Butter You Up: A Grumpy Sunshine Romantic Comedy

19. Alex

At the endof the day, Molly knocks on my door. “Hey, boss,” she says from the doorway.

Trixie whines from her dog bed in the corner. I look at Molly and raise an eyebrow. “You want her to come say hi?”

She grins. “Yes please.”

“Say the word.”

Molly doesn’t just say “okay,” she bends down and taps her thighs and Trixie goes bananas, spinning around, jumping like a pogo stick, and just generally being a derp.

I called my brother after lunch, and he said that he has strawberries out the wazoo—all the strawberries that ripen during the week get frozen or made into jam or—for a lucky few—become Gran’s desserts. He’ll get back to me with a number for how much syrup Gran thinks she can make.

Molly stands and dusts herself off. She’s wearing a jean skirt today and a royal blue tank top that hugs her figure.

And I realize I’m alone with her. Kit’s in the house. Perry and Jesús are gone. In fact, Molly should be gone too—it”s past six.

My heart—and parts lower—wonder if she’s here for another kiss. Okay, play it cool, Alex.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, and it comes out gruff instead of hopeful—too gruff. Whoops, I overcorrected.

“I did some digging into a farm shop redesign. I think if we can provide the labor ourselves, I can make some improvements.”

She shows me pictures on her phone of what she has in mind and drawings she made sketching out the space. It would get rid of all the wire racks, but add in a waist-high counter around most of the room, bracketed shelves, and angled wooden display boxes. She’s even drawn out how to use existing reach-in coolers in frames to make them fit the aesthetic.

“How did you do all this?”

“Never underestimate the power of a woman with Pinterest.”

I look at the budget she’s written out. “What’s this number?”

She tilts her head, looking down at the paper. “That’s the estimated supplies, assuming we have tools and labor, plus a 15% cushion and rounded up.”

I hand her back the paper. It’s a good plan. I wish I had time to help her, but I know someone who would love to spend time with her and is antsy to do stuff with his hands. “Deal. You can have Kit—he’s handy—and he can drive my truck to get supplies. I have an account at Feed ‘n Seed, but there’s a bigger hardware store up in Albany.”

“Sweet!” Molly bounces on her toes. “Okay, I’m going to plan. And talk to Kit. Oh, and run my ideas by Ethel, too. And I bet my dad would have ideas...”

Molly’s barely even with me anymore, so excited and wrapped up in her plans. I can’t help but grin down at my laptop while Molly walks away, talking to herself about the shop.

* * *

I drop off two ice chests at Bedd Fellows Farms each day of the strawberry picking. And this time, I pay attention to our Instagram account. Someone even posts a photo with Molly in it, and both she and the kid she’s posing with have strawberries painted on their faces. My brother must have found an artist to add to the festivities. These events keep getting bigger.

Molly’s right about the social media. I need someone to take it over.

Not for the first time, I wish Molly wasn’t leaving. I wish she wasn’t just passing through Fork Lick. She’s a great addition to my staff, and I’ll miss seeing her around the farm.

And a chance for another kiss.

I shake the thought out of my head. We still have her for a month. No use crying over milk that hasn’t even spilled yet.

Sunday evening, I pull into the Bedd Fellows driveway. Kit stayed home tonight, so it’s just me. Trixie goes snuffing, and I climb the front stairs. I can hear my family inside, laughter and conversation ringing out like a beacon.

Everyone says hi, and my stomach gurgles at Gran’s cooking, but we sit down at the table, and Molly’s still not here. There’s not a place set for her.

“Where’s Molly?”

“She has book club tonight,” Gran says. “Didn’t she tell you?”

“No.” The word is petulant like I’m a child who had a playdate canceled.

Gran waves my tone away. “You’ll bring her a plate after we’re done.”

Okay, it’s less fun without Molly there, but I enjoy myself a lot more than I thought I would without either her or Kit as a buffer. Ethan’s in an excellent mood, and after our conversation last week, I’m feeling a lot better, too.

Lighter.

I should have let go of my anger with Grandad a long time ago.

After dinner, I walk a plate of food out to Vaniel. The door is closed, but the windows are open, screens in place to keep the bugs out. I can hear Molly laughing.

Maybe laughing isn’t the right word. She’s cackling.

I look down at the plate and wonder if I should take it back inside and drive Trixie and me home, but I want to see her. Plus, Gran told me to bring the plate to Molly and while I’m okay with turning down an invitation to dinner, I won’t outright disobey the woman that raised me.

I knock on the door, and Molly tells someone she’ll be right back.

Vaniel’s door swings open and Molly’s backlit by her van’s lights.

“Alex,” she says, surprised and maybe pleased to see me.

“Here,” I say, offering her the plate.

“Oh, thank you. Can you wait just a few minutes? We’re almost done, and we could talk while I eat?”

“Sure.” I gesture to the two Adirondack chairs outside the van. There’s a fire pit, too, but it’s too warm to light it. “I’ll wait out here.”

“Okay,” she says, and I can see her megawatt smile within the shadows on her face.