"Hang out?" I squeaked out, fingertips gripping the marble countertop. "Again?"

"Yeah," he replied, sounding as nervous as I felt. "Is that weird for you?"

Yes. "No, not weird." I swallowed deeply. "Just…different. Don’t you hang out with Rourke and work out with your teammates on the weekends?"

"Rourke's busy with Mercy and I've already worked out."

"So, you found yourself at a loss and decided to call on your option b?"

"What – no!" He gaped at me in horror. "Of course I didn’t –"

"Relax, I'm kidding."

"Oh." He visibly sagged in relief. "Since we're giving the friend thing another shot, I figured we could..." His words trailed off and he eyed me crouching behind the opposite side of the island. "You okay down there?"

"Okay? Me?" I nodded vigorously. "Uh-huh."

He didn’t look convinced. "You hiding or something?"

Yes. "Nope." I shook my head. "Definitely not hiding."

"Okay…" he drawled slowly. "Then are you gonna stand up?"

"Nope."

"What's going on?" His frown deepened. "Do you want me to leave? Because I can –"

"No, it's not that. I don’t want you to leave, D. It's just, uh…" Blowing out a shaky breath, I squeezed out, "I'm not really dressed for company. Can you just wait in the living room for a sec? I need to go put on a sweater and jeans."

"What?" His green eyes narrowed in confusion. "It's one hundred degrees outside. I just saw you. Molly, you're dressed plenty –"

"I don’t want you to see, okay?" I snapped, shaking now. "Please."

"See what?"

I gave him a meaningful look.

Awareness flickered in his green eyes a moment later and his jaw ticked before he turned his back to me. "Fine. I won't look."

"Thank you." I sighed in relief and quickly dashed out of the kitchen, moving at full speed for the staircase. "Make yourself at home," I called over my shoulder. "I won't be a minute."

22 Molly

"So, what's in the bags?" I asked when I returned to the kitchen a few minutes later in an oversized, long sleeved sweater and jeans. Layered up and feeling more at ease, I strolled over to the island and pulled up a stool.

"Beer," Daryl replied, emptying the contents of the carrier bags in front of me. "But if that's not your thing, it's cool –"

"No, I like beer," I blurted out – more like bold-face lied – eyes glued to the white, sleeveless muscle tank and grey sweatpants he had on.

The tank was loose and gave me the perfect view of one of his brown nipples that was attached to a rock-hard pec.

Lord, the boy was built of granite stone.

He was ripped to within an inch of his life, but that didn’t surprise me one bit.

Since my return to Ocean Bay, I had quickly learned that Daryl King still lived and breathed football. He worked out constantly and his body was the reward he had earned for every grueling session he put in at the gym.