Butter You Up: A Grumpy Sunshine Romantic Comedy

26. Molly

More like a thousand percent better.Stripping off my clothes was disquieting. Yes, the cow shit had made it in my underwear. When I slid, my shirt must have ridden up and exposed the back of my pants. The small of my back and the waistband of both my jeans and underwear were filthy.

But after stepping under Alex’s shower head, I don’t have a care in the world. The water pressure beats down on me, the temperature near scalding—just how I like it, even though it’s not good for my skin—and I squirt another glob of shampoo into my palm so I can wash my hair a second time.

There’s a knock at the door, and I hear Alex’s voice. “Can I grab the clothes?”

“Yeah,” I call back. It’s kind of comforting to hear Alex move around on the other side of the shower curtain, and I smile to myself when I hear him tell Trixie to “back up.”

“I left some clothes on the counter for you. I’m going to shower upstairs, and then I’ll start the laundry.”

“Thank you.”

The door closes again. I rinse the shampoo out and use Alex’s body wash and his loofah to scrub my skin, thoroughly soaping the small of my back. It stings my hands slightly, but I’d rather be clean.

Before coming to Udderly Creamy, I’d thought cow patties were solid and flat, like a Frisbee. But if you hang around cows even a little, you see firsthand that cow patties are only that way because they’ve dried out in the sun. I must have stepped right into a very fresh pile.

When finished, I step out of the shower and grab two towels from the cabinet. I wrap my hair with one towel and then grab the second to dry my skin.

Alex has set a stack of clothes on the sink—the “hers” side of the double vanity. There are several options: tee-shirts, sweatpants, boxers, and a flannel shirt. I try the sweatpants first, but they’re insanely long on my short legs. The boxers fit better, and I roll the waistband so they don’t hang to my knees. The material is soft and terracotta-colored.

The tee-shirt would fit, I’m sure, but the flannel, a dark blue, is so comfortable-looking I can’t help but slide it over my shoulders and snuggle into it. It smells clean but also slightly like Alex—like grass and hay and warm animals and something deep and earthy.

Finally, there’s a pair of socks. They’re cotton and way too big for me, but I slip them on anyway, the heel riding up past my ankle.

I look ridiculous, but as soon as I step out of the bathroom, the thought completely vanishes from my mind because I’m in Alex”s bedroom and my gaze lands immediately on something I was too distraught to notice before.

Trixie has a fucking canopy bed. And it’s pink.

It’s got a frame that raises the bed off the floor, and on top of that, there’s a giant fluffy pink dog bed with raised sides and a sunken middle. I think it’s memory foam. The wooden legs of the bed continue up to the canopy, which is flat and encloses the bed on three sides, like a little box. The bed looks well-used, the fabric a little pilled and covered in dog hair.

“Adorable,” I say to myself. Then, I take a moment to look around the rest of the room. The bed is tidy, and the comforter is smooth. I wonder if Alex makes it every morning or if he made it while I was in the shower. There’s a bedside lamp on, even though it’s still fairly light out. His bedding is solid navy, the frame a sturdy pine. Very manly.

I turn to the door, and my eye catches on a framed photograph on his dresser. I step closer and lean in. There are five kids and a couple sitting on the stairs to Ethel’s front porch. The man—Alex’s dad, I assume—sits a step above his mom, and she leans an elbow on his knee. He’s smiling right at the camera, and while she’s also smiling, she’s looking at the side where her children are as if keeping tabs on them.

It’s easy to spot Alex. He’s frowning, almost pouting at the camera. Ethan has the same smile he does now, and they look almost the same age, even though I know Alex is a year younger.

Colleen has a sweet smile on her face, and I guess that it’s Sam, her twin, sitting right next to her. Jackson, the youngest, looks like he’s up to no good. I wonder what happened immediately after the photo—or before, for that matter. It’s no small feat to wrangle five children who look to be under the age of ten.

I’ll ask Ethel if she took the photo. For now, though, I straighten up and head toward the kitchen, following the sounds Alex is making.

Alex’s bedroom is just off the living room, which leads to the dining room, where I’ve had lunch with the guys, and then into the kitchen. Trixie spots me first, her tail thumping on the cabinets as she runs to greet me. Alex looks up from the stove, a smile freezing on his face when he catches sight of me. His eyes drift down, taking me in from the towel on my head to the oversized flannel I’ve barely buttoned to the socks on my feet that keep my toes off the chilly stone floor.

He’s wearing a tee-shirt and pajama pants like the ones that were too long for me. They look good on him, and I’ve never seen him in anything other than jeans. This is at-home, comfortable Alex.

“Hi,” I say, very aware that I’m wearing his clothes in his house. While I should feel ridiculous in this outfit…I don’t—not with the way that Alex looks at me.

The counter closest to me by the stove is empty, so I turn and hoist myself up onto the countertop. This puts me almost eye-level with Alex, and I catch a big whiff of dinner—garlic, acidic tomatoes, and spices. Wordlessly, Alex picks up one of two filled wine glasses and passes it to me.

“Thank you.” I lean over and peer into the pan. “What’s for dinner?”

“Falafel shakshuka.”

“What’s that?”

“Middle Eastern dish. Tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants.”

I sip my wine and watch as Alex places pre-cooked falafel patties into the simmering tomato sauce, covers the pan, and then pulls bread out of the oven. It”s store-bought, unlike the treats Ethel bakes, but it still smells good, and Alex slices it up with a serrated bread knife.

Thinking back over the meals I’ve shared with Alex, I realize he always takes the vegetable choices. Anna makes something meatless every day. “Are you vegetarian?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Mostly.”

I tilt my head. “Is it because you raise animals?”

“I’ve seen how the sausage is made, so to speak. I realize there are many flaws in the dairy industry, and I don’t think I’d eat milk and eggs either, except that I know we treat our animals well. Is that a problem?”

I shake my head.

“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 is entirely the 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.