Page 45 of Butter You Up
“When I eat somewhere else, like Gran’s, I don’t make a big deal out of it. If there’s a meatless option, I’ll do it.”
“You know,” I say, spinning the wine in my glass. “Lia has a restrictive diet and Ethel’s been really accommodating. I bet if you talked to your grandmother, she’d make sure you don’t have to eat meat.”
He shrugs again. “It hasn’t been an issue before. Either Anna cooks for me, or I cook for myself.”
I wasn’t aware that Alex cooked. After lunch, we all take a few minutes to pack away leftovers, and I’ve noticed his fridge is pretty empty. And there are always lunch leftovers.
“Do you cook a lot?”
“Nah,” Alex says. He dumps the warm bread into a basket and covers it with a cloth napkin. His gaze darts down to my chest before he glances away. “I mostly eat leftovers.”
I tilt my head. “I like seeing this domestic side of you, Alex Bedd.”
His eyes dart to me again. I don’t think the flush of his cheeks isentirelythe heat of the stove. Alex’s eyes travel up and down my body. “I like every side of you, Molly Perkins.”
I turn and place my wine glass down before holding out my hand to him. He takes a step forward so I don’t have to tug him, and his hands go to my waist. Then we’re kissing, slow and soft, and I can taste the wine on his mouth, feel the slight dampness of his beard and hair from his own shower.
Alex breaks the kiss, but instead of pulling away, he bends down. The flannel has slid off my shoulder, and Alex presses a soft kiss to my clavicle, making me gasp.
When I open my eyes, he’s back at the stove, and the air between us is easier. I drink my wine and ask Alex about his day, while he cracks eggs into wells he made in the shakshuka. Four perfect eggs simmer in the pan before he puts the lid back on and turns to me.
“Is your hand okay?”
“What?” I look down and realize I’ve been rubbing the side of my palm where my rash is. “Oh, damn it. Sorry.” I drop my hand and shove it under my thigh. I’d been feeling so sexy, and now my body has ruined it.
CHAPTER27
ALEX
“No, show me.”I tug at Molly’s forearm and, reluctantly, she shows me the cracked skin under her pinkie. There are also some dry patches between her fingers and on her wrist bone, though they aren’t as red and angry.
“It’s eczema,” she quickly explains. “Not contagious. I haven’t been taking good care of it, and I was looking for you to tell you I was going home so that I could put my medicine on.”
I frown, tracing my thumb carefully over the broken skin. “Do you have some in your bag? If it’s still down at the farm shop, I can get it for you.”
She sighs. “No, the medicine is an ointment, and I have to apply it under band-aids or gloves because it gets everything oily, so I don’t carry it with me. I kind of wish I did now, though.”
I’m no stranger to cracked and chafed skin. “Hang on, I might have something for you.”
I slide open a drawer on Molly’s other side, the junk drawer, and pull out a green metal tin. “Try this stuff.”
Molly reads the label and then opens it up and smells it. Yeah, okay, it doesn’t smell the best, but it’s worth it.
“Come ‘ere.” I scoop a finger into the moisturizer and carefully slather some of the Bag Balm on her skin. I only intended to hit the trouble spots, but I pulled too much out, and the next thing I know, I’m massaging it into her palms and running my hands down her fingers. My hands are big and rough, working hands. Hers are small, of course, the pads of her fingers soft and the backs of her hands freckled.
When I glance up, Molly’s watching me. I’ve moved closer, her knees on either side of my hips. I desperately want to kiss her again, but the eggs are set, and dinner’s ready.
Reluctantly, I break away from Molly. I take the cast-iron skillet off the stove and set it down on potholders on the table. I move our wines and set plates out.
Molly hops off the counter and hands me the tin. “Thank you. It’s a little…” She opens and closes her hands, feeling the residue left behind.
“Don’t worry about touching anything. I never do and I use this stuff every day in the winter.”
She smiles at me. “Okay.”
Molly tells me she’ll be right back and disappears into my bedroom. When she returns a moment later, she’s taken the towel off her head and her damp hair, dark and weighted down by the water, seems longer and straighter. She swings a leg over the bench and sits facing the window, looking out over the view. It’s a little after seven, so it’s still full daylight out. For a moment, I wish it was sunset, and I had candles to light. That would be romantic as hell.
Not that I own candles. And I’ve never had dinner with a woman I’m falling for at my dining room table.
