A Texas Cowboy's Christmas
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Cathy Gillen Thacker
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Chapter One
“I blame you for this, Chance Lockhart!” Molly Griffith fumed the moment she came toe-to-toe with him just inside the open-air bucking-bull training facility of Bullhaven Ranch.
Chance set down the saddle and blanket he’d been carrying. With a wicked grin, he pushed the brim of his hat back and paused to take her in. No doubt about it—the twenty-seven-year-old general contractor/interior designer was never lovelier than when she was in a temper. With her amber eyes blazing, her pretty face flushed with indignant color and her auburn curls wildly out of place, she looked as if she were ripe for taming.
Luckily for both of them, he was too smart to succumb to the challenge.
His gaze drifted over her, taking in her designer jeans and peacock-blue boots, before moving upward to the white silk shirt and soft suede blazer that cloaked her curvy frame.
Damn, she was sexy, though. From the half-moon pendant that nestled in the hollow of her breasts to the voluptuous bounty of her bow-shaped lips.
Exhaling slowly, he tamped down his desire and prompted in a lazy drawl, “Blame me for what?”
Molly propped her hands on her hips. “For telling my son, Braden, he can have a live bull for Christmas!”
Somehow Chance managed not to wince at the huffy accusation. He set down the saddle and narrowed his eyes instead. “That’s not exactly what I said.”
Molly moved close enough he could inhale her flowery perfume, her breasts rising and falling with every deep, agitated breath. “Did you or did you not tell him that Santa could bring him a bull?”
Chance shrugged, glad for the brisk November breeze blowing over them. Still holding Molly’s eyes, he rocked back on the heels of his worn leather work boots. “I said he could ask Santa for a bull.”
Molly harrumphed and folded her arms beneath her breasts, the action plumping them up all the more. “Exactly!”
Working to slow his rising pulse, Chance lowered his face to hers and explained tautly, “That doesn’t mean Santa is going to bring it.”
Chance picked up the gear, slung it over one shoulder and stalked toward the ten-by-ten metal holding pen, where a two-year-old Black Angus bull named Peppermint was waiting.
One of the heirs to his retired national championship bucking bull, Mistletoe, he bore the same steady temperament, lively personality and exceptional athletic ability of his daddy.
After easing open the gate, Chance stepped inside.
Aware Molly was still watching his every move, he proceeded to pet the young bull in training. Once gentled, he set the saddle on Peppermint’s back.
Swallowing nervously at the thousand-pound bull, Molly stepped back. With an indignant toss of her head, she continued her emotional tirade. “You really don’t have a clue how all this works, do you?”
Chance sighed as he tightened the cinch and led Peppermint into the practice chute, closing the gate behind him. “I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
Molly watched him climb the side rails and secure a dummy on the saddle via electronically controlled buckles.
Feeling the unwelcome extra weight, Peppermint began to snort and paw the ground within the confines of the chute.
Even though she was in no danger, Molly retreated even farther. “A child writes a letter to Santa, asking for his most precious gift. Then Santa brings it.”
Chance plucked the remote control out of his pocket. “That wasn’t how it worked in my home.” He signaled to his hired hand Billy to take his position at the exit gate on the other side of the practice ring. “I remember asking Santa for a rodeo for my backyard in Dallas. Guess what?” He shot her a provoking look that started at her face and moved languidly over her voluptuous body before returning to her eyes. “It didn’t happen.”
Molly rolled her eyes, still staying clear of the snorting, increasingly impatient Peppermint. Digging her boots into the ground, she fired back, “I cannot help it if your mother and father did not appropriately censure your wishes in advance.”
Chance hit the control. Immediately, the sound of a rodeo crowd filled the practice arena. He released the gate, and Peppermint, tired of confinement, went barreling into the ring.
For the next few seconds, he bucked hard to the right and came down. Went up and down in the middle, then bucked to the left.
And still the crowd sounds filled the air.
Adding to the excitement, as Peppermint bucked higher and higher...and seeing the kind of athletic movement he wanted, Chance rewarded the bull with the release of the dummy.
It went flying. And landed facedown in the dirt.
Billy whistled.
Peppermint turned and followed the waving Billy out the exit gate and into another pen, where he would receive a treat for his performance.
Chance cut the crowd sounds on the intercom system. Silence fell in the arena once again, and Chance lifted a hand. “Thanks, Billy!”
“No problem, boss!” he replied before going off to see to the bucking bull.
Molly said, looking impressed despite herself, “Is that how you train them?”
“Yep.”
“Too bad no one can train you.”
“Really? That’s juvenile, even for you, Molly.”
He knew where it came from, though. She brought out the irascible teenager in him, too.
Chance went back into the barn, checking on his thirty bucking bulls, safely ensconced in their individual ten-by-ten metal pens, then took a visual of those in the pastures. Finished, he strode across the barnyard to a smaller facility, where his national champion was kept.
Mistletoe’s private quarters, his ranch office, veterinary exam, lab and breeding chute, and equipment facility were all there. All were state-of-the-art and a testament to what he had built.
“Look, I’m sorry,” Molly said, dogging his every step. “But I’m trying to help my son be realistic here.”
Chance paused to pet Mistletoe. The big bucking bull had a little gray on his face these days, but he was still pleasant as ever to be around. “Is that what you’re doing for Braden?” He gave his beloved Black Angus one last rub before turning back to Molly. “Helping him temper his expectations? Or censuring all his dreams?”
Molly muttered something he was just as glad not to be able to understand, then threw up her hands in exasperation.
“I want my little boy to grow up being practical!”
Chance spun around, and she followed him back down the center aisle. “Unlike certain idiot cowboys who shall remain nameless.”
There she went with the insults again, but it was better than dealing with the smoldering attraction they felt whenever they were together.
Chance paused at the sink in the tack room to wash and dry his hands, then walked out to join her. Saw her shiver in the brisk, wintry air.
Aware the day looked a lot warmer than it actually was, he turned away from the evidence of her chill and drawled, “I think I might know who you’re talking about.” Rubbing his jaw in a parody of thoughtfulness, he stepped purposefully into her personal space.
Watching her amber eyes widen, he continued, “That rancher brother of mine, Wyatt, down the road. None too bright, is he?”
Molly made a strangled sound deep in her throat. Rather than step away, she put her hand on the center of his chest and gave him a small, equally purposeful shove. “I’m talking about you, you big lug.”
Delighted by her unwillingness to give any ground to him, he captured her hand before she could snatch it away and held it over his heart. “Ah. Endearments.” He sighed with comically exaggerated dreaminess.
Temper spiking even more, she tried, unsuccessfully, to extricate her fingers from his. “You’re playing with fire here, cowboy.”
So he was. But then he had to do something with all the aggravation she caused him. And had been causing, if truth be known, for quite some time.
He let his grin widen, surveying her indignant expression. Dropping his head, he taunted softly, “The kind of fire that leads to a kiss?”
“The kind that leads to me hauling off and kicking you right in the shin!”
It was good to know he could get to her this much. Because she sure got to him. The pressure building at the front of his jeans told him that.
He lowered his lips to hers. “Didn’t your parents ever tell you that you can catch more flies with sugar than spite?”
Abruptly Molly’s face paled.
Too late, he realized he should have bothered to find out what kind of life she’d had as a kid before hurling that particular insult.
She drew a deep breath. Serious now. Subdued.
Aware he’d hurt her—without meaning to—he let her hand go.
She stepped back. Regaining her composure, she lifted her chin and said in a solemn tone, “I want you to talk to Braden. Tell him you were wrong. Santa doesn’t bring little boys live bulls.”
At that particular moment, he thought he would do just about anything for her. Probably would have, if she hadn’t been so socially and monetarily ambitious and so out of touch regarding what really mattered in life, same as his ex.
But Molly was. So...
Exploring their attraction would lead only to misery.
For all their sakes, Chance put up the usual barbed wire around his heart. “Why can’t you tell him?” he asked with an indifferent shrug. “You’re Braden’s momma, after all.” And, from all he’d seen, misguided goals aside, a damn good one.
Molly’s lower lip trembled, and she threw up her hands in frustration. “I have told him! He won’t believe me. Braden says that you’re the cowboy, and you know everything, and you said it was okay. And that’s what he wants me to write in his letter to Santa, and I cannot let him ask Saint Nick for that, only to have his little heart broken.”
She had a point about that, Chance realized guiltily. He’d hate to see the little tyke, who also happened to be the spitting image of his mother, disappointed.
Sobering, he asked, “What do you want Braden to have?”
Molly’s features softened in relief. “The Leo and Lizzie World Adventure wooden train set.” She pulled a magazine article out of her back pocket that listed the toy as the most wanted preschool-age present for the holiday that year. Featuring train characters from a popular animated kids’ television show, the starter set was extremely elaborate. Which was no surprise. Since Molly Griffith was known for her big ambitions and even more expensive tastes.
It made sense she would want the same for her only child.
Even if Braden would be happier playing with a plastic toy bull. Or horse...
Sensing she wanted his approval, Chance shrugged. Wary of hurting her feelings—again—he mumbled, “Looks nice.”
As if sensing his attitude was not quite genuine, she frowned. “It will bring Braden hours of fun.”
Enough to justify the cost? he wondered, noting the small wooden pieces were ridiculously overpriced—even if they were in high demand. He squinted at her. “Are you sure you don’t work for the toy company?”
She scowled at his joke but came persuasively closer, even more serious now. “Please, Chance. I’m begging you.”
This is new, Chance thought, surprised.
He actually kind of liked her coming to him for help.
She spread her hands wide, turning on the full wattage of maternal charm. “Braden just turned three years old. It’s the first Christmas holiday he’s likely to ever remember. I really want it to be special.” She paused and took a deep breath that lifted the lush softness of her breasts. “You have to help me talk sense into my son.”
* * *
FOR A BRIEF MOMENT, Molly thought she had finally gotten through to the impossibly handsome cowboy.
Then he folded his brawny arms across his broad chest and let out a sigh that reverberated through his six-foot-three-inch frame. Intuitive hazel eyes lassoed hers. “I want to help you.”
Pulse racing, Molly watched as he swept off his black Stetson and shoved a hand through the rumpled strands of his thick chestnut-colored hair. “But?”
Frowning, he settled his hat squarely on his head. “I can’t do to your son what my parents did to me.”
“And what was that?” she asked curiously.
“Try and censor and mold his dreams—to suit your wishes instead of Braden’s.”
Had Lucille and the late Frank Lockhart done that to Chance? The grim set of his lips seemed to say so. But that had nothing to do with her or Braden.
Molly stepped closer, invading his space. With a huff, she planted both hands on her waist and accused, “You just started this calamity to get under my skin.”
His sexy grin widened. “I was already under your skin,” he reminded her, tilting his head to one side.
True, unfortunately. Molly did her best to stifle a sigh while still stubbornly holding her ground. She wished he didn’t radiate such endless masculine energy or look so ruggedly fit in his gray plaid flannel shirt and jeans. Never mind have such a sexy smile and firm, sensual lips...
She could barely look at him and not wonder what it would be like to kiss him.
Just as an experiment, of course.
“So you’re really not going to help me?”
Chance’s brow lifted. “Convince him he doesn’t want to be a cowboy when he grows up? And have a ranch like mine that has all bulls on it? Or get a head start on it by getting his first livestock now?” His provoking grin widened. “No. I’m not going to do any of that. I will, however, try to talk him into getting a baby calf. Since females are a lot more docile than males.”
“Ha-ha.”
“I wasn’t talking about you,” he claimed with choirboy innocence.
Yeah...right. When they were together like this, everything was about the two of them.
Molly shut her eyes briefly and rubbed at the tension in her temples. With effort, she forced her attention back to her child’s fervent wish to be a rancher, just like “Cowboy Chance.” Who was, admittedly, the most heroic-looking figure her son had ever had occasion to meet.
Trying not to think about what a dashing figure he cut, Molly turned her glance toward the storm clouds building on the horizon. It wasn’t supposed to rain for another day or two, but it looked like it now. “I live in town, remember? I don’t have any place to keep a baby calf.”
Chance shrugged. “So ask my mother to pasture it at the Circle H Ranch. You’re there enough anyway.”
Molly wheeled around and headed back to the driveway next to the log-cabin-style Bullhaven ranch house, where she had parked her sporty red SUV. “Even if that were a plausible solution, which it’s not, Braden and I aren’t going to be here past the first week of January.”
Squinting curiously, he matched his strides to hers. “How come?”
Trying not to notice how he towered over her, or how much she liked it, Molly fished her keys out of her jacket pocket. “Not that it’s any of your business, but we’re moving to Dallas.”
Chance paused next to her vehicle. “To be closer to Braden’s daddy?”
Her heart panged in her chest. If only her little boy had a father who wanted his child in his life. But he didn’t, so...
There was no way she was talking to Chance Lockhart about the most humiliating mistake she’d ever made. Or the fact that her ill-conceived liaison had unexpectedly led to the best thing in her life, a family of her very own. Molly hit the button on the keypad and heard the click of the driver-side lock releasing. “No.”
“No, that’s not why you’re moving?”
He came close enough she could smell the soap and sun and man fragrance of his skin.
Awareness shimmered inside her.
He watched her open the door. “Or no, that’s not what you want—to be closer to your ex?”
Heavens, the man was annoying!
Figuring this was the time to go on record with her goals—and hence vanquish his mistaken notions about her once and for all—Molly lifted her gaze to his. “What I want is for my son to grow up with all the advantages I never had.” Braden, unlike her, would want for nothing.
Except maybe a daddy in his life.
Not that she could fix that.
Chance’s lip curled in contempt. “Ah, yes, back to social climbing.”
He wasn’t the only one who misinterpreted the reason behind her quest to get an in with every mover and shaker in the area. And beyond...
But for some reason, Chance Lockhart’s contempt rankled.
Which was another reason to set him—and everyone else in Laramie County who misread her—straight. “Look, I don’t expect you to understand. You having grown up with a silver spur in your mouth and all.”
He grinned.
“But not all of us have had those advantages.”
His hazel eyes sparkled, the way they always did when he got under her skin. “Like?”
“Private school, for one.”
Chance remained implacable. “They have private schools in Laramie County.”
“Not like the ones in Dallas.”
He squinted in disapproval. “Which is where you want him to go.”
Stubbornly, Molly held her ground. “If Braden attends the right preschool, he can get into the right elementary, then middle, then prep. From there, go on to an elite college.”
Chance poked the brim of his hat up with one finger. “I’m guessing you aren’t talking about anything in the University of Texas system.”
Molly studied the frayed collar on Chance’s flannel shirt, the snug worn jeans and run-of-the-mill leather belt. It was clear he didn’t care about appearances. Coming from his background, he did not have to. “If Braden goes to an Ivy League school, the world is his oyster.”
Chance rested his brawny forearm on the roof of her SUV. “I can see you’ve got it all mapped out.”
Molly tried not to notice how well he filled out his ranching clothes. “Yes, unlike you, Braden is going to take advantage of all the opportunities I plan to see come his way.”
“How does Braden feel about all this?” Chance asked, not bothering to hide his frustration with her.
Had Molly not known better, she would have thought that the irascible cowboy did not want her to leave Laramie County. But that was ridiculous. The two of them couldn’t get gas at the same filling station at the same time without getting into a heated argument. More likely, Chance would be delighted to see her depart. “My son is three.”
“Meaning you haven’t told him.”
“He has no concept of time.”
“So, in other words, no.”
“I will, once Christmas is over,” Molly maintained. She moved as if to get in her vehicle, but Chance remained where he was, his big, imposing body blocking the way.
“Has it occurred to you that you’re getting ahead of yourself with all your plans to better educate and monetarily and socially provide for your son?”
Chance wasn’t the first to tell her so.
She hadn’t listened to anyone else.
And she wasn’t about to listen to him, either.
Ducking beneath his outstretched arm, she slid behind the steering wheel. Bending her head, she put the key in the ignition. “What I think is that one day, my son will be very grateful to me for doing all that I can to ensure his dreams come true,” she retorted defensively.
Chance leaned down so they were face-to-face. “Except, of course, ones that have to do with livestock.”
What is it about this man? Molly fumed inwardly. He not only provoked her constantly—he had the potential to derail her at every turn, just by existing!
Pretending his attempts to delay her so they could continue their argument were not bothering her in the least, Molly flashed a confident smile. “You’re right,” she admitted with a sugary-sweet attitude even he would have to find laudable. “I have gotten way, way off track.”
He chuckled. “Back to train analogies?”
She gave him a quelling look.
He lifted an exaggeratedly apologetic hand. “I know. Even some of us big, dumb cowpokes who passed on Ivy League educations know a few big words.”
She’d heard Chance had been just as much of a problem to his wealthy parents growing up as he was to her now. “How about ‘aggravate’?” She looked him square in the eye. “Do you know what that means?”
He grinned. “I think that’s what I do to you, on a daily, hourly, basis?”
So true. Molly drew a calming breath. She started the ignition, then motioned for him to step away. When he did, she put her window down. “I’m going to be at the Circle H this afternoon, meeting with your mother about the proposed kitchen renovation.”
“Well, what do you know,” he rumbled with a maddeningly affable shrug. “I will be, too.”
She ignored the fact that their two contracting companies were competing for the renovation job. “Braden will be with me. It’s your chance to make things right with my son. Please, Chance.” She paused to let her words sink in. “Don’t let us down.”
* * *
IF MOLLY HADN’T framed it quite like that, maybe he could have bailed. But she had, so at five past three Chance found himself driving up the lane to the Circle H ranch house.
Molly’s SUV was already on-site. She and her son, Braden, were by the pasture, where a one-week-old Black Angus was pastured with his momma. Little arms on the middle rung of the fence, Braden was staring, mesmerized, at the sight of the nursing bull.
“Can I pet him?” Braden asked as Chance strolled up to join them.
Her pretty face pinched with tension, Molly shook her head.
Chance hunkered down beside Braden. The little tyke had the same curly red hair, cute-as-a-button features and amber eyes as his mother. “Petting the bull would scare it, buddy, and we don’t want that, do we?”
Balking, Braden bartered, “I know gentle. Mommy showed me.” Realizing Chance didn’t quite understand what he was saying, Braden continued with a demonstration of easy petting. “Kitty cat—gentle. Puppy—gentle. Babies—gentle.”
“Ah. You’re very gentle with all of those things,” Chance concluded.
Braden nodded importantly. “Mommy showed me.”
“Well, listen, buckaroo,” Chance continued, still hunkered down so he and Braden were eye to eye. “It’s always good to be gentle,” he said kindly. “And it’s great to be able to see a real baby bull.”
Braden beamed. “I like bulls!”
“The thing is, Santa doesn’t really have any bulls to bring to little boys,” Chance told him, quashing the kid’s dreams against his better judgment.
“Uh-huh! At the North Pole,” Braden said. “Santa has everything!”
“No.” Chance shook his head sadly but firmly. He looked the little boy in the eye. “There aren’t any bulls at the North Pole.”
Mutinously, Braden folded his little arms across his chest. “Santa bring me one,” he reiterated stubbornly.
Out of the corner of Chance’s eye, he saw Molly’s stricken expression. Yeah. She pretty much wanted to let him have it. Given the unforeseen way things were developing, he could hardly blame her.
“For Christmas,” Braden added for good measure, in case either Molly or Chance didn’t understand him. He pointed to the pasture. “Want mommy bull. And baby bull.”
Okay, this was not going according to plan, Chance thought uncomfortably.
“Baby needs mommy,” Braden added plaintively, just in case they still weren’t getting it.
Molly lifted a brow and sent Chance an even more withering glare.
Fortunately, at that moment, his mother walked out of the recently renovated Circle H bunkhouse, where she was currently living, her part-time cook and housekeeper, Maria Gonzales, at her side. The young woman often brought her own three-year-old daughter, Tessie, to work with her. The little lass peeked at Braden from behind her mother’s skirt.
“Braden, Maria and Tessie were just about to make some Thanksgiving tarts. Would you like to help them?” Lucille asked.
He looked at his mother for permission.
Molly gave it with a nod, then pointed to the ranch house on the other side of the barns. “Miss Lucille, Chance and I are going to walk over there and have a meeting. Then I’ll come back to get you. Okay?”
Braden took Maria’s outstretched hand. “’Kay, Mommy.”
Maria and her two young charges set off.
In the past, the sixty-eight-year-old Lucille had ignored interpersonal tensions for the sake of peace. However, a recent series of life-changing events had caused Chance’s mother to rethink the idea of sugarcoating anything. And now, to everyone’s surprise, it turned out she could be as blunt as Chance’s older brother, Garrett.
“What’s going on between you two?” Lucille demanded as she looked from Molly to Chance and back again. “And don’t tell me nothing, because I can feel the mutual aggravation simmering between you a mile away!”
Chance would have preferred to keep their tiff private. Unfortunately, Molly had other ideas. “Chance told Braden that he could ask Santa to bring him a real live baby bull for Christmas!” she sputtered.
Lucille turned to him, formidable as always in an ultrasuede sheath, cashmere cardigan and heels.
“I was trying not to quash his dreams,” Chance insisted hotly.
“So, instead, you lit fire to impossible ones, and now he wants not just a baby bull but a bovine mama to go with it, too,” Molly accused him, looking furious enough to burst into tears.
“Look, I—” Even as the words came out of his mouth, Chance had to wonder how Molly had managed to put him on the defensive.
She stomped closer and waved a finger beneath his nose. “If you hadn’t brought that baby bull over with his momma to pasture at the Circle H—”
“If you hadn’t brought your son with you to discuss making a bid,” he volleyed right back.
Molly planted both her hands on her slender hips. “I had no choice!”
He mocked her by doing the same. “Well, neither did I!”
Completely exasperated, Lucille stopped worrying the pearls around her neck and stepped in between them. “Enough, you two!” she chastised. “You are acting like ornery children. It’s five weeks until Christmas...we will figure out a way to work this out.”
Chance and Molly separated once again.
Satisfied things were calmer, at least for the moment, Lucille walked up the steps to the rambling, homestead-style ranch house and across the spacious front porch. “In the meantime, I have a job big enough for the two of you,” she said over her shoulder, leading the way into the house.
Chance and his crew had spent the fall getting the two bedrooms and bathroom upstairs remodeled, the staircase rebuilt and all new energy-efficient windows installed. A new roof and fiber-cement siding had been put on, and the exterior had been painted a dazzling white with pine-green shutters. They’d also followed the plans of the structural engineer and gutted the downstairs into an open living-kitchen-dining area, a laundry room and mudroom, and what would one day be a spacious master suite with luxury bath for Lucille.
For the moment, however, only the framework of the redesigned first-floor rooms and the original wood floors—which were in need of refinishing—stood.
In the center of the space, in front of the original limestone fireplace, were two big easels. One held Molly’s proposed design, the other Chance’s.
Lucille turned to her son. “Although I love the rustic nature of your plans, honey, I am going to go with Molly’s vision for the first floor.”
There wasn’t a lot of difference in the plan for the master suite, since Lucille had been very specific in what kind of fixtures and the size closet she wanted. As for the rest...
“You know that’s going to cost you twice what mine would,” Chance pointed out.
Lucille nodded. “True. But your vision for the space is so...utilitarian.”
Exactly! It was what made it so great.
Chance pointed to the samples of his proposed maple cabinets and black granite countertops, the top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances and plentiful pantry shelving. “It’ll get the job done, Mom.”
Where he had been trying to be economical, his competition had gone all out. Dual dishwashers, two prep areas, double ovens and countless other features. Everywhere you looked there was some sort of up-charge.
Lucille smiled. “Molly captured what I was looking for. Unfortunately, I don’t think she and her crew can manage to finish the entire downstairs in the next five weeks.”
Molly’s triumph faded. “Did you say five...weeks?”
Lucille nodded. “I want to reserve December 19 for delivery of the furniture from my previous house in Dallas that’s currently in storage, the twentieth and the twenty-first for decorating and the twenty-second for my planned fund-raiser for the Lockhart Foundation and West Texas Warrior Assistance program. And of course Christmas Eve and Day for my family celebration.”
Chance frowned. “Which means all the wiring, plumbing, drywall and paint, as well as kitchen and master suite bath, will have to go in by then.”
His mother remained undaunted. “You have six people on your crew, Chance. Molly has seven. If you have all thirteen people working, it’s easily feasible. I’ll pay overtime if necessary.”
All business, Molly nodded. “How are we going to divide the work?”
Matter-of-factly, Lucille explained, “Molly will be in charge of the design and the materials, and Chance will supervise the construction and installation. Then, of course, Molly, I’d like you to do the yuletide decorating.” She flashed a smile her way. “I’ll give you a free hand with that since part of the reason for the rush is to help you showcase your skills during the fund-raising open house, and make the connections with my Dallas friends that will help you drum up business there.”
Chance turned to his mother and gave her a warning look. He would have expected Lucille, who, better than anyone, knew the downside of leaving the warm, supportive utopia of Laramie County behind, to be urging caution. Not cheerleading. “You’re really supporting Molly in this lunacy?” he blurted before he could stop himself.
Molly had a growing business. A home. Dozens of people who looked out for her. A young son who was thriving in the small-town environment. Why she would want to leave all that for the coldness of the big city he had grown up in was beyond him.
“I wouldn’t call it that.” Lucille regarded him sternly. “And, yes, I fully understand Molly’s desire to be all that she can be.”
Resolved to inject a little common sense into the conversation, Chance scoffed, “In terms of what? Money? Social position?”
Molly glared at him. “Don’t forget dazzling professional success! And all the accoutrements that come with it.”
Chance looked heavenward. “I don’t expect you to understand,” Molly said stiffly, her emotions suddenly as fired up as his.
“Good,” Chance snapped back, running his hand through his hair in exasperation. Then, pinning her with a glare of his own, he said exactly what was on his mind. “Because I don’t.”
