Molly's Mr. Wrong

by Jeannie Watt

  Bottom line—this paper showed that he wasn’t deluding himself. He could do math. Did he need English at all?

  Well...yes—if he was going to get a degree. But he didn’t need English right now. This semester he’d focus on his math class, learn to follow the prescribed steps and how to show his work. By the end of the semester, he’d be more comfortable in an academic environment and have a better idea of how to tackle learning without feeling intimidated. And he wasn’t going to give Molly another shot at eviscerating him.

  And maybe tonight was the time to tell her that. Nicely, of course.

  * * *

  TRUE TO FORM, Molly was already breaking her promise to herself not to stay late on campus working. But the grading was piling up and if she didn’t keep on top of it, she’d get buried. Besides, Allie Brody might need to knock on the wall.

  She set down her pen, pulled her glasses off and pressed the heels of her hands to her tired eyes.

  “Hey...”

  Molly jumped a mile at the unexpected male voice, automatically reached for her glasses and instead hit them with the back of her hand, sending them skittering onto the floor. Finn bent down to pick them up and solemnly handed them back to her. Molly set the heavy dark brown frames back on the desk. Having Finn a little out of focus wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  “You missed class yesterday.”

  Finn leaned carelessly against the door frame, the picture of the who-gives-a-damn jock he’d been in high school. “I’m going to drop it. I thought I’d give you official notice.”

  Molly looked down at the papers in front of her. There were remarks written on the top one, but nothing like what she’d done to Finn. “But you haven’t dropped it yet?” When she looked back up at him, she saw him watching her carefully.

  “Tomorrow. Just thought I’d let you know.” He smiled tightly and then pushed off the door frame and walked back down the hall, leaving Molly staring at the empty space he’d just filled. For a moment she sat stone still, then she jumped to her feet, grabbed her glasses so she didn’t trip over anything and started after Finn. He was already on his way out the main exit, so she hurried her steps, finally giving up and calling his name after pushing through the glass-and-steel doors.

  He slowed down, then stopped and turned. Now she’d done it. She’d engaged and she had to follow through.

  Drawing in a deep breath that wasn’t nearly as calming as she’d hoped it would be, she started toward him. “I think we should talk about this.”

  “No offense, Molly, but there’s not a lot to say.”

  Molly stopped a few feet away from him. “I want you to know that I wasn’t engaging in some sort of petty revenge when I marked your paper.”

  He said nothing as he studied her with those striking hazel eyes, but if he hoped to fluster her, it wasn’t going to work. Much.

  All right. It wasn’t going to work in any way that showed.

  “I didn’t say one thing on your paper that wasn’t true, but... I was a bit overzealous with my pen.”

  “Yet there was no petty revenge involved.” Finn sauntered forward as he spoke. A slow, almost predatory movement, as if he were a big cat moving in on his prey. Molly’s prey days were over, so she took a step forward, too. A brisk no-nonsense step that brought them almost chest to chest. Miscalculation on her part, but she wasn’t going to have him in the power role.

  And she wasn’t going to react to the heat coming off his body or the fact that his scent now seemed to surround her and certain parts of her body were taking notice. That was what the Finns of the world, the Blakes of the world, banked on.

  “Perhaps a little.” She’d almost stuttered. Damn. The old Molly was starting to take over now that they were so close, and she would not have that. She pushed her glasses up a little higher, straightened her back. Finn’s gaze narrowed, as if he was wondering what she was doing.

  “And you have me pegged as a dumb athlete who was handed a diploma he didn’t deserve.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “I’m not talking about what you said, Molly. I’m asking about what you think.” His voice went down a notch. “Is that what you think?”

  Molly couldn’t help it—she glanced down, her gaze fixing on the gray cotton T-shirt that covered his flat abs...he’d been an athlete and it looked as if he still was—then forced her chin back up, meeting his eyes. “The idea had crossed my mind.”

  “Points for honesty.”

  She pulled in a breath. Big mistake. The heady scent of the man about two inches away from her once again filled her nostrils and she felt herself leaning forward, even closer to him, which was nuts, since she was already way too close for comfort.

  “But I don’t think that’s the problem.”

  She felt him go still, she was that close.

  “What,” he asked softly, “do you think the problem is?”

  She raised her chin, shaking back her hair in the process. “Have you ever been checked for dyslexia?”

  “Dyslexia?” He frowned. “I don’t turn letters around.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Yeah? What else is it?” Finn took a step back, finally freeing up the space around her, and folded his arms over his chest.

  “It has to do with organizing thoughts and finding the right word and translating what happens inside your brain onto paper.”

  “I see.”

  He was now officially closed off, his expression stony, his eyes narrowed as he regarded her.

  “There’s a lot of information about it, if you look into it.”

  “Yes...but will I be able to read it?” He was being sarcastic. Before she could answer, he said, “Thank you for the helpful suggestion, Molly. And the diagnosis.”

  “I’m not diagnosing you. I’m offering up a suggestion as to what you might look into to—”

  “Explain my shortcomings?” he asked mildly.

  “If you want to put it that way.”

  He put his hand on the truck’s door handle. “Well...your duty is done. Thank you.”

  “I think you should continue the class.”

  “I don’t see a lot of point in taking it.”

  “I’ll...”

  Molly’s voice trailed off and Finn’s expression shifted. “What, Molly?” One corner of his perfect mouth curved into a wry expression that was somehow both cold and amused. “Be gentle with me?”

  The way he said it brought more color to her cheeks. “Yes. I will.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but no.”

  “I’ll...help you.” What on earth was she saying?

  “No. Thank you.”

  He pulled the truck door open and Molly heard the word, “Chicken?” emerge from her lips. Finn stopped dead and turned back.

  Had she really just said that?

  For a moment she thought he was going to address the remark, but instead he shook his head as if she were beyond help and got into the truck, closing the door and leaving Molly feeling worse than when she’d left her office. She turned and started back across the parking lot as students began to leave the building in small groups. Art class was over. Behind her, Finn’s truck fired up. There was nothing to do but close up her office, get into her car, curse the fates for the fact that she lived next to his grandfather and plot how never to see him again.

  He’d been the jerk in high school, but she’d been the jerk just now.

  * * *

  OKAY. MOLLY HAD surprised him. Finn was going to give her points for that, even if she had pissed him off. And she wasn’t exactly the meek girl he’d taken on the mercy date at the behest of his mom ten or so years ago. She’d just freaking called him a chicken.

  And dyslexia?

  Yeah, right.

 
Finn’s mouth tightened as he wheeled out of the parking lot. He’d decided to try a few classes to better his life, not to make it worse. The satisfaction he got from finding out he could still do math—that he really liked to do math—was deeply overshadowed by the fact that he sucked at English. That he’d been passed along by his teachers. No...that wasn’t what bothered him most. It was the fact that it had been so clear to Molly that had happened. And meanwhile the thought had never crossed his mind.

  When Finn got home, he paced through the house. Normally, in his old life, he would have gone to McElroy’s, but after last night, he didn’t think that strategy was going to work like it used to. The last thing he wanted was to become a bar fixture like Wyatt. Times had changed. Everything around him seemed to have changed.

  And his house was ridiculously empty when he walked inside and let the door swing shut behind him.

  Son of a bitch. He was losing it. That was what was happening. He needed to get a grip and make some decisions here.

  He’d make decisions in the morning.

  Finn put on a pot of coffee and headed out the side door of the house and followed the packed dirt path to the shop. He snapped on the lights and then slowly walked around the 1972 Ford three-quarter-ton he’d bought at an auction before heading off overseas, his steps echoing as he paced the concrete in the metal building. There was a skittering sound in one corner of the room and he figured that if there were mice in the corners, then there were mice in his truck. He’d have to do something about that.

  He walked over to the arc welder, which he hadn’t touched since coming back, the sheet metal leaning against the wall. The hammers and anvils and forms his father had left when he’d moved south to live in a condo on a golf course—his lifelong dream finally achieved. Finn closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath that wasn’t tainted with grain dust. Just the good smell of grease and oil and metal. He’d done a couple quick walk-throughs after returning home, but he hadn’t actually put his hand to anything. Now the big question was...where to start?

  * * *

  GEORGINA GOT HOME a little after midnight—kind of late, since she had classes the next morning, but Molly reminded herself that just because she hadn’t gone out and done college stuff until she’d hooked up with Blake, it didn’t mean that Georgina couldn’t. And shouldn’t.

  But still...she had an eight o’clock class the next morning.

  “So much fun,” Georgina said as she dumped her purse and denim jacket on the chair and settled in next to Molly. “Chips?” She nodded at the half-full bowl, a sure sign that Molly was dealing with some kind of stress. “I thought you were all caught up on your schoolwork.” Her expression hardened before Molly could answer. “Did Blake call?”

  “I’m happy to say that hasn’t happened.”

  “Then...?”

  Molly gave a dismissive shrug. “Sometimes I just like chips.” Too bad this wasn’t one of those times. But at least Blake wasn’t behind this stress—just someone kind of like Blake. Great-looking. Confident. Astounded at the idea that he wasn’t perfect.

  “You need to come to this place,” Georgina said as she kicked off her shoes. She stretched out her legs and slumped back into the cushions, closing her eyes.

  “Once I get my feet under me job-wise, maybe I will.”

  “Promise?” Georgina asked.

  “No.”

  “Stick-in-the-mud.”

  “That’s me.” Molly took another chip and nibbled the edge. She knew better than to keep chips in the house during potential times of stress, but at least she hadn’t gotten out the French onion dip.

  Georgina yawned and got back to her feet. “Staying up?”

  “For a while.”

  Georgina started for the bathroom. “Don’t stay up too late,” she admonished.

  Molly didn’t bother to answer. She got to her feet and took the chips into the kitchen, where she dumped the remainder of the bowl into the trash. Finn wasn’t going to push her back into old habits.

  CHAPTER SIX

  DYS...LEX...IA.

  Finn typed the word into the search engine. He’d held off for three days, working on his truck as soon as he got home and avoiding his computer. But Molly had planted a seed that refused to die and now he figured if nothing else, he could prove her wrong. He clicked the first site that wasn’t trying to sell him something.

  Take this quiz.

  All right...

  Finn took the quiz, which had to do with how well he remembered and organized and spelled. He spelled okay—he’d spelled dyslexia correctly after only one misfire. Obviously he was poor at organizing written work, but that was probably because he’d never paid much attention in English class—which explained a hell of a lot, really. He did have trouble with left and right—hated it when he had to come up with a direction quickly off the top of his head, but that didn’t prove anything. Pronunciation? Well, if he didn’t know a word, he didn’t say it. Slow reader? Not really...hmm...maybe...

  He gave a small snort.

  Define slow.

  After finishing the quiz, he took another. By the time he finished the third, he had to admit that some of the symptoms seemed familiar.

  Finn leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his head as he studied the screen with his score. Maybe he was talking himself into having the symptoms.

  Or maybe he needed to face the fact that he might actually be dyslexic.

  But what were the chances of Molly picking up on it, while none of his English teachers had?

  Probably pretty good if he was being passed along, as Molly had suggested. He’d had no aspirations for college. He’d made that clear to anyone who listened, so why not give him those inflated grades when the school’s reputation in sports needed to be upheld?

  Finn didn’t like that possibility. He’d been happy with his Cs in English that he’d barely worked for, but had never questioned whether or not they had been a gift. Back then his biggest concern had been the next sporting event, the next party, the next anything-that-didn’t-have-to-do-with-school. He’d done his schoolwork, because his parents would have had his hide if he hadn’t, but he never considered the fact that maybe not everyone had the difficulty he had with some classes. School was supposed to be hard—and it was.

  But maybe it shouldn’t have been as difficult as it’d been for him.

  Finn got to his feet and paced through the house, then went back to the computer and started typing into the search engine box.

  Professional dyslexia diagnosis...

  Strategies to overcome dyslexia symptoms...

  Famous people with dyslexia...

  Athletes with dyslexia...

  Smart people with dyslexia...

  Finally, almost an hour later, he turned his computer off and headed for the kitchen, where he poured a glass of water and then took a couple aspirin for the headache that had started beating against his temples.

  If he was dyslexic, then he had to deal with it, and from what he’d gleaned, a formal diagnosis wasn’t going to get him anywhere, because there was no cure or medication or anything. Just strategies to overcome symptoms.

  Well, his first strategy was going to be to go to bed and deal with this tomorrow. Or the next day. He’d lived his life just fine until now, never dreamed anything was holding him back. He’d continue to live it just fine. He just might have to come up with a different career goal.

  Or, hell, he might just tighten tarps and schlep grain and find satisfaction in other areas of his life.

  But even as the thoughts passed through his head, he knew he wasn’t going to do that. He was going to come up with a way to deal with this and continue toward his goal.

  * * *

  MIKE TURNED AWAY from the rain-splattered window and shook his head gravely.
“I’ll bet you anything that plumber never showed. You know how Neil O’Malley is.”

  Actually, Finn had no idea how Neil O’Malley was, but obviously Mike did, since he’d paced to the front of the store about eight times to stare out into the driving rain and wonder aloud if his neighbors were dealing with a flood.

  “Not our problem.”

  Mike’s eyebrows shot up. “Those girls are my neighbors.”

  “They have neighbors on the other side.”

  “What is it with you and them?”

  “Molly wanted to handle this on her own. If she didn’t, then I’m pretty sure she would have called.”

  Mike gave his head another shake, then started for his office. Finn had a bad feeling about the gleam of grim determination he’d seen in his grandfather’s eye, so he followed. By the time he got to the office, Mike was already dialing the phone.

  “Hi. Georgina? It’s Mike... I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “How are you two faring in this rain?” He listened for a moment, his expression becoming more concerned by the second, then he turned toward Finn with an I-told-you-so look.

  Hey, Finn felt like saying, I’m not the bad guy here. It wasn’t as if he’d kept Molly and her sister from phoning for help. As he’d told Mike, Molly had made it quite clear the first time Mike offered assistance that she didn’t want it.

  “No plumber, and he won’t answer his phone.” Mike shot another look at Finn. “How bad is it? Uh-huh... Well, we can’t have that. Ask your sister if she’s good with someone coming over to help.” Mike laughed then. “Command decision, you say? Well, don’t worry. We’re on our way.”

  We? Our?

  Mike hung up the phone, then jerked his head toward the door. “You best get Chase and the snake and head on over.”

  “What?”

  “My bursitis is acting up with the weather.”