Coming Friday Molly McLain Author of: Can't Resist Him EXCERPT


Molly McLain

Author of:

Sometimes what you want and what you need are two very different things. 

Always relegated to the “friends with benefits” corner of small town River Bend, Jenny Riley is done giving the milk for free. Falling hard for a bad boy? Not in the plan, either.

Sexy, emotionally-wounded Marine Reservist Brody Nelson just needs someone to lend an ear. A friend. Friends to lovers? That’s more than he bargained for.

Neither wants a relationship. A long distance friendship should be enough.

It’s not.

Warning: This books contains a tattooed, pierced hero with a few surprises up his sleeve…and a hella sexy one down his pants.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”
Yeah, right.
Jenny Riley sucked in a deep breath, wet her lips, and willed her heel, currently clad in a spiky black knee boot, not to stomp through Reed Fletcher’s stupid, clich├ęd foot.
“You really don’t have to do this.” She shot a glance around his shoulder to make sure Annabel, her receptionist, was still out to lunch. She was and, thankfully, she’d flipped the Open sign to Closed on her way out. At least there’d be no witnesses to this...whatever it was. “You’ve got someone new, right? I get it. We’ve done this before.” Repeatedly. To the point, it was actually kind of embarrassing.
Reed shook his head, his brow drawn together. “It’s different this time. Or at least I think it is.”
“Good. I mean, yay for you. I’m sure she’s great.” Great in a way she apparently wasn’t, because fuck buddies weren’t great for anything other than, well, fucking. Gah, she was so pathetic. What did she think would happen? He’d fall in love with her? Ha!
“Jenn...” Reed reached out for her and the second his fingers touched her arm, butterflies whirled in her stomach.
Dammit. She was not attached to him. She’d known what they were and what they weren’t. To have thought for even a second that she might mean something more to him...
“I hope we can still be friends.”
Ugh. The other ‘F’ word she hated so much.
“Of course we will. We’ve been friends forever.” She pasted on a smile as the chimes on the front door jangled and Annabel bustled in.  Snowflakes glistened on her hat and she held two steaming cups of coffee in her hands.
“Hey, Reed,” the young woman greeted him brightly—and cluelessly—despite the cold following her inside the salon.
He flashed a quick smile, then turned back to Jenny, his voice low. “Have dinner with me tonight. Let’s lay this to rest, once and for all.”
God, that sounded awful. Like their on-again-off-again fling was something they’d struggled with. Hell, maybe he had. Could she possibly have been any more naive?
“Tonight’s not good,” she muttered, still sweeping up the hair from her last customer because it kept her from simply standing there, looking as awkward as she felt. “I’m helping Ally get ready for Vegas.”
“How late will you be? I can grab take-out and come over when you’re done.”
No. “Reed, seriously. It’s fine. This isn’t that big a deal.” Only it kind of was and she hadn’t realized it until now. How ridiculous was she, falling for a guy who’d made it clear from the get-go that he’d never fall for her?
He nodded, but the frown on his face didn’t fade. “You’re something special, Jenny Riley.”
But apparently not special enough to keep him interested in more than the warm space between her legs.
Her throat began to constrict and her lungs began to burn, and she nodded, too, hoping like hell he’d get the hint and leave before the full reality of what he’d just told her sank in.
He didn’t want her anymore. Just like every guy before him and the ones in between, too.
“Thanks,” she managed to say. “I hope she’s the real deal this time.”
Just like that, the tension melted from his expression and his dark eyes lit up. His cheeks even flushed a bit. Imagine that—River Bend’s most renowned womanizer blushing over a girl.
“You’re such a dog.” She shoved him away and rolled her eyes. Damn him for never getting all soft and gooey about her that way.
“Hey, someone had to be the player around here.” He laughed and grabbed her arm, pulling her in for a friendly hug. Like they hadn’t, just a few weeks ago, licked every possible inch of each other.
“I guess the same could be said for me.” She pinched his side and held her breath. Don’t breathe him in. Don’t let him—this—get beneath your skin.
“You sure you don’t want to talk about this some more?” he asked into her hair.
Shaking her head, she pushed away and straightened her apron, keeping busy so she wouldn’t have to look him in the eye. “Nah, it’s best this way.”
He gave a soft grunt and shuffled back a few steps. “Goddamn, I feel like a prick right now.”
And she felt like a fool. What the hell was wrong with her? Maybe the holidays were making her sentimental.
The chimes rang again and her first client of the afternoon ambled in from the mini-blizzard outside. Venturing a small, apologetic smile up at her now former lover, Jenny shrugged. “Duty calls.”  
Reed mirrored her expression.
“I hope you find the real deal, too, princess. You deserve it.”
Damn right she did. And one day she’d have it. Probably not anytime soon, but someday.

I’ve been penning fictitious love stories since middle school and, at my 8th grade graduation, my class predicted I’d be a published author by our 20-year reunion. Like many novelists, especially romance writers, my infatuation with a good love story began early. I don’t remember exactly how old I was, but I’ll admit that Barbie and Ken acted more than a couple of the story lines I had in my head (sorry, Mom, but, no, not all of them were kid-appropriate). The obsession continued to grow as I got older and, whenever I left home, I always had a wire-bound notebook and a blue ballpoint pen in hand. In fact, every August, I still get that goofy, schoolgirl itch to buy up oodles of pens and paper, because, while I love my laptop, nothing compares to writing long-hand. If the house is quiet and there’s a thunderstorm rumbling outside, even better.
Not that I have the slightest a clue what a quiet house is anymore. Having three rambunctious (but awesome) kids, a zippy dog and a pesky cat has completely blurred my memory of peace and quiet. Oh, and I have a husband too–I call him the FisherGuy–and he’s probably louder and crazier than all the rest. I think I’ll keep him though. He’s pretty good hero material. Did I mention he’s also a firefighter?
We live in Northern Wisconsin (Go Pack Go!) and, let me tell you, living here has provided lots of small-town fodder for this writer’s overactive imagination. Of course, I know no one who’s lived anything close to the steamy experiences I write about (not that I’d tell you if I did *wink*). There’s something inherently sexy about not knowing what goes on behind closed doors…or even better, letting my imagination run free, concocting all kinds of stories and scenarios and putting them down on paper. Or my laptop.

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