Page 6 of Someone to Hold
“I’m not leaving.” I shake my head. “I’ve got nowhere else to be.”
Her eyebrows furrow over those deep green eyes. She considers that statement, which reveals far more than I intended, but eventually places her hand in mine.
To my surprise, the calluses I feel on her palm nearly match those on mine. I shouldn’t be surprised since I know she uses the field next to the barn for her flower farming business. Farming of any type is hard work.
I lift her to her feet—well, her one foot—but before she canreach for the crutches, I scoop her into my arms, tucking the crutches under the arm cradling her back.
“You can’t carry me to the house,” she says.
“Don’t squirm, or I’m going to drop the crutches, and we’ll have to start this balancing act all over again.”
“Chase, you’re going to drop me.” She’s so stiff it feels like I’m carrying one of those department store mannequins.
“I won’t, Molly. I’ve got you.” There’s no explanation for how rough my voice sounds, but I can feel the heat coming off her. There’s the scent of sweat and earth, and the faint smell of sugar cookies, which I figure comes from her lotion. I bite back the urge to lean in and run my lips along the graceful column of her throat. To taste the salt on her skin.
Yeah. I like sweaty women just fine.
But this one is off-limits, I remind myself. I’m here to do a job, and I have to convince her to let me.
The wisps of her hair brush my cheek, sending my blood and brain cells rushing south. A physical reaction, nothing more. I like women—all shapes and sizes. Molly McAllister isn’t special to me. There’s nothing to see here, folks.
She stops protesting but doesn’t relax into me. I’m quickly coming to appreciate that she’s got more sense than I gave her credit for the summer she and Teddy married. Back then, I figured she was just young and starry-eyed, but there’s a steel in her spine I completely missed.
Back at the house, I leave the crutches resting against the front porch rail while I carry her inside and lower her to the old sofa.
“You want a glass of water?”
“Yes, please.” She winces as she lifts her foot onto the coffee table. She fixed the buttons at some point, but this movement causes the flannel to bunch above the waistband of her black leggings, revealing a sliver of skin as creamy as moonlight. I like those leggings, or maybe they’re called yoga pants. Who the hellknows. But I thank whoever invented them because they show off every curve of a woman’s body.
Note to self: stop noticing Molly’s body.
I retrieve the crutches, then place them against the edge of the couch where she can reach them. We need to talk, but I don’t want her to feel like she can’t get away if she wants to. And that hopping business from earlier will only cause more trouble.
“I need to call a plumber,” she announces as I walk toward the kitchen. “The sink in the laundry room works.”
Her voice is even, but I hear the frustration in it.
“I bet I can fix the sink.” I grab two glasses and head down the short hall to fill them. When I return, she’s still eyeing me warily, but takes the glass with a trembling hand.
“Have you eaten today?” I down my water and then turn back for the kitchen, not liking how seeing her so fragile makes my heart twist with something dangerously close to tenderness. “I’ll make eggs.”
I hear her snort. “No, thank you.”
Ignoring her, I open the fridge and peer at the contents. “You’ve got some veggies and ham. I could?—”
“I do not want eggs and ham. Not in a box.” Her tone is indignant as she continues, “Not with a fox.”
I chuckle and then marvel that she can make me smile in the midst of what is turning out to be a giant shit show of a morning. “Got it, Molly-I-Am. No eggs and ham.”
She rolls her eyes, but one side of her mouth curves. It feels like a victory from where I’m standing.
“I don’t know what Linda was thinking asking you to help,” she says as much to herself as to me. “I don’t want to bother her on her trip, but this makes no sense.”
She takes another long sip of water, and a few drops dribble down her chin before she wipes them away with her shirt sleeve. Maybe I’m the one who needs help, because why do I find thatadorable?
I grab a granola bar from a basket on the counter and bring it to her. She narrows her eyes like it’s some kind of a trick. “I’m here to help you and the kids.”
She snatches the granola bar and rips open the wrapper. “Why you? Is it your years of experience with children? Your love of the domestic arts?”
