The Bridge by Karen Kingsbury

want to know.”
    Ryan had a feeling she was right. “I bet my parents’ house would fit in your garage.”
    “Yeah.” She made a face that showed she was uncomfortablewith the conversation. “Let’s talk about something else.”
    “Like how come we’re starting the primavera sauce with a pile of vegetables.” He came over and nudged her with his elbow. “Mine always comes from a jar.”
    “Yours?” Her eyes sparkled. “Come on, Ryan. Don’t tell me you’ve made pasta primavera before.”
    “Hmm.” He leaned against the kitchen counter and studied her. “Does spaghetti sauce count?”
    “No.” She washed her hands, her eyes on him the whole time. “True primavera sauce starts with a soffritto of garlic and olive oil.”
    “Soffritto?” Ryan couldn’t say the word without laughing. “You didn’t tell me you were a culinary expert.”
    “I’m not.” She dried her hands and pulled two cutting boards from beneath an eight-burner stove. “Just because I can order it off a menu doesn’t mean I can make it.” She grinned. “You’re my guinea pig.”
    “Oh, is that right?”
    “Yes.” She laughed and handed him a bag of broccoli. “Start cutting. Let’s see what we come up with.”
    Somewhere between chopping broccoli and sautéing the soffritto, Ryan felt the mood between themchange. Molly had turned his head from the first time he saw her, but she was off-limits. Practically engaged to the guy back home. And he had Kristen waiting for him in Carthage. But that night in the kitchen of her enormous Brentwood home, there was only the two of them. Way before they sat down to eat, Ryan felt a sense of inevitability about what was coming. As if they were no longer two college friends aware of their limitations, but characters from some classic love story.
    They didn’t talk about it, didn’t make commentary on the emotions flying between them. They simply lived in the moment. When dinner was over, she turned on music and took him outside. The house backed up to a forest, but the yard sat beneath open skies, and that night the host of stars seemed hung for them alone. She led him to the backside of a gorgeous swimming pool where they sat in a cushioned glider. Usually, at The Bridge, they kept distance between them, enough so they could turn and face each other and read from Jane Eyre or compare notes from their various classes.
    That night they sat with their bodies touching, and Ryan wondered if she felt it, too. The electricity betweenthem, as if all their lives had led to this. The air was warm, and they wore T-shirts and shorts. As they set the glider in gentle motion, every whisper of her bare arm against his, every touch of their knees, every rapid beat of his anxious heart, made him wonder how long he could wait. Because with everything in him, he wanted to kiss her.
    He found a resolve he hadn’t known he was capable of and forced himself to look up at the stars. “So beautiful.” He was talking about her, but he couldn’t let on. Who was he kidding? The feelings between them were impossible, right? She hadn’t come to Belmont to fall in love. And even though he and Kristen hadn’t talked in over a week, he would have to end things with her before he could think about Molly the way he was thinking about her there in the glider.
    A comfortable silence settled around them, and finally, Molly sighed, her eyes still on the sky. “My dad isn’t sure about me finishing up here. He wants me to come home.”
    Fear breathed icy cold down the back of Ryan’s neck. “What?” He kept his tone in check. “Why would he do that? You’re halfway finished.”
    Though she laughed, the sound was desperatelysad. “He doesn’t care about my music. He wants me to sit at the head of his empire one day.” She gave him a weak smile. “I’m the son he never had. That’s what he always tells me.”
    “Molly.” He eased away and turned to face her. “You haven’t taken a single business