Page 44 of A Not-So Holiday Paradise

“Show me,” I say.

She nods and then pulls up the hem of her shirt, just high enough to reveal…

“What…is it?” I say, frowning at the tattoo as I step closer, bending over to get a better look.

“It’s a yellow boxfish!” she says, pointing. “Ostracion cubicum. Isn’t he cute?”

“No,” I say, shaking my head as I look at the tattoo. “That’s not a fish. That’s a lemon with polka dots, Molly.”

She bursts out laughing, and the sound rings through my tiny house with a glorious liveliness that lights the place up. “It does kind of look like a polka-dotted lemon, doesn’t it,” she says. “But it’s a yellow boxfish. Here’s his little tail, see”—she points to the tail— “and his little kissy face.”

“Incredible.” I shake my head, trying to hide my smile. “I’m going to go get cleaned up, and then please tell me the story behind Mr. Boxfish.”

Molly beams at me as she lets the hem of her shirt fall. That joyful look does unwanted things to my insides, but I force myself to ignore it, giving her a nod and then disappearing into the bathroom.

It takes me less than three minutes to wash my entire body from head to toe, but I give myself another five of just standing under the water, staring at the wall. The next two days are going to be full of Molly; she’s going to be in my space and in my head. So I take this time to shore up my mental fortitude, reminding myself of all the reasons she’s off-limits.

Except…what are those reasons again?

She’s Wes’s sister, but I’m not super worried about that. Molly’s not a child; she doesn’t need her brother’s approval. I guess there’s the whole island thing; any relationship we started would be long-distance.

Yes. That’s enough of a reason for me. I live here, she lives there. True, she said she’s coming back to this area in a couple months, but I might not even be here then. I’ve never managed an actual relationship with a woman, anyway; at most we hang out for a few weeks before I get anxious and cut her loose.

It’s hard to imagine Molly letting me run away—and I’m man enough to admit that what I do is run—but it doesn’t matter. Because the truth is, there’s another reason I’d never start anything with her: she’s too much. She’s just…too much. She’s too open, too insightful, too close. She makes me feel too many things.

And I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that she could make mewantthings, too—things I’m afraid to want.

Love.

A future.

A family.

Molly O’Malley would waltz right into my heart and pull all those desires from me with one well-aimed smile, until I could do nothing but beg her to love me. It’s already begun—I’m developing feelings for her. Ilikeher.

“Friends,” I tell myself firmly, feeling the lukewarm water cascade over my face and down my chest. “Friends for two days, and then she’s gone.”

I nod once to myself; then I shut the water off and step out of the shower. It takes me two minutes to dry off and get dressed, and then I go back out to the living area.

“All right,” I say, rubbing the towel over my hair and grasping for a normal, safe topic of conversation. “Tell me about the tattoo.”

Molly gives me a sleepy smile from where she’s curled up on the secondhand loveseat. Her head is leaning on the armrest, her hair spilling everywhere. She looks like she’s five minutes away from passing out.

She answers me, though.

“I went to exactly one party in my college career,” she says, holding up her pointer finger. “Just one. And I had too much to drink. So my roommate and I thought it would be a good idea to get tattoos.”

“A lot of places won’t give you a tattoo if you’re drunk,” I say, raising an eyebrow and sitting next to her on the loveseat. With irritation I note the anxiety spiking in the pit of my stomach. I don’t need to be worried; she’s telling a story that already happened, and she’s clearly fine. But the thought of a drunk Molly wandering around on her own…it doesn’t sit well with me.

She nods. “They wouldn’t do it. I guess the alcohol thins your blood, which means more bleeding? You had to have an appointment anyway. But I went in and talked to the guy behind the counter for fifteen minutes about yellow boxfish. I showed him pictures and everything. Told him way more than he ever wanted to know. He gave me a business card and told me to come back when I was sober.”

I can picture it perfectly: a teetering Molly, cheeks flushed, hair wild, talking the ear off of a huge, inked man, telling him about the mating habits of her favorite fish. Her eyes were probably shining the whole time, her smile free and potent.

“Anyway,” she says, snuggling further into the corner of the loveseat. “I found the business card in my pocket the next day, and then I remembered the whole thing. I thought about it and decided to get the tattoo anyway.” She smiles at me, a kitten curled up contentedly in the sun, completely adorable. “And I never touched another drink after that.”

“Good,” I say immediately. “That’s good.”

She nods, then shrugs. “That’s the story. Not much to it. But Beckett,” she sighs, “what are we going to do? Wes and my parents won’t be here until sometime on Christmas. I’ve never done a Christmas Eve by myself.”

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