Marty was giving her the same look. "I know. Just saying that it was a good segment. We needed some more stuff like this after a week of filming practice and Noah glaring at his iPad screen while he watched film."
That brought a smile to her face.
"I don't glare at my screen," I argued.
He pointed at Molly's iPad. "May I?"
"Go right ahead."
Marty lifted it and did this weird squint face frown that had Molly laughing out loud.
"I do not look like that," I said.
"Trust me, buddy, you do." He grinned, handing the iPad back to Molly.
As he packed up, the two of them chatting easily, trying to figure out if it made sense for Marty to drive her back home or if it was out of his way, I had a strangely settled feeling.
Was it sad that these two people—the guy who was being paid to film my life and the woman I should want nothing to do with—were now my closest friends?
They didn't look at me and see The Machine. I was Noah to them, and it had been a long time since that had been the truth for anyone.
Molly said goodbye to Marty as he hefted his camera bag over his shoulder, and I walked through the family room and dining area to make sure all the lights were turned off. Neither one of us spoke as she watched me tidy up and return the rolled yoga mats behind the loveseat where I found them.
I straightened and faced her, very aware of the quiet house, and how it was the first time we'd truly been alone since our moment in the elevator. No one would be coming up the stairs. Down the hallway. Through the front door.
It was just me and her.
Judging by the deepening pink on her cheeks, she was just as aware of it.
Her breath left her in a rush, shakier and louder than when we'd done the video, and I saw her punch some buttons on her screen almost frantically.
"Can I take you home?" I asked.
She shook her head, and a few stray chunks of hair that had slipped from her updo fell around her neck and shoulders. "I just called my Uber. It'll be here in about five minutes." Molly looked past me and stared at the lake again. "I think that makes more sense."
"It probably does," I agreed.
Me taking her home was a slippery slope. We were already going to spend the weekend together at my grandma's, and that was complicated enough. In one evening, I felt like Molly took a wrecking ball and knocked down every wall that had been constructed around my life, and she'd done it unknowingly.
Offering to take her home went in direct opposition to everything I'd promised myself after I left Miami, but I couldn't even care because it was her.
I realized with stunning and simple clarity that I trusted her. This was not someone who'd betray me. Who'd use me or derail me or undermine my career.
And I wanted her.
Those two things, true and real and important, were why I moved toward her.
Admitting that I wanted her was so much easier than I thought it would be. All week, I’d used an array of excuses as to why I fixated on her so much and why her distance from me was so bothersome.
All those excuses fell away quietly, easily. My brain clicked into place, another decision made, one that I knew instinctually was right.
I wanted Molly Ward.
For the first time in years, football wasn't the first thing on my brain. It wasn't even the second. Not at that moment. At that moment, the only thing I cared about was knowing more about this woman. About how she felt in my arms and what her skin smelled like underneath the ears that stuck out from her delicate face.
Molly, oblivious to the seamless thoughts in my head, had turned toward the door.
I snagged her wrist before she could.
"Wait," I said, turning her back to me.
Her face was full of pleading and yearning, the kind that I felt hammering behind my chest in the empty spot under my ribs.
"Noah, I—" Her voice came to a halt when my hand slid up the smooth length of her arm. Her eyes fluttered shut. I cupped her face in both hands and only let out a breath when her hands came to rest on my waist, her fingers curling into the material of my shirt. With that arching of her fingers, she anchored me in place. I'd only leave if she let go. I'd stop the second she asked me to. But as long as she held me to her that way, she was mine.
My mouth was on hers, my face tilting to seek out the taste that had eluded me earlier, the one that made my mouth water and my skin tighten over my frame. Our lips sipped, tasted, and tried, hers were soft and warm and delicious, and I bit gently on the full curve of the middle of her lower lip. Then tugged.
Her sharp inhale punched me squarely in the solar plexus, and my arm tightened around her small frame, clutching her to me desperately. It was the first moment that I realized the magnitude of allowing myself this kiss with her.