All That Really Matters, Nicole Deese [best detective novels of all time .TXT] 📗

in my memory for safekeeping. Something to hold on to when we weren’t allowed to hold on to each other. “We should probably take that tour.”

Reluctantly, I nodded, unwilling to unlace our fingers as I guided him out of the dining room on unstable legs. “Right this way, Duke.”

Though I hadn’t left a single inch of my twenty-six-hundred-square-foot house out of the tour, Silas had been most intrigued by my work studio. He’d walked the length of it, taking in my camera equipment and the built-in shelves heavy with products—both reviewed and those still to be reviewed. I didn’t miss the way he noted the neglected table in the corner full of mailer boxes I’d yet to go through this week. Perhaps a little too symbolic of my Makeup Matters with Molly life as of late.

“So this is where the influencing magic happens,” Silas mused as sunlight beamed through the large picture windows overlooking my covered front porch. When I was in active filming mode, those windows remained fully draped to block out unwanted shadows, but their current wide-open status was yet another indication of how behind I was on my summer schedule. A fact Rosalyn reminded me of often. You are currently not meeting the minimum requirements of posting on Makeup Matters with Molly. Mr. Carrington has hired a ghost poster who will be posting as you twice a day. As per your contract, you are expected to have at least one video series each week and two livestreams. If these requirements are not met . . .

“Yes,” I said, cutting off the spiraling thought trail with a slow spin in the middle of the studio. “This is it.”

Perhaps Silas detected the disenchantment in my voice, or perhaps he wasn’t nearly as interested in the dusty monitor he’d been staring at, but whatever the case, his face had morphed from curious to concerned. “Everything all right?”

“Yes.” A lie. There was an imposter posting as me because I was failing at a brand I’d started. A brand that bore my given name. “I just haven’t been in here as much as I usually am.”

Instead of easing the crinkle in his brow, my response had intensified it. “Molly, if I’ve overtaxed you with responsibilities at the manor, please know you can pull back at any time—”

“You haven’t overtaxed me. I’ve enjoyed it—being there. With you and the residents and Glo and Clara.” I’d rather be there in all the hustle and bustle and high drama of life than here, in the incessant silence was what I didn’t say out loud but was sure he’d read on my face. That truth seemed to sing from every pore of my body as of late. When I hummed in the shower, when I took spontaneous coffee breaks in the west garden with Glo, when I hung out with the residents in the lobby until their dinner chores began. I arrived home in the evenings tired in a way I hadn’t been tired in years. From real-life interactions and not just from the constant eyestrain of being on and off screens for sixteen hours a day. And somehow, while I was at Fir Crest Manor, the absence of Val and the constant conversation thread we once shared was just a little more manageable than when I was sitting alone in my studio. “I just need to find a new groove is all. And I will. This happens from time to time.”

Only it had never happened to me. Not since I first started filming in my kitchen pantry. The drive for more followers, more success, more fame and sponsors had always been motivation enough. And it just wasn’t now. Not even a little bit.

Silas didn’t seem to believe me any more than I believed myself, but thankfully he only recaptured my hand and asked if he could help make the pico de gallo. My career goals might be suffering, but at least tonight my personal goals were soaring, starting with chopping onions next to a sexy, salsa-making Silas and comparing our guacamole techniques. His won by a landslide. The man knew how to twist a lime.

With much argument from Silas, I made him leave the kitchen and go sit at the table while I served the surprise tamales on a platter. My stomach fluttered with nerves and exhilaration as I arranged them. “Ready? Close your eyes.”

I could hear him laugh from the dining room as I carried the porcelain platter from the kitchen to where he waited, but he’d obeyed. His eyes were closed. I set the meal down in front of him, Glo’s perfectly tied tamales next to my slightly less than perfectly tied ones. But goodness, their aroma was nothing short of delectable.

“Okay, so before you open your eyes, you should know this was a joint effort. So I hope it’s right. Okay, you can—no, wait! Hold that thought.” I ran back to the fridge and searched for what I was missing on the table.

“You’re killing me, Molly.”

“Just a sec!” I popped the cap off the glass bottle of Coke and set it next to his plate. “All right, now. Now you can open your eyes.”

Silas did, and for a moment, I wasn’t sure if he was happy or upset. He blinked at the steaming mountain of tamales in front of him. “You made . . . you made me tamales?”

“With Glo’s help. She taught me. We holed up in the kitchen while you were dealing with Devon and the parking meter. I just couldn’t stop thinking about the story you told me about that little place in Mexico City, the one you visited with your dad. I know I can’t possibly replicate what you had there with him, but I wanted to make something special for you anyway.”

“You’ve more than achieved that; I promise.” The conviction in his voice caused my breath to hitch and my chest to swell. “Thank you, Molly. This is . . . it’s . . .” His gorgeous brown eyes crinkled at the corners. “It’s just a little