Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (16 page)

“No. It’s fine. I guess, ideally, I want the same thing. I don’t want to be with someone who is looking to me for direction. I don’t know what I’m doing, so I guess I’d like someone who wouldn’t mind teaching me.”

Unbidden, a flash of what that would look like appeared in my mind’s eye. Jennifer Sylvester divested of clothing and gazing at me with trust. My hands on her waist, hips, thighs while I kissed my way down her soft, warm, pliant body . . .

The flash of imagining forced an equally sudden and visceral reaction in my body. One that drove most of the air from my lungs and left an uncomfortable stiffness in my pants, especially since the images didn’t stop there.

How would it be when she was experienced? When
she
asked for what she liked? When she whispered a request in my ear during a jam session break and we snuck off someplace private? When she gazed at me with confidence and knowledge of her own desires?

I’ll have to get a bigger car. And a desk. I’d like to take her on a desk.

“Cletus?”

I shook myself, coming back to the present, and realizing with some disappointment that we still had our clothes on and there wasn’t a desk in sight.

But there is a kitchen counter.

“Pardon?” I asked, frantically fighting against the torrent of seductive imagery.

She frowned at me and involuntarily my eyes darted to her chest. Like a cheeseball.

Dammit.

I covered my face with my hands and rubbed my eyeballs.

“Are you all right?”

I nodded and made a mental list. I made a very unsexy list of chores that needed doing around the homestead, including but not limited to cleaning out the chicken coop, sharpening the knives in the shed, and chopping wood. I definitely needed to chop wood. Definitely. Even though Jethro had chopped all our wood while in a snit about Sienna. And before that Billy had chopped a pile of wood while in a snit about Claire.

. . . Claire!

“Claire!”

I dropped my hands from my face and snapped my fingers.

“Claire? You mean Claire McClure?”

“Yes. Claire McClure. You should discuss these matters with her. She’s very smart. And a woman.”

Jenn’s eyes lowered to her now empty teacup and she leaned forward on the counter in much the same way I’d been doing moments prior. “Do you think she’d mind talking about this stuff? She doesn’t even know me.”

I grabbed my jacket, needing to leave right now.

Right. Now.

The first few buttons of her housedress were undone, which meant the top most edge of her lace bra was visible. It was red.

Her bra was red lace. My educated guess was that her underwear was also red lace. I was officially fixating. I needed to leave before I attempted to confirm my educated guess.

So I announced. “I’m leaving.” And pulled on my jacket.

Jennifer looked at me with surprise. “You’re leaving? Now?”

“That’s right.” I fumbled for my zipper. Thank God tomorrow was Tuesday. Tuesday morning was my morning in the upstairs bathroom, and I was going to need it.

“Oh.” She frowned her confusion as her eyes moved over me. “I have the crème puffs and cake all boxed up. Let me grab them.”

I nodded, heat rising up my shirt collar.

“Um, will I see you at the jam session this Friday?” she asked as she bent into the refrigerator to retrieve the baked goods.

I tore my eyes from her backside and stared unseeingly out the kitchen window because I was plagued by thoughts of lifting her skirt while she was bent over and everything that entailed, including but not limited to: skimming my fingers up her smooth, bare thighs; parting her legs; reaching into the front of her dress with one hand and pulling down her bra while slipping the other into her red, lace panties . . .

Yep. That’s what I was thinking about. And, as an aside, I now understood the popularity of housedresses in the mid-twentieth century.

A cold shower was in order. And yoga. And then another cold shower.

“Cletus?”

“Yep?” I answered tightly, trying and failing to make another unsexy list of chores.

“Are you going to be at the jam session?”

“No. Not this week.” I just decided—just this very moment—I would skip the jam session.

“What about next Friday?”

“No. I can’t. I’ll be down in Nashville. Claire and I have the talent show.” I couldn’t wait any longer. I bolted for the back door and powerwalked to my car.

I heard her footsteps behind me and the sound brought me up short. I’d left her to carry the boxes, and that was discourteous. My momma raised me better, even if I was suffering from penile engorgement.

I turned and met her a few feet from the kitchen door, relieving her of the boxes.

“Thank you very much for these. You didn’t have to bake us treats.” I kept my eyes on the boxes.

“I don’t mind. And it’s the least I can do for all you’ve done. And all you’re doing. By the way, do I have any homework?”

Homework.

Dammit.

“Yes. Homework. Yes.” I nodded, trying to remember what I’d planned to give her for homework. I couldn’t remember, so I made it up. “You have to talk to Claire McClure about instruments and baking with a partner.”

“You mean I need to ask her about sex.”

Oh for the love of—

“Yep.” I turned and escaped to my car.

“So you’ll send me her phone number? And let her know I’m calling?” Jenn was trailing after me, pummeling me with questions. I needed her to leave me alone so I could stop thinking about teaching her how to pleasure herself.

“Yep.” I opened the trunk and placed the bakery boxes inside, then walked past her to the driver’s side door.

“Okay. Sounds good. I guess I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“Yep,” I said, closing my door and immediately starting the engine.

Jennifer lingered just beyond my parking spot, her arms crossed against the cold. I placed the car in reverse, but didn’t hit the gas. I couldn’t leave, not until she was back inside. She didn’t move.

Grunting my frustration, I rolled down my window. “What are you doing? It’s freezing out here. Go back inside.”

She shuffled forward in her slippers and bent down to the height of the window. Before I knew what was happening, Jennifer Sylvester placed a featherlike hand on my jaw and a sweet kiss on my cheek. The whole thing was over before I knew it had happened.

Giving me a triumphant smile, she backed away from the car. I looked at her and she looked back, her smile never wavering. Then she turned and jogged to the back door. She stepped inside. She shut the door.

I don’t know how long I stared at the back door to the kitchen, but when I eventually glanced at the clock on the dash, it was 10:46 PM. I still needed a cold shower, but I decided to skip it.

My decision had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that I could still feel the warm, gentle brush of her fingers on my jaw, or the searing press of her lips on my cheek.

Shit.

“Let's clear one thing up: Introverts do not hate small talk because we dislike people. We hate small talk because we hate the barrier it creates between people.”

― Laurie Helgoe,
Introvert Power

~Jennifer~

Over a week
later and I hadn’t heard from Cletus.

I tried not to feel disappointed and mostly succeeded. We weren’t friends. I might’ve been developing affection for him and enjoying our time together; but I couldn’t allow myself to forget that I was, in fact, blackmailing the man.

The only reason he was talking to me at all was because of that video. Once our deal was over, he’d likely avoid me.
I’d become invisible again.
And that was okay. I just needed to prepare myself for the eventual rejection.

I was good at dealing with rejection. No biggie.

Therefore, my decision to seek him out ten days after our last lesson made no rational sense.

“What are you doing, Jennifer Sylvester?” I asked myself out loud as I pulled into the parking lot of the Winston Brothers Auto Shop. “You’ve obviously lost your mind.”

I had definitely lost my mind.

I was blackmailing him to help me find a husband. But recently, when I thought about him, when I thought back on our stolen moments together and my heart became too full for my chest, part of me—clearly the very wrong in the head part of me—wondered if I should just blackmail him into marrying me instead.

See? I’d lost my mind.

I’d lost it the moment I stepped forward, bent into his car, and placed that kiss on his cheek ten days ago.

But he was just so . . .

I sighed and glanced in my rearview mirror, my chest aching as I watched shadows and shapes of movement within the shop’s garage. My eyes snagged on my nails where they rested on the steering wheel. They were painted black.

Yes. Black.

I’d painted my nails black.

I’d also stopped wearing the yellow dresses during the day, preferring to bake in jeans, T-shirts, and Converse. And I’d made an appointment with my hair stylist for mid-November. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do to my hair, but I did know I was going to change it.

My mother was not happy. There had been much wringing of hands and wailing over the last few weeks. But each time she threw a fit, I met her hysteria with calm reassurances that I still wore the yellow dress and heels during the special events, and when pictures needed to be taken for social media. It didn’t matter what I wore in my free time.

Regardless, she gave me indigestion-face whenever she spotted me without full makeup, or wearing jeans, or my hair in a ponytail. Sometimes I’d catch her mumbling the word
farmer.

My father also seemed to be at a loss. On the one hand, I hadn’t corrected his assumption that Billy Winston and I were still seeing each other. “Billy Winston” seemed to be the magic phrase; I could do no wrong as long as Billy and I were potentially an item, à la, “Billy likes it when I wear my hair like this.” Or “Billy likes these shoes.”

On the other hand, his default these days was enabling my mother. He’d never been good at saying no to her, so the last few weeks hadn’t been pleasant. Plus recently, every time he made a comment about my intelligence, I left the room. I didn’t try to turn it into a compliment or make excuses for him. I just stood and left.

I debated leaving the auto shop now, driving off without stopping in, because I didn’t have much of a plan. I’d made a new recipe, blueberry pancake muffins, so basically, muffins that tasted like blueberry pancakes. On a whim I thought since Cletus had liked the butternut squash pie experiment, he might enjoy being my first taste-tester for the muffins.

So, in summary, I no plan. I only had a whim.

Movement in the rearview mirror caught my eye and I glanced at the reflection once more. Beau Winston was walking toward my car, a wry smile on his handsome face, his dirty coveralls zipped open to his waist showcasing a pristine white undershirt.

Caught, I took a bracing breath and grabbed the plate of muffins; it felt like a shield. I exited my car.

“Hey, Jenn,” he said with a friendly smile, his gaze traveling to the plate I held, down to my shoes, up to my hair—which was in a ponytail—then back to my eyes. “Something wrong with your car?”

“Hiya, Beau.” I cleared my throat because my voice was squeaky with nerves. “No. Nothing wrong with the car. I was just driving by and thought I’d stop in and bring y’all some muffins.”

His blue eyes—which were already clear and bright as the summer sky—brightened further. “What’d you bring?”

Some of my nerves dissipated; it was nice to see baked goods would always be welcomed. “Um, something new I’m trying out. They’re blueberry pancake muffins.”

He laughed lightly. “They’re for Cletus, right?”

“No, no. They’re for all of you.”

He narrowed his eyes, his look suspicious. “Blueberry pancakes are his favorite.”

“Are they?”

His glare of doubt diffused. “You didn’t know that?”

“No. I had no idea.” But I did make a mental note.

“Huh. Well.” Beau’s gaze moved over me anew, like he found me to be a curiosity—and not in a bad way—then turned and motioned for me to follow. “Come on in. I’m just finishing up. I can make some coffee and we’ll hang out for bit.”

“Oh, that sounds nice.” I was surprised by the offer. I’d never had a real conversation with Beau Winston, but I’d formed an opinion during my people watching. He was unfailingly friendly and quite popular with the ladies.

He glanced over his shoulder and slowed his steps so we could walk together. “Wait ’til you try my coffee. I doubt it’ll do justice to your muffins.”

“Don’t get your hopes up. They could taste like feet,” I warned.

He barked a laugh, his eyes twinkling at me with real warmth. “I seriously doubt that anything you made could—”

“What is the status of the Ford Expedition? Did you finish with the radiator?” a female voice, shaded with a Yankee accent, interrupted just as we stepped into the garage.

I didn’t miss how Beau stiffened at my side even as I searched for the owner of the voice.

Almost immediately, I spotted her. She was hard to miss, standing just three or so feet away. Her eyes grabbed my attention first. They seemed to glow and were the most vibrant dark blue I’d ever seen, like sapphires. The rest of her was just as striking.

She was tall. Like,
really
tall, six foot or more, and her shape was that of a healthy supermodel. She wore no makeup, but her skin was flawless, her lips generous, and her cheekbones impossibly high. She had one of those perfectly proportioned faces, the kind magazines are always talking about as the definition of true beauty.

Her brownish, blondish hair was braided in a thick rope down her back. The austere style only served to highlight the dramatic exquisiteness of her face. She was stunning in coveralls. In fact, she looked like she might’ve just walked out of a fashion shoot even though she was covered in grease. I couldn’t fathom what she’d look like in normal clothes.

The woman’s gaze moved over me with disinterest. I honestly had no idea how old she was. Though her face had no visible wrinkles, her features were mature and her eyes exuded an awareness I’d only ever witnessed in those of advanced age.

“Shelly.” Beau’s sharp tone pulled me from my gawking. “This is Jennifer Sylvester. You’ve probably heard of her banana cake. Jennifer . . .” his earlier levity had entirely disappeared, replaced with a stern and shuttered glare, “this is Shelly Sullivan. She’s new to town and works here.”

I extended my hand toward Shelly. “Nice to meet you.”

She looked at my offered fingers, then at me. Shelly set her teeth and crossed her arms. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Her tone was flat and frustrated and it quickly became obvious she wasn’t going to shake my hand. I let mine drop, feeling disoriented and embarrassed. I wondered what she’d heard about me, if someone had said something disparaging. Or maybe she didn’t like me because of the whole Banana Cake Queen persona.

“Don’t take it personally.” Beau gave me a small, reassuring smile. The warmth left his face once again as he turned his eyes to Shelly. “She doesn’t shake anyone’s hand.”

Shelly’s eyes dropped to the cement for a brief moment and I got the sense she was just as—if not more so—embarrassed as I was. But then she lifted her gaze to Beau and it was bursting with defiance.

He met her glare with one of his own.

Meanwhile, I stood there, stuck between their glares.

When I couldn’t tolerate the tension any longer I sought to fill it. “How are you settling in, Ms. Sullivan?”

Her cobalt eyes moved to mine and some of the rigidness eased. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, uh, how are things? How’s your place? Do you need anything? Are your neighbors nice?”

She studied me for a long moment, like I was something interesting. She reminded me so much of a regal bird of prey, and I couldn’t help but compare her to a hawk or a falcon: proud, beautiful, clearly intelligent, and yet distant and removed somehow.

Untouchable.

Finally, just before the silence grew untenable, she answered, “My house is adequate. I need potholders, I keep using towels and I’ve burned my hand three times. I haven’t met my neighbors, so I don’t know if they’re nice.”

I grinned, because I liked how she’d answered my questions, straightforward and without any artifice or fuss.

“Maybe you should make more of an effort,” Beau snapped.

I gaped at him and his rudeness. I’d never seen or heard Beau Winston be rude to
anyone.
He didn’t seem to notice my stare because, though his next words were addressed to me, Beau kept his gaze on Shelly. “I’ll go start that coffee.”

He walked away.

Shelly followed him with her eyes until he left the garage and was lost to the sunlight. She brought her gaze back to mine, again looking at me like I was something interesting.

“He doesn’t like me,” she said simply, sounding thoughtful rather than upset about her observation.

My ingrained instinct was to reassure her, respond with something like,
Oh, I’m sure you’re wrong. I’m sure he likes you
. But I got the sense Shelly Sullivan didn’t suffer false pleasantries.

Plus, I was curious . . .

“Why do you think he doesn’t like you?”

“Because he said to me, ‘I don’t like you.’” A small smile hovered behind her hawkish eyes and I was surprised by their twinkle, especially given the subject matter.

“Does that bother you?” I asked, before I could stop myself, then attempted to explain my curiosity. “I have plenty of people who call me all sorts of names on social media, and folks around town call me uppity sometimes. Or they say I’m
simple
when they think I can’t hear them.”

“You’re not simple.” Her thoughtful frown returned. “The people who call you simple are the simple ones. You should put castor oil in their banana cake frosting and weld their toilet shut.”

I giggled, because castor oil frosting would certainly call for several trips to the bathroom. “Maybe you could help me weld the toilets shut. I wouldn’t know how to go about that.”

Her face suddenly blossomed with a grin and it took me by surprise, the expression looked so foreign on her, I got the sense I was seeing a once-in-a-lifetime event, like a total solar eclipse or Halley’s comet.

“I’ve welded toilets shut before.”

The humor behind her words and tone also took me by surprise and had me smiling. “What else have you welded?”

“Anything I can get my hands on. I once welded the driver’s side door shut on my brother’s . . .” Her grin waned by degrees until she looked a little lost and overwhelmed, and a flicker of intense sorrow flashed behind her eyes before she effectively concealed it with swift stoicism. She swallowed and stuffed her hands into her pockets. “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Okay. You don’t have to talk about that.”

Her stare moved over my features. “You have seven dark freckles on your face.” I lifted my eyebrows at this observation and sudden subject change. She was right. But she wasn’t finished. “Your shirt also has seven buttons. Most women’s shirts have eight buttons.”

I glanced at my shirt, then back to her. “Why does my shirt only have seven buttons?”

“The shirt you’re wearing has only seven buttons because it was specifically made for a short person.”

“You’re right. I got it in the petite section.” I smiled at her, because her observation and subsequent conclusion was useless, but it was also oddly cool. “You’re kinda like Sherlock Holmes.”

“I just notice things, meaningless things, typically having to do with numbers or patterns.” Her intense blue gaze swept over me and she pressed her lips together, like she was forcefully stopping herself from continuing.

So I prompted, “What is it? Is something wrong?”

“I’m sorry I didn’t shake your hand,” she blurted, then she sighed, as though the words cost her.