She glanced away, embarrassed.
“He was what?”
“He was a lot like you.”
Pres was silent, and Molly tried to explain.
“He was rich and powerful and famous. He was perfect.”
“I’m not perfect.”
“Fantasy Man
magazine thinks you are.”
Pres snorted.
“And they’re right,” Molly insisted. “Look at you. Gorgeous hair, perfect teeth, that body
… And
you’re sweet and generous and funny. No, you’re definitely perfect.”
He leaned back, resting his elbows on the step above them. “If I’m so perfect, why did you call me this morning and ask me to meet with you so you could give me a standard letdown speech?”
Molly shifted uncomfortably, and Pres knew he’d read her phone call correctly.
“That kiss last night was a mistake, right?” he continued. “Things got out of control. Wherever we were heading—it’s not going to happen. You don’t want to be anything more than friends. What else? Did I leave something out?”
“No, you touched on everything.”
Pres nodded. “Everything but the reason why. I thought you just said I was perfect.”
“I don’t want perfect,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. But I do hope we can be friends.”
Pres felt a surge of frustration. Damn, he needed a cigarette. He was dizzy and nauseated and exhausted and disappointed as all hell. He didn’t want to be friends with this woman. He wanted to kiss her the way he’d kissed her last night. He wanted to carry her up to her bedroom and bury himself inside of her. He wanted to make love to her, nonstop, for two weeks.
But she wanted to be friends.
“I don’t know if I can just be friends with you,” he admitted. He lowered his voice. “I want to be your lover, Molly.”
Her cheeks flushed and she looked away.
“I’m not Chuck,” he persisted.
She finally looked up at him. “I know that.”
“Then why are you pushing me away as if I were?”
She couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer. Pres resisted the urge both to search frantically through his pockets for a cigarette and to scream. He stood up. “I’m sorry about last night—the picture in the paper, I mean. Not the kiss. I’m not sorry about that.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll keep a security team over here until things die down.”
Molly nodded. “Thanks.”
Pres made himself walk away. He walked around the side of the house, turning the corner that would bring him toward the front, but then stopped short.
There were half a dozen TV vans waiting out by the front gate, near where his car was parked. He quickly started to duck behind a shrub bedecked with cloyingly sweet flowers, but he was too late. They’d already spotted him.
He braced himself for the onslaught and headed toward his car, ignoring the questions and shouts of his name.
Hating every moment of it, he stopped next to his car and waited for a half-dozen microphones to be shoved into his face.
“I’d like to take this opportunity to repeat the statement I made last night,” he said. “I wasn’t telling the truth when, several days ago, I said I was engaged to be married. I was hoping you all would believe me and just go home and leave me alone.
“Ms. Cassidy is not and has never been my fiancée. Yes, I find her incredibly attractive. Yes, I’ve kissed her—you’ve all seen proof of that. But the fact is, Molly Cassidy and I are nothing more than friends.”
Pres turned away and got into his car. He’d told them the truth, but this time he honestly wished it were another lie.
Pres left his office well after six and nearly ran directly into Hayden Young in the resort lobby.
“Hey, Pres, what’s up?” the bigger man said cheerfully.
“What brings you out this way?” Pres crossed his arms, trying to squelch the slow burn of jealousy he felt. Hayden had stayed at the Kirk Estate long after Pres had left there that afternoon. Haydenwould be going back next week, to work with Zander. Hayden would see Molly too—she’d probably smile at
“He was what?”
“He was a lot like you.”
Pres was silent, and Molly tried to explain.
“He was rich and powerful and famous. He was perfect.”
“I’m not perfect.”
“Fantasy Man
magazine thinks you are.”
Pres snorted.
“And they’re right,” Molly insisted. “Look at you. Gorgeous hair, perfect teeth, that body
… And
you’re sweet and generous and funny. No, you’re definitely perfect.”
He leaned back, resting his elbows on the step above them. “If I’m so perfect, why did you call me this morning and ask me to meet with you so you could give me a standard letdown speech?”
Molly shifted uncomfortably, and Pres knew he’d read her phone call correctly.
“That kiss last night was a mistake, right?” he continued. “Things got out of control. Wherever we were heading—it’s not going to happen. You don’t want to be anything more than friends. What else? Did I leave something out?”
“No, you touched on everything.”
Pres nodded. “Everything but the reason why. I thought you just said I was perfect.”
“I don’t want perfect,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry. But I do hope we can be friends.”
Pres felt a surge of frustration. Damn, he needed a cigarette. He was dizzy and nauseated and exhausted and disappointed as all hell. He didn’t want to be friends with this woman. He wanted to kiss her the way he’d kissed her last night. He wanted to carry her up to her bedroom and bury himself inside of her. He wanted to make love to her, nonstop, for two weeks.
But she wanted to be friends.
“I don’t know if I can just be friends with you,” he admitted. He lowered his voice. “I want to be your lover, Molly.”
Her cheeks flushed and she looked away.
“I’m not Chuck,” he persisted.
She finally looked up at him. “I know that.”
“Then why are you pushing me away as if I were?”
She couldn’t—or wouldn’t—answer. Pres resisted the urge both to search frantically through his pockets for a cigarette and to scream. He stood up. “I’m sorry about last night—the picture in the paper, I mean. Not the kiss. I’m not sorry about that.” He took a deep breath. “I’ll keep a security team over here until things die down.”
Molly nodded. “Thanks.”
Pres made himself walk away. He walked around the side of the house, turning the corner that would bring him toward the front, but then stopped short.
There were half a dozen TV vans waiting out by the front gate, near where his car was parked. He quickly started to duck behind a shrub bedecked with cloyingly sweet flowers, but he was too late. They’d already spotted him.
He braced himself for the onslaught and headed toward his car, ignoring the questions and shouts of his name.
Hating every moment of it, he stopped next to his car and waited for a half-dozen microphones to be shoved into his face.
“I’d like to take this opportunity to repeat the statement I made last night,” he said. “I wasn’t telling the truth when, several days ago, I said I was engaged to be married. I was hoping you all would believe me and just go home and leave me alone.
“Ms. Cassidy is not and has never been my fiancée. Yes, I find her incredibly attractive. Yes, I’ve kissed her—you’ve all seen proof of that. But the fact is, Molly Cassidy and I are nothing more than friends.”
Pres turned away and got into his car. He’d told them the truth, but this time he honestly wished it were another lie.
Pres left his office well after six and nearly ran directly into Hayden Young in the resort lobby.
“Hey, Pres, what’s up?” the bigger man said cheerfully.
“What brings you out this way?” Pres crossed his arms, trying to squelch the slow burn of jealousy he felt. Hayden had stayed at the Kirk Estate long after Pres had left there that afternoon. Haydenwould be going back next week, to work with Zander. Hayden would see Molly too—she’d probably smile at
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