Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (32 page)

I gaped at him, not sure whether or not he was serious. Seeing he was, I burst out laughing.

“They have no idea.” He chuckled evilly. Truly, it was an evil chuckle, full of malicious intent and wicked anticipation.

“Too bad you didn’t tell me earlier, I could have made a cake for him to jump out of.”

“No, no. He’s going to repel from the ceiling. Ropes are part of his routine.”

“Well, good luck with that.” I wiped my tears of hilarity away with the back of my hands. “Tell me about your day. How was work?”

Cletus lifted his head and blinked, like I’d said something surprising.

“What?” I placed my chin on the back of my hand and stared down at him. “What’s wrong?”

He shook his head slightly. “Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t remember the last time someone asked me about my day, not since my momma died.”

“Oh.” I frowned, because this struck me as sad. My family wasn’t perfect, but we always asked about each others’ days. Granted, I knew there were some parts of my day that my parents didn’t want to hear about, but they still asked. I was surprised the Winstons didn’t do the same. “Doesn’t your family ask?”

His lips curved into a rueful smile. “No. They know better.”

“Know better? They know better than to ask about your day?”

“Yep. I typically end up saying something they don’t want to hear.”

“That’s true with everybody. My parents never want to listen to me talk about my pen pals or my garden. Or my essential oils. Or teaching the scouts.” I frowned. Mostly they liked hearing about new recipes. “Or any other non-baking hobbies and activities.”

“My brothers don’t want to hear about my plans and activities. At all.” 

“I know you have all these sinister irons in the fire, but every day can’t be that bad.”

“It is. They are.”

“Okay, so what kinds of daily plans and activities? What don’t they want to hear?”

“Like . . .” He thought for a moment, his eyes moving to where his hand was rubbing circles on my back. “Like about how I’d like to give Jackson James leprosy.”

I wrinkled my nose at this, scrunching my face to show my disbelief. “You do not want to give Jackson James leprosy.”

“I do. And if you see him scratching around the collar it’s because I blackmailed someone into putting itching powder in his dry-cleaned shirts.”

I was about to laugh and call Cletus on his silliness, but something about the way he was looking at me, as though he were bracing for a reprimand, gave me pause.

He stared at me. I stared at him. My mouth fell open.

He’s serious.

“Cletus Winston. You did not.”

“I did. And I don’t regret it.” His tone was flat and insolent.

“Why on earth would you do it? That’s just mean.”

“Jackson James has been harassing me and my brothers—specifically Duane and Beau—for years. He pulls us over for no reason, causes delays, and so forth. He’s a little shit and I’m tired of it.”

I studied him, saw that he believed he was in the right.

Are you surprised? Didn’t you already know he’s vengeful? Didn’t he tell you himself?

“See? That’s why people don’t ask me about my day.” His hand drifted lower on my back, caressing my bottom possessively.

“Why don’t you report him? Go to the station and file a complaint?”

Cletus gave me a grumpy side-eye. “I’m not a rat.”

I barked a disbelieving laugh. “So you’ll blackmail someone into putting itching powder into his shirts, but you won’t work through proper channels to resolve the issue, because you don’t want to tattle. Do I have that right?”

“It’s more complicated than that. But yes, that’s the gist of it.” His grumpy expression persisted. “I like deciding how to deal with those people who insist on being assholes.”

“You like control.”

Some of his grumpiness was replaced with suspicion. “That’s one way of putting it.”

I examined him, the unhappy set of his jaw, then spoke without premeditation. “I’d like to understand you.”

“I told you, I’m not very understandable.” He wasn’t meeting my gaze in a way that felt like avoidance.

On a hunch, I said, “Your brothers said that you don’t like bullies.”

Cletus’s hand stilled. He took a breath, then responded, “I don’t.”

“Maybe your vengeful impulses stem from your dislike of bullies. Speaking from firsthand experience, bullies can make you feel like you don’t have any control. And, if that’s the case, you are exceedingly understandable.”

He lifted his eyes to mine and our gazes held. I sensed he wanted to say something. I remained quiet, hoping the silence would drive it out of him.

He turned me such that my back was against the couch and we were both laying on our sides facing each other. His fingers dug into my hip.

“Jenn . . .” He stopped, as though he didn’t know how to continue.

I cupped his jaw and placed a soft kiss on his lips, then leaned away to gaze into his eyes.

He gathered a large breath, clearly torn about proceeding. I waited and offered a small, encouraging smile. Instead of speaking, he kissed me. He kissed me, and he tasted like me, and that thought had me warm and tingling all over.

Eventually, he pulled away, shaking his head. “Never mind. Never mind about that.”

I pressed my lips together to hide my disappointment, but said pragmatically, “One day, Cletus. One day you’ll trust me enough to speak your mind.”

His gaze moved over my face. “I already trust you.”

“But not enough.” I scratched his jaw through his beard. “One day.”

“Jenn, some of my secrets won’t make you happy. In fact, they’ll horrify you.”

“I know.” I continued threading my fingers through his bushy beard, liking the texture just as much as the hair on his chest. “Remember how afraid of you I was? When I first came to you? I know you have dark corners, and I think I know why.”

Cletus’s expression became carefully blank, but his eyes communicated a depth of sadness that felt like a punch to the stomach.

“Oh, honey.” I gave him a small smile of compassion, then kissed him again, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my body to his. “You take your time. Anything you want to share, I want to hear. But something you taught me over these last few months is that no one can control who you are—fundamentally, who you are in your heart—except for you. The decision is always yours.”

His arms came around me tightly, holding on as though I might disappear. Or I might leave.

“No matter what happened in your past, what ghosts might lurk there, the road you take is ultimately up to you,” I squeezed him back, “but—selfishly—I hope it’s always the road I’m on.”

“Three things cannot hide for long: the Moon, the Sun and the Truth.”

― Gautama Buddha

~Jennifer~

I waited as
long as I could. When I could wait no longer, I blurted, “Where are we going?”

“I have an idea.” His eyes darted to me, then back to the road. “More precisely, it’s a surprise.”

It was Tuesday late afternoon. We were in Cletus’s car—the Geo, not the Buick—and we’d left the bakery so he could take me to some undisclosed location. Cletus had come to the bakery after work as promised and said he wanted to take me someplace before night fell.

Presently, we’d been driving in the direction of Cades Cove for about ten minutes.

“A surprise at four-thirty?”

The sun was setting and had set the sky on fire: puffy red, pink, and orange clouds painted even more vividly by the forty-degree temperatures. Something about cold weather this time of year made the sunsets more intense.

“This surprise isn’t dependent on time of day.” He slowed, flicking on his blinker. “And we’re here.”

I squinted out the window, recognizing the long driveway and the white farmhouse at the end of it. “This is Claire McClure’s place.”

“It is.” Cletus pulled into a spot at the front of the house and cut the ignition.

“What are we doing here?”

Not missing a beat, he said, “We’re robbing the place.”

With that, he exited the car, then walked around to my side, leaving me to shake my head at his antics. I opened my door, but he caught it, offering a hand as I stood.

“What should we take first?” I pointed to the front porch. “The flower pots or the house numbers?”

He grinned, sliding his palm against mine, causing a thrill of excitement up my arm. Cletus tugged me toward the porch steps. “Flower pots are dirty and I’m wearing my best coveralls.”

“Cletus. Your coveralls are covered in grease stains.”

“Yes. But not dirt stains. I don’t want to clutter my appearance.”

“Oh, brother.” I rolled my eyes, laughing at his silliness.

“And those numbers are both nailed and glued to the frame. How about, instead, we take the entire house?”

I stumbled on the first step, my smile slipping, and pulled Cletus to a halt. “What?”

“Claire’s been trying to rent this place since she left.” He cleared his throat and looked everywhere but at me. His eyes moved over the porch, the window boxes full of pansies, and the white picket railing. “I’d watched over things while Jethro was with Sienna for her last movie. He’s stepped back in since he returned, but they have a baby on the way. I know this house and it’s well-maintained. And it sits on some land. Building a garden wouldn’t be a problem.”

Finally, he turned back to me, and his voice lowered, gentled. “It would give us a place, just you and me. You don’t have to move in, unless you want to.”

I gaped at him; my brain required several seconds to absorb his words.

Actually, my brain required a full minute.

Less than a week ago I thought he didn’t want me, now he was in love with me and wanted to move in together. Isaac’s words had hurt, plagued me. The car chase had left me shaken. Some fallout or retaliation from the Iron Wraiths—as far as I knew—was still a concern.

I couldn’t keep up with all the changes.

“You want us to move in together? Here?” I squeaked disbelievingly.

A thoughtful frown settled between his eyebrows; beneath the waning sun his clever eyes glittered with a fierceness of longing. He guided me up the remaining two stairs to the front door and under the shadow of the porch.

“I’m not going to be satisfied with stolen moments at your family’s bakery. I’m not just talking about spending time with your body,” his hands slid up my arms then down to my waist, tugging me closer, “though that’s a consideration. I want true privacy, a place where we can talk and be.”

Talk and be.

Well, when he puts it like that . . .

If it were possible to be infatuated with an idea, I was infatuated with this idea. Waking up every morning next to Cletus? Talking over my day with Cletus every evening? Spending every day with him?

YES PLEASE, MAY I HAVE ANOTHER!

And yet.

And yet, was I okay with us living together? And not being married? Was that something I wanted? I’d always pictured myself married before taking that kind of step. But why? Why had I always pictured myself married? Was it because marriage was what I wanted? Or was it because my living with someone before marriage was something my parents would hate?

I didn’t know how to answer these questions. Things between us were moving at a breakneck pace. As much as I wanted to be ready to fling myself into a serious relationship with this smart, beautiful, complicated man, I had other considerations. Trying to think rationally, other than determining my own mind on the matter, the biggest issue was that my parents had no idea Cletus and I were involved. Yet
.

I was planning on telling them, but I’d wanted to speak to Cletus first.

Plus, there is the small matter of money . . .

“Jennifer?”

I lifted my eyes to his. The bracing uncertainty in his eyes and the sound of my name on his lips sent a rush of warm tenderness through me.

Quickly, I reassured him. “I like this idea. I like it a lot.” I cupped Cletus’s jaw with one hand and marveled at how natural and right it felt to touch him, to be in his arms. “But before we consider this, things need to settle down. And I need to solidify some outstanding issues first.”

I felt his eyes on me, assessing, before he guessed, “Your parents.”

“Yes. My parents.” However, more than my parents—although definitely related—my finances. Of course I wanted their blessing, but I wasn’t fooling myself into thinking it would be given willingly. I would have to fight for it and I was prepared to do so—including leveraging my place at the bakery and as the Banana Cake Queen.

As per Anne-Claire’s advice, I’d reached out to an accountant in Knoxville, leaving a message Saturday morning about setting up my corporation. My French pen pal had been right all along. I needed to formalize the business relationship with the bakery, because without a formal relationship, I had no freedom. I had no choice.

I wanted to trust that my mother would be fair. However, in light of the fact that painting my nails a different color was seen as an insult (at best) or an aggressive act of rebellion (at worst) worthy of recriminations and hysteria, I needed to take my financial future more seriously. I needed to start planning, rather than allowing others to dictate my path.

“I don’t think your parents will give us much trouble.” Cletus slipped his hands around to my back, adding conversationally, “The Olivers are just as old in these parts as the Paytons and the Donners. I’m sure your parents will be reasonable, when it comes to it.”

My eyebrows bounced high on my forehead and I stared at him with plain disbelief. “Cletus, I love my parents. But they are not reasonable. My mother had a fit last week when I told her I didn’t like wearing yellow dresses. And my father has always had a very particular idea of what kind of man he wants me to marry.”

The dimness and shadow of the porch meant I couldn’t see him very well, but I sensed him stiffen, his hands flex on my back. “What kind of man is that?”

“It’s a combination of things,” I said flatly. “First and foremost, I think he’d like someone who has, or is capable of, achieving impressive wealth and notoriety. If not impressive notoriety, then abundant wealth would do just fine. Now I know you could do both, if you set your mind to it, but I have no desire for abundant wealth or notoriety. And I like—well, I mostly like—that you don’t either.”

Cletus was a talented musician, but he never put himself out there. He never allowed the spotlight to shine too brightly on himself. If he didn’t want the spotlight, that was one thing. But if he feared the spotlight, if he feared rejection or lack of control . . . well, that was another.

Cletus examined me. Eventually, his hands slipped from my back and he recaptured my hand, leading me toward the front door.

“You think he’d be happy with anyone who has money?”

I sighed sadly. “When I was younger, I had a different view of his priorities. He used to tell me that he was going to find me a prince, someone to take care of me.” I swallowed, inexplicably the back of my throat felt hot and uncomfortable. “I think he’s always considered me weak.”

“Isn’t that what you want now? Isn’t that what all this husband business was about? Someone to take care of you?” Cletus reached above the front door and seemed to be fiddling with something I couldn’t see.

“No! That wasn’t and isn’t the point at all. I wanted someone—I want someone—
I
can take care of. Not the other way around. I have all this energy and affection and I’ve had no one to share it with, no one to give it to. I spend my days at the bakery, and my nights, too. My mother doesn’t need anything from me but to play a part. My brother pretends I don’t exist. And my father thinks I’m an idiot.”

Cletus turned, as though he were going to contradict me, but then remained silent.

“You know it’s true. He thinks I’m simple. He’s not the only one in town who thinks as much, either.” I studied his back, or what I could see of it in the low light. “I bet you used to think I was missing some marbles, too.”

Retrieving what he’d been searching for, Cletus turned back to me. “I didn’t think you were simple.”

“Then what did you think?”

His silhouette moved and I could sense he was struggling. I heard him slide the key in the lock.

Helpfully, I supplied, “The wheel is spinning, but the hamster is dead?”

“No.”

“If she had another brain, it’d be lonely?”

He faced me. “Jenn—”

“An intellect rivaled only by garden tools?”

“Would you—”

“The elevator doesn’t quite reach the top?”

Cletus wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me forward, his mouth easily capturing mine. He turned me back against the outside wall of the house, kissing me thoroughly. 

When I was officially fuzzy headed and hot under the collar, he leaned away and explained gruffly, “I never thought you were simple. I felt sorry for you.”

My stomach fell to my feet.

I didn’t like that. I didn’t feel sorry for myself, not anymore. That party had officially ended. I took responsibility for my inaction, seeing things clearly now. Yet the fact that I’d been a person he’d pitied made my throat tight with angry embarrassment.

But before my chagrin could crystalize completely, he added, “But now I realize, I should have felt sorry for myself.” He dipped his head again, brushing a cherishing kiss over my lips, then whispering, “I was the one missing out.”

***

Claire’s house was
awesome. And being there with Cletus was awesome. And the entire evening after was awesome.

Cletus drove us back to the bakery after giving me a quick tour of Claire’s place. While I worked and baked, we discussed everything from new chemistry experiments he’d found for me to attempt with the Girl and Boy Scouts, to a recipe I’d spotted in an old cookbook for sausage pie.

We decided to make the sausage pie together. I would make the crust, he would make the filling.

I wouldn’t let him help me bake my orders. His beard was a health code violation, and that notion made him grin.

“I’m a health code violation,” he repeated, like his status was something delightfully ironic. I caught on, remembering one of our early conversations about being a discriminate baker and avoiding those with health code violations.

Just past 11:00 PM, as he was helping me put the ingredients away, he jumped out of the back pantry, and snapped his fingers. “Oh, I almost forgot.”

“What?” I was wiping down the counters. The cleaners would be by before 3:00 AM to sterilize the space, but I liked to leave things tidy. My batter was prepped for the next day and all the dough was ready for the early morning crew.

“Jennifer Anne Sylvester,” his tone was exceedingly formal and made me grin, “will you do me the honor of accompanying me to my brother’s wedding?”

“I would be—”

“And thereby withdrawing your promise to the contemptible and itchy Jackson James.”

I pressed my lips together to show my disapproval, bringing my hands to my hips. “You need to re-think what you’re doing to Jackson.”

“I can’t. It’s already been done. And I’m not sorry. He deserves his plagues. I lived with a bully for many years, undoubtedly, Darrell Winston has shaped who I am. I cannot abide people taking advantage of positions of power for their own petty wishes.”

“Do you think Jackson is evil? Irredeemable?”

He didn’t answer right away, instead choosing to scowl at me. So I scowled back.

Finally, he said, “No. But he’s too big for his britches. So I made them itchy.”

“You can’t know what your actions may cause, how they might affect someone. And consider this: what if you talked to Jackson? What if you talked it out and established peace? You’re taking the choice away from him, and not giving him the benefit of the doubt. How about, instead, you try talking to him first? Then, if he refuses to hear you or he acts like a bully, then unleash your plagues. Go ahead. You’ll even have my blessing.”