Molly skips off to talk to the farrier, and Kit hisses “traitor” under his breath as she goes past.
I raise an eyebrow.
“Molly tells me that Gavin is a silver fox.”
I look back at the farrier. Yup, I’m jealous of a man who’s probably thirty years my senior.
Molly is now taking pictures of him working. “Molly, what are you doing?” I can’t decide whether I’m more horrified that she’s taking pictures of him or that she thinks he’s hot.
“What?” I swear her innocent face is getting more and more like Kit’s. “I’m taking pictures for your Instagram account. It shows loving and tender care for Daisy here.”
I’m sure the cow is the focus of the pictures, but Molly grins at me and then blows me a kiss, and my jealousy melts away.
She takes a few more photos and comes back to me. “Are you gonna be much longer?”
“Probably. You could hang up at the house for a bit.”
Instead of answering, Molly turns to Kit. “When do you leave?”
“Thursday.”
So soon.
Molly stretches to kiss Kit on the cheek. “You two have some fun on your last few nights here. I’ll head home. But promise me lunch tomorrow.”
“Deal.”
CHAPTER24
MOLLY
Over the next week,my time with Alex is a bit more long-comforting-hugs and less hot-can’t-keep-our-hands-off-each-other make-out sessions. Alex is grumpier than usual, more closed off, and less quick to smile at my jokes.
I see him every morning, either at Udderly Creamy or when he drops off milk at Bedd Fellows, and every evening before I leave work or when he picks up empty ice chests. Alex made sure I took a day off last week, but who’s making sure he takes a day off?
Now that Kit’s gone, I can clearly see what I only got hints of before—Alex is lonely.
He’s got his farmhands, but now he has Sunday dinners with his family and his time with me—for only a few more weeks.
Quinn wraps up the battery replacement. When I come home to Vaniel on Saturday, she is almost done, and with a few flips of switches, my van powers up again. We run the engine for a bit to make sure the alternator is charging the batteries and even test my electric kettle.
I hold my breath when I plug in my laptop, knowing that if anything is going to get fried, my computer would be the worst possible thing. I don’t think Quinn notices the quiet exhale of relief.
Wednesday, I’m at the farm shop. Now that I’ve paid Quinn for her work—a good chunk out of my bank account—I’m working to save up for the next leg of my trip.
Unfortunately, though, I’m having a snafu, and it’s one of my own making.
My eczema is bothering me—really bad. There’s no one to blame but myself.
First of all, my rashes come in flare-ups—I’m not sure what triggers them. When they come on, I try to treat them as best that I can, but I never medicate for as long as I should. It’s not enough that the rash ismostlygone.
You’d think I would know better by now. Instead, I have these moments at night when I lay in bed, realizing I didn’t put on my ointment and gloves or the bandage on my wrist, depending on which spot is flaring up. In the dark, though, I’m lazy. I justify myself by saying it’s notthatbad and I’ll take care of it tomorrow.
It is that bad, and I won’t.
It’s frustrating that I don’t take better care of myself, and it makes me think of my dad. I’m always on him about taking his meds and keeping an eye on his prosthetic, but I don’t take care of myself?
Ugh.
