nothing to do with her.

Molly trembled with nervousness, desire, regret.

She noticed his hair, still streaked enticingly by the sun, was growing a bit longer, to his nape, and she could smell the woods on him, the oaks and the cedars on the property.