AN: So here is Molly! It's from the Thursday, Friday, Saturday storyline, and starts at the end of Friday/the beginning of Saturday. While I don't think he's right for Stephanie, I've always liked Joe Morelli and this story is about him finding what he was missing with Stephanie.

The air was sultry; a gentle breeze was carrying the spicy scent of food cooking on a massive line of grills. They were being manned by different male members of both families, competing to see who would have the longest queue of customers. There was one table, largely ignored, in the corner of the banquet sparsely filled with salads that had mostly come from bags and were there to pay lip service to the idea of healthy eating. The good produce was either on the condiment table or slathered in mayonnaise and combined with other more realistic vegetables like pasta and bacon.

The party started at 4 PM with the arrival of the grills and the families. There was a moratorium on cellphones, only those who were on-call were allowed to carry them. Everyone else had to turn them in. The teenagers had balked, until they discovered that some industrious person, who was probably going to hell, had smuggled in a homemade Twilight version of Cards Against Humanity, in order to appease them.

As far as wedding receptions went, it was a fairly laid-back affair. An excuse for families to get together, drink way too much on someone else's dime, and to celebrate the Fourth.

Most of the neighborhood had been invited. The park was packed and at 9 PM the bride and groom took to the dance floor.

She was wearing a light blue silk sundress with a flirty skirt that hung to her knees. He always wore black, and that night was no different. Instead of a suit or his work uniform, he was wearing slacks and an untucked black silk shirt, with the sleeves pushed up. He was holding his wife close, and when a gust of wind came up, and she nearly mooned the crowd, his smooth reflexes prevented the disaster and gave him an excuse to keep his hand on her ass. He whispered something in her ear, and she tipped her head back and started laughing.

And if there was ever a time Joe Morelli needed a drink, it was then…And unfortunately, his red plastic solo cup was empty. It was bad enough that he was even there, at the belated wedding reception of his ex and his rival. It was made worse by the fact that he was happy for her. It didn't change that he wanted to be the one dancing with her. Then again, he could have had that, and he never took it, because he just could never picture them living together.

"This is a wedding. You're supposed to look happy. Where's your date?"

"At home with a 103-degree fever and the complexion of pea soup. I offered to stay with her and play doctor, but her mother wasn't impressed by the suggestion," Joe said and grinned at his mother. She pursed her lips and slapped him on the arm.

"There are plenty of single women here; find one and dance with her."

"Yeah, I thought I'd go to the bar actually," he said.

"Keep in mind whose wedding this is, and how bad it would look if you disgraced yourself by getting plastered."

"I've had one beer; I think my system can handle it."

She looked up at him and patted his cheek affectionately.

"If she was the one, you'd be on your third baby by now," she said.

"You're right," he said. He kissed his mother's forehead and walked towards the massive line at the bar. The song ended, and Stephanie came rushing over to cut the line and grab a drink for herself, claiming bridal privileges. While she was at it, she grabbed a full bottle of tequila and walked to the back of the line where Joe was standing. She handed him the bottle.

"If our places were reversed, I'd be wanting to get shit faced," she said.

"Thanks," he chuckled, "I'm fine though."

"It's free, and we have lots of it. Skip the line," Stephanie said. Ranger was talking to Bobby, and she caught Ranger's eye and smiled.

"I'm surprised Lester isn't here. He had a hot date coming tonight, and he was supposed to carpool with Bobby," she said, "They were getting off work together."

"There's a flu going around; maybe his date has it."

"Is that why you're stag?" Stephanie asked.

"Yep."

"Remember Carla Fletcher? Redhead, big blue eyes?"

"Yes," Joe said, though he didn't precisely associate her eyes with the word big, as he did other parts of her anatomy.

"She's here, and she's here alone; drove her mom…'

"Are you seriously trying to set me up, at your wedding?" Joe asked incredulously.

"Well I look at it this way, she's pretty, funny, not stupid, she doesn't make me feel inferior, and I don't like her. Since the chances are pretty good I'm not going to like who you hook up with; I'm down with it being Carla instead of someone I might like and would then have to hate."

"Ah," Joe said, "Would a rocket scientist supermodel meet your approval? Because that's who I was supposed to bring."

"No," she said, "Can't approve of that. Who were you really going to bring?"

"Cindy Gershwin."

"Yeah, I don't like Cindy for you. She's too…what's the word I'm looking for?"

"Sexy as fuck?"

"That's the one."

"That's three words."

"I hyphenated in my head."

"You're a piece of work Cupcake," he said. He looked down at his tequila, and said, "Grab me a beer too would you?"

"Coming up," Stephanie said. She came back and handed him two, "One for Carla."

"Or not Carla. If I remember correctly, she's a prude. You'd think she'd be adventurous, but she's a missionary, in the bedroom, in the dark, kind of girl."

"Well, that just makes me feel bad for you because she's your future wife. You'll just have to learn to deal I guess."

"Go dance with your husband," Joe said.

"I did that already. I need a lot more booze in me to get me out there again."

She toasted him with her beer, and she walked back to the dance floor. She was just so damned happy. He wanted to be pissed, but he couldn't. He loved her too much not to be happy for her. He needed to get hammered.

He opened one of the bottles in his hand. It was some microbrewery special, belonging to someone related to the Plums, and therefore inexpensive in bulk. It wasn't bad actually. He figured he'd drink one, take the other and the bottle of tequila back to his place where he may or may not decide to drink it, and then call it a night. He'd stayed for the dance, and he'd spoken with the bride, and he'd been gracious; he could call it quits.

He got to the parking lot and pulled out his phone to call a taxi when a movement caught his attention. Leaning against the hood of a black SUV, was Lester. He had his arms folded across his chest, and Joe could just make out the top of a female head, in the vicinity of Lester's crotch. "This would be a lot easier if you just got back in the truck and took your pants off," the girl said.

"It would be going a lot faster if you weren't already drunk."

"I'm not that drunk," she said, "Yet."

"Just hurry up would you?"

"See, I know what this looks like," Joe said. "And I know you're not stupid enough to risk a public indecency bust at Ranger's wedding…. I mean any other time sure." The girl giggled, and Lester sighed.

"If it were any other girl Morelli…" Lester said. The girl rose up from the ground; she'd been kneeling on a floor mat from the truck. She was about five four, with dark brown, almost black hair, with bright red highlights that peaked out from the ends of her artfully messy wavy hair. She was dressed in a short, slinky, black cocktail dress, with a plunging neckline, and a delicate necklace with a ring and little gold teddy bear on it. She had a gold cuff on her left bicep, and on her right wrist, she had a large selection of gold bracelets.

Her hazel eyes were done in a smoky black shadow, with gold eyeliner, and her lips were done in pale metallic pink. Her feet and calves were ornamented with a pair of gold gladiator-style stilettos, with a dozen buckles on each leg. She was gorgeous and not dressed for this wedding, or any wedding. She looked like she was dressed to go out for a night in New York, and not a wedding barbecue. The only thing that suggested that she might fit in with some of the women in this crowd was that she was holding a small plastic sewing kit in her left hand.

"Joe Morelli, meet my sister Molly. She was fixing the hem of my pants," Lester said.

Joe looked at the petite woman with the porcelain skin and pale eyes and looked back at Lester's 6-foot body and caramel colored complexion, "I see the family resemblance."

"Technically I'm not his actual sister, just sort of his quasi-stepsister. But I've known him since I was only like eight pounds and our parents did raise us together, and they were engaged for like a million years. So he might as well be my brother. I mean mom died before they could get married and I had to move to Germany with my biological father, but Javi Santos is my real dad."

She spoke with a soft, hard to place accent. It was European but not easy to peg down, with just enough New Jersey to know she was a native. It was unique, and it was definitely charming.

"You'll have to excuse Molly; she doesn't usually babble, but she decided to down a handful of martinis after getting stood up for the fifth time in two months."

She retaliated to that statement by punching him hard in the thigh with the knuckle of her right middle finger. Lester's leg buckled, and he swore, "Fuck, Molly! That's going to leave a bruise!"

"You just told a complete stranger how pathetic I am! I prefer to let people figure that out for themselves."

"You're not pathetic; you just have lousy taste in men," Lester grumbled, rubbing his leg, "Are you going to do the decent thing now and tell my date how I rescued my baby sister?"

"Lester, I'm drunk. I'll look ridiculous walking out there dressed like this, and you know Tia Alita will rip me a new one and accuse me of trying to outshine the bride. Besides, have you ever tried to walk across the grass in stilettos? I'll be doing the lawn a favor, sure, but I'm probably going to break something."

"I have seen you run on a beach in six-inch stilettos. Nice try though."

"I want to go home, Lester. I don't know why you are even dragging me here," she whined.

"Because it's Ric's wedding.. sort of… and you should play nice and congratulate him."

"Yeah, and that would just be awkward for everyone. I sent Ric a card, and I'll send Stephanie a really nice bouquet of congratulatory flowers," she said.

"I was about to go home," Joe said, "I can give you a lift so Lester can go get laid."

"Done," Molly said.

"Molly, it won't be as bad as you think. There are hundreds of people there. Tia Alita won't even notice you."

"No! You're going to act like a big brother, and hover all night, trying to set me up with your friends because you're worried about my self-esteem. I'm fine. The guy was an asshole. I'll move on."

"Molly," he said.

"Go! Don't worry about me. Joe is it?" Joe nodded, "Joe can get me home. There's a Mets game on tonight, and if I hurry, I'll be home by the fourth inning."

Lester looked at Joe, with indecision written all over his face, and finally relented.

"It's not you Molly," Lester said.

"Yeah," she said, "I know. Stop worrying about me."

"Can't help it; it's my job."

Lester gave Molly one last fleeting glance and walked away. She turned to Joe, and said, "So why are you bailing early?"

"Didn't want to miss the Mets game," he said with a grin. She was fucking gorgeous, and he couldn't have stopped his eyes from lazily taking in every inch of her body even if he wanted to. She smiled back at him, returning the favor.

"Well at least I get to go home with a hot guy," she said.

"That you do," he said. He went to open his Uber app when a family came out to the parking lot. There were four kids with their parents; the oldest child couldn't have been more than six.

"Are you married?" Molly asked as they watched the parents wrestle protesting kids into their minivan.

"You know your new semi-step-cousin-in-law, Stephanie?" he asked.

"I've heard of her but haven't had the pleasure of actually meeting her yet."

"I was semi-engaged to her until she and Manoso eloped."

"Ouch," she said, drawing out the word and screwing up her face adorably.

"We were over for a long time before either of us were willing to admit it."

"Well, here's my thinking. We're both pretty sad characters tonight, and I don't mean sad as in unhappy. I mean sad as in pathetic, and we're only going to make that worse if we leave at the same time as the under four-foot crowd."

"Yep," he said.

"I've decorated this venue enough times to know that there's a gazebo that we can get to without walking on grass. You have two beers and a bottle of Tequila. Let's go watch the game on my phone and stop the neighbors from gossiping about how sad we are for getting in so early."

"And set them gossiping about getting home really late and very drunk instead?"

"Yep," she said, "Because then if we look pathetic, we're too drunk to care."

"I like your logic," Joe said, "Lead on."

She went to lead him to the path, and stopped, "Wait!"

"What?" She trotted back to the car, realized it was locked and reached into her purse, pulled out a set of keys and pointed the fob at the lock. The car unlocked and an alarm went off in her purse. She pulled out her phone and answered it, "Just hit the wrong fob, sorry Ram. I'm a little drunk. My code is… ummm I'm Lester's sister, and I know where you have your tattoo." The alarm stopped, and she laughed. "One-One- Alpha- Mike-Victor- Golf."

She went to the back of the truck and opened the back door. She leaned in, lifting one leg as she reached for whatever she was looking for. Her skirt rode up, and Joe had to force his eyes away from the glimpse of lower ass cheek. He tried not to think about the fact that the amount of cheek he'd seen either meant she was smokeless or in a thong…. Or she had one hell of a wedgie.

"Aha!"

"What?" Joe asked.

She righted herself, and in one hand she had two cellophane wrapped sets of picnic cutlery, and in the other, she was holding a pie. "Rosa asked me to make a few pies for the wedding. Lester forgot to take them out of the car. He'll be back for them, but I figure we can steal one. What would you like? I have caramel apple, blueberry and strawberry rhubarb."

"Are they good pies?" He asked.

"Do you think Rosa would ask me to make them for her favorite Grandson's wedding reception if they weren't?" She asked with an arched eyebrow.

"Which is your favorite?" he asked.

"Ric is the one who likes the Strawberry Rhubarb so we should leave those. I like the apple and the blueberry."

"It's hard to go wrong with apple," he said.

She swapped out the pie she was holding for another one, and Molly teetered a bit on her heels when she stood up again. Joe traded her the beers for the pie, and after she locked the car back up, she hooked her arm in his and led him to the path that would take them to the Gazebo. The fragrant smell of weed filled their noses as they got closer and Joe raised his voice, "You know who I am and what I do, and that's still illegal in New Jersey."

"Shit, it's uncle Joe!" One of the voices said, and there was scuffling as the kids cleared out.

"Leave the stuff, and I don't tell your parents."

There was more scuffling, and Joe grinned as they walked up the steps to the Gazebo. He picked up the ziplock of weed and looked at Molly.

"Too bad I don't know where this came from."

She chuckled, "What do you do Joe?"

"I'm a cop."

"Do you get confused for a stripper a lot? You're too hot to be a cop."

"I won't lie; it was a real problem back in the day, but I don't go out in uniform much anymore. I'm a plainclothes detective."

She sat down at the table and put the two beers down. Joe put down the pie and the tequila.

"I mean it can't have been that much of a problem; I bet you got a lot of tips."

"Yeah but they were all singles, and that got to be a pain in the ass."

Molly laughed, "Well Detective, why don't you unwrap the pie while I find the game?"

"We have a problem," Joe said.

"What's that?" She asked.

"We either have to drink straight from the bottle, or we have to go back to the party to get glasses."

"Bottle," she said decisively, "I'm starving, and I just got comfortable. Besides, there's enough alcohol in the tequila that it should kill off any cooties you might have. We'll drink our beer with the pie, and then play a drinking game or something?"

"How about, every time someone flies out, we have to do a shot?"

"I like it," Molly said, "And for every run scored on a home run, a shot. Solo home run, one shot, double, two, etc."

"And we'll play quarters or something during the pitching changes to see who has to drink."

"I'm going to be hammered."

"I thought that was the idea?"

"It is. I'm just saying; we should have probably brought the other pie."

She found the game on her phone and started it streaming, but they had nothing to prop it up on, so Joe chugged his beer, to her amused applause, and they used it as a tv stand.

"So Molly tell me about yourself?" Joe said.

"Well, I lived in New Jersey with Lester until I was fifteen, and then mom died, so I moved to Germany, where my father was stationed to live with him. He's a US Army Colonel, who looks and sounds like Colonel Sanders when he speaks English, but he was only just, not born in Germany and refuses to speak English anywhere but work, or on American soil. I spent high school in boarding schools all over Western Europe. Not English speaking ones because he wanted me to be multilingual. And then I went to LMU in Munich for university and got a degree in Architectural Design and Engineering with a Minor in Mechanical Engineering."

"So you're an architect?" Joe said.

"Nope," she said, "I'm a florist."

"No need to mock me for stating the obvious. Besides, you asked me if I was a stripper."

"No seriously!" She said, "I'm a florist. I own a store called the Cubed Root."

"That's really nerdy," he said.

"It really is, but my designs are modern and stuff. I was a big deal in New York, sort of, for a while but then I had a nasty divorce and found myself in Trenton."

"So you've been married."

"Nope," she said, "My fiancé left me at our rehearsal dinner and then decided a common law divorce was the best way for me to know he damned serious." She took a swig of her beer.

"New York doesn't allow for common law marriage," Joe said.

"Ah Full Faith and Credit, my friend," she said, waggling her bottle at him. "It means if you're married one place then the US government will recognize you as being married everywhere.

Lucien is French so he couldn't just move to New York with me when I got offered my job. So we decided, since we both wanted a big wedding and couldn't afford it just yet, we'd enter into a Registered Partnership in Germany, which is basically formalizing our common law status. It gave him the same rights as a spouse, even though we weren't married. Because of that, as the judge so kindly informed me, after telling me I should have read the fine print, it didn't just entitle him to a spousal visa, it also meant that we had to terminate our union legally, and he was allowed to sue for Alimony."

"Fuck," Joe said.

"This was after emptying our joint accounts and running up a bunch of debts in my name, so I had to drain my savings, and sell the business to cover the debts and the alimony he was demanding. He's currently living in our condo, drives a BMW, and I live in a shitty apartment above my flower shop, in a shitty industrial park, and get to put up with monthly visits from the asshole, because he's got it into his head that he wants me back."

"Nice," Joe said.

"Yep," she said, "Anyways, that's my life story, and hey, Turner just flied out. Crack open that bottle."

Joe opened it and offered it to her. She took a swig. "I can probably top that shitty story," he said.

"Do it, and I'll do two shots the next time."

"Hmm, that seems self-serving. No, I'm going to demand something else."

"Oh yeah? What?"

"Haven't decided yet," Joe said, "Maybe part of your half of the pie."

"Oh it's good pie; you'd better be extra tragic."

"Well let's see, my dad was a drunk, and when he wasn't cheating on mom and rubbing our noses in it, he was beating on her until I got big enough to get between them. When I was 14, I started fighting back, which put an end to the physical abuse, but he was a dick head, so he took it out on me in other ways, and I started acting out. Mom stuck up for me and then one day I crossed a line, so she gave me shit. I'd taken enough beatings for her, that I figured she should cut me some slack, so to punish her, I seduced her best friend's daughter behind the eclair counter at the pastry shop the girl worked in. Then to make sure mom found out about it, I wrote truly classy poetry about it on men's room walls, all over town."

"This isn't tragic, I mean it started that way," she said, "But now you just sound like a dick."

"Don't worry, it gets better. So after mom and I had it out over that, she told me I was worse than my dad ever was and to prove her wrong, I joined the Navy. I took my anger out in the boxing ring and turned into a semi-decent human being. Left the Navy, got run over by a Buick driven by the girl I humiliated, which looking back now, was probably karma."

"It absolutely was karma," Molly said.

"Are you going to keep interrupting me or are you going to let me tell my story?"

"I'm going to keep interrupting you," she said with a grin and took another swig of her beer. "Do continue; it's fun."

"Then I spent years proving I wasn't my dad, only to get framed for murder, and that same girl was charged with tracking me down while I was trying to clear my name. I convinced her to help me, she did. We cleared my name, but she dragged my ass in for the bail money anyway."

"More karma," Molly said. "And a girl's gotta eat."

"Yeah, yeah," he said. He took her beer from her and took a sip, "Anyway, we made up, we got together, but by then she was in love with your cousin too and being an idiot, I didn't really take it seriously. Then one day I get a call at work, she's engaged, and the whole town is talking about it. We have a massive fight. I made an ass out of myself again, and she eloped with him in Florida."

"That's a tragic story, it really is, but… a lot of it was your own fault, and you have to accept the consequences for your actions. So I will grant you something, but not pie." They paused to watch as the ball sailed out of the park.

"Damn," Molly said.

"That would be a two-run home run there Sweetheart; drink up."

"You know what's truly tragic?"

"The Mets are getting creamed?"

"Yep."

She did two-ish shots and handed him the bottle. He took two swigs.

"Oh, pitching change, get out a quarter," Molly said, "Shit, we don't have anything to shoot it into."

Joe braced his arms on the table and held his hands up, palms out, thumbs together to make a football upright.

"That's not fair; I have to flick the quarter higher than you do."

"Yeah, but you have little hands, so my target is smaller than yours," he said. "It makes us even."

"Well now I'm just disappointed," Molly said.

"Why?" Joe asked, bemused.

"Guys who notice my little hands are usually guys who… let's just say usually have small feet, if you catch my drift. My little hands make them feel like a hero."

Joe took off one of his size twelve loafers and plopped it down on the table, "Nothing small about my feet, now shoot the fucking quarter before the pitching change ends."

"Can't," Molly said, "I've just noticed that your hands are proportionate to your feet and now I'm all distracted."

"Are you this fun sober?"

"If I were, I probably wouldn't get stood up so often," she said. She downed another shot, for courage probably.

She flicked the quarter, and he shifted, so her shot went through the target instead of ricocheting off of his thumb. She held up her hands, and he nailed the shot. Which also happened to result in her having to fish around in her cleavage for the missing quarter. Consequently, he missed his second shot. She missed her next two shots, wildly. The pitching change then over, she had to do the shot.

"I want to switch to hockey," she said.

"It's a picnic table; the quarter is going to fall between the slats."

"You're not allowed to make sense; you're supposed to be getting drunk," she said. She ran a hand through her hair, and when she shifted again, Joe caught a glimpse of the silver laced, black bra she was wearing under her dress. "So smart guy, I have a question?"

"What's that?"

"Why do I get stood up?"

He sat back a bit and looked her over. "Well, you like baseball, you can probably fix your own car, you're fucking hot, smart, funny, and you make a delicious pie."

"Those all sound like good things," she said.

"Well, the problem is that you come across as perfect, and that's intimidating."

"But I'm not perfect!" She said a little louder than she intended and she giggle-snorted, which made him laugh, "See? I snort when I laugh, I can't sing, I'm a really bad dancer, and I'm really pathetic when I have a cold. Like forget man colds, they have nothing on the colds I get. On top of that, I wake up really really early, and I left a job making six figures to chase a dream of being a florist, so now I'm poor."

"Yeah," Joe said, "The guys that are intimidated by the other stuff, should be because they are idiots and you are out of their league."

"You're just saying that because you want to know what you're going to get for your tragic story."

He smirked, they did another shot as the Mets made a sacrifice fly, earning a run, which Joe and Molly decided deserved an extra shot because it meant the Mets were finally on the board. A double play ended the inning, and they watched in horrified silence as two pitches resulted in two base hits. "I know how I'm going to earn my pie," Joe said.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said, "I'm going to teach you to dance."

"I'm really drunk," she said.

"Yeah, it means you'll be less inhibited," he said. "And I'm drunk, so I won't notice when you impale me with one of those shoes."

"Or notice that I'm a shit dancer?" She said.

"That too," he said. "Oh crap, the bases are loaded."

Molly slapped her phone to turn it off, and Joe laughed, "It doesn't count if we don't see it," she said.

He squinted at the bottle and realized they were getting through it rather quickly. He stood and held his hand out to her, she wobbled to her feet, and he helped her as she stumbled over the base of the table.

"Wait, music!" she said.

She picked up her phone again and before she was able to switch out of the game, they saw the replay of the grand slam.

"Well, here's to getting shitfaced at a wedding," Molly said. She tipped the bottle back and chugged some, took the bottle away and coughed at the burn. She handed it to Joe. "That should count as four. You drink while I find music."

She hit shuffle on her phone. The first song to play was Jingle Bell Rock.

"I can work with that," Joe said. Both of them were laughing as he attempted to teach her to slow dance to the uptempo Christmas song. She kept getting her heels stuck in the floorboards of the Gazebo, and at one point she fell, bringing him with her, which just made them laugh harder.

The song changed this time to a slow, sultry instrumental piece, "What is this?" He asked as they were both lying on the Gazebo floor.

"I think it's from some movie soundtrack. I could get up and look, but I don't want to. I'm starting to get comfortable."

"You might regret that; we probably don't want to think too hard about what's on this decking."

"You're probably right," she said. Joe stood up and then hauled her to her feet. She stumbled into him almost immediately, and he caught her. "Thanks for trying to teach me to dance."

"Can I have some of your pie now?" he asked.

"That's a question loaded with entendre," she said. "And I don't know if I should say yes; you didn't teach me how to dance."

"You told me you were a bad dancer, you didn't tell me you were hopeless," he said.

Her hands were splayed across his chest, and she grinned, "I'll bet you're a good kisser."

He grinned, "I'm a fucking awesome kisser; even drunk."

"Prove it, and maybe I'll let you have some of my pie."

He kissed her, his lips just grazing hers at first, feather-light, and she shivered. He grinned and then deepened the kiss. She tasted of tequila but so did he and it was good tequila, so he didn't care. When he broke the kiss, she whimpered, and her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt out of a subconscious reflex to keep him closer.

"Take as much as you want," she said, and he kissed her again.