Hooked #3 (The Hooked Romance Series - Book 3) by Claire Adams Page B

hung
at his sides, and his chin was high in the air. “Hello, Molly,” he nearly
whispered, gazing at my eyes, at my cheeks, at my breasts.
    I felt so strange, as if I were being assessed at a
county fair. Why had he come here? I kept my eyes closed, remembering how he’d
looked in that hard hat next to my building, pausing before destroying the
eternity of my dreams.  
    “Molly. I wanted to say I’m sorry. I wanted to come
by here because—” He paused and slapped the back of his neck nervously, gliding
his hands over the sweat that brimmed over his skin. “You were the only thing
that made me smile, you know? I thought we really started to have something
here.”
    My stomach was completely empty. I could feel its
sides scraping up against each other in my body. I longed for him to leave, to
leave me in my squalor. I could figure everything out myself. I wanted to spit
at him. I could do this all on my own, if only he’d just leave me the hell
alone.
    A pause occurred between us, our eyes meeting in the
center of our heated bodies.
    “Aren’t you going to say anything?” he asked. His
voice had lowered an octave; he had broken out of his sentimentality; he had
leaned toward a sense of hostility, a sense of regret.
    I didn’t open my lips, choosing only to look at him
with my large, orb-like eyes. I couldn’t speak. I felt like if I did, the world
would crack open. I had to get back to my work; I had to find my own place for
Molly Says Dance. I couldn’t rely on my sexual passions, the feeling in my gut
that this man before me was so much more—so much more!
    I couldn’t rely on anyone.
    “You really aren’t going to say anything?” Drew
sputtered. He was growing angry. I assumed he wasn’t used to begin ignored. “I
come down here, soak up all my confidence to do it, and you won’t even talk to
me? You know you’re really putting me through the ringer here. Come on, Mol. Just one word. One syllable, even. Just give me something to
go off of, so I can move forward. So I can try to make amends.”
    There was no making amends, I wanted to tell him.
There was nothing. I shook my head simply, as if I were speaking with a child
who hadn’t gotten his way. He nearly stomped his foot. I could feel the anger
brimming in him; it was about to burst.
    Until, finally, he turned on his heel and walked
away down the hall. I watched as his neck curved down, leaving his back a bit
crooked, a bit aged. The shadow of his body lurked across the wall. I stood in
the doorway, watching him until he entered the apartment he shared with
Marty—that dismal apartment in which we had fucked on nearly every surface,
feeling the tremors of our bodies in such a way that made me squirm.
    It couldn’t be so anymore. Not anymore.
    I backed up into my apartment as well, feeling safe
in the shell of my own smell, of the herbal tea. I crashed into the dining room
chair and leaned my chin on my knuckles, allowing myself to pause at the
strangeness of the situation. I, a poor nothing, was ignoring the most
beautiful, the most brilliant man in all of Chicago. And yet, in so many ways,
I couldn’t care.
    Thirty minutes passed before I heard another knock
on the door. Frowning, I looked down at my empty tea cup and prepared myself
for another Drew altercation. Would I speak this time? I bit my lip and peered
through the peephole. This time, I didn’t see the tidy smirk of a businessman;
instead, I saw the beautiful, timid smile of Mel—my beautiful dance assistant
who hadn’t given up on me. My stomach stirred as I remembered, however; perhaps
she had known all along that this would happen. Perhaps she had been the root
of the problem.
    No one could be trusted.
    I pulled open the door, biting my lip mid-smile. Mel
flung her long, ballerina arms around me and held me close to her chest. “My
darling, Molly,” she murmured. I felt myself pour into a fit of tears. “Please.
Please. Don’t cry.” She pulled her fingers over my hair,