Page 30 of A Temporary Memory

“Not as bad as straw.”

“There’s a difference?”

“These bales are alfalfa, so they’re finer. Straw is from dried stalks of grain—thicker and pokier.” I stopped before I went on about the different types of bales and why they were used. Aggie had mentioned my lecturing more than once.

“Pokier? Is that the technical term?”

I couldn’t bring myself to look at her sweet smile as I dropped to a knee in front of her. Horrified, I realized she had a leg stretched out, and instead of lowering myself beside her, I looked like I was trying to wedge between her thighs. “Technical, yes.” Be. Professional.

She drew her leg in and sat forward. “You’re getting your slacks dirty.”

I didn’t care about pants when I got to care for her soft skin. “It’s fine.” I took out a couple packets of gauze and an alcohol wipe.

“Are you saying you actually get dirty once in a while?”

I opened the gauze, mildly insulted but more perplexed. “I said I grew up ranching.”

She nudged me in the shoulder. “Don’t act surprised that I’m surprised. I’ve seen you in nothing but slacks and polos, Milk Daddy.”

I forgot everything I was doing. “Milk Daddy?”

She blanched. “Forget I said that.”

Holding back a smile, I set the unopened alcohol wipe on the bale next to her and dabbed at her cuts with the gauze. I used my other hand to steady her leg and fuck...her skin was warm and softer than I had imagined. The wounds were minor, not deep, thanks to the age of the kitten, but I hated to see her leg marred. “You know I can’t. Explain.”

“That.” She pointed an accusing finger in my direction, then circled around my face with it. “You consume inhuman amounts of milk, and you’re bossy.”

I was a dad. I drank milk. “How does the bossiness fit in?”

The way she swallowed and lowered her gaze to where I had wrapped my fingers around the back of her leg told me where the daddy part came in. “You’re a stern man, Cody Knight.”

I’d heard that before, usually from a sibling, but coming from Tova, I wasn’t sure I prided myself on it. I finished dabbing and handed her the alcohol wipe, finally taking my hand off the back of her leg. Reluctantly. “I’m not mean enough to ruthlessly swipe this across your cuts.”

“But I’m a wuss.”

“We can wait for Aggie to come back. Or you can go to the house and use soap and water. It’s probably better for your skin anyway.” I’d rather she cleaned her cut, but I also liked being alone with her.

“Just do it. I don’t want it to seem like a thing around Grayson.”

I opened the packet, and dammit if I didn’t position my hand the same way. Her muscles flexed under my touch, but she didn’t move. I gently dabbed at the scratches. They were really shallow, but the stark red on her skin had made them look worse. They probably stung like a bitch, though.

“So...Alcott. Is that a family name?”

“Have you been dying to ask me that all week?” I arched a brow at her, and she shrugged. Holding back a smile, I said, “I was named after Louisa May Alcott.”

“Little Women?”

I nodded and ran the wipe over the last couple of short scratches. Mortified, I realized I was rubbing circles on the back of her thigh with my thumb and stopped. I focused on the task, afraid to see if she’d noticed. “Aggie is named after Agatha Christie. Wilder after Laura Ingalls Wilder. Austen—”

“Jane Austen. I’m sensing a theme. How many siblings do you have?”

“One more—Eliot.” I waited. “His has a twist.”

She puzzled over his name. “I’ve got nothing.”

She had one thing—a hold over me. “George Eliot, the pen name for Mary Ann Evans.”

“All women authors.”

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