Beard Science (Winston Brothers Book 3) (37 page)

“You’re happy for me?”

“Yep. Look at you. You don’t look a thing like a Banana Cake Queen.”

I glanced at what I was wearing—Roscoe’s old slippers, my jeans that I’d slept in, Sienna’s Harvard sweatshirt—I’m sure I looked a mess. And that made me laugh.

“No. I guess I don’t look like the Banana Cake Queen.”

“And the world didn’t end.”

“No. It didn’t.” I lifted my chin proudly and turned my attention to the passing scenery while I considered what that meant.

I wasn’t the Banana Cake Queen. I didn’t live with my parents—though technically I didn’t live anywhere—and I had enough money to rent my own place. Life was happening and I was making it happen.

Well, technically the Winstons and Sienna Diaz were making it happen. But soon I’d pay them back.

My attention snagged on a farmhouse set off the road, white with navy shutters and well-maintained window boxes, and I grabbed Jethro’s arm.

“Wait, turn in there.” I pointed to the driveway.

He pressed on the brake. “Here? Claire’s house?”

“That’s right. Claire’s house.” I pulled out my phone and searched for her name.

“Sure, but . . . why are we stopping here?”

“Because,” I selected her contact information and brought the cell to my ear, “I’m going to rent her house.”

He frowned at me, lifting an eyebrow. “I thought Cletus was going to rent it.”

I shook my head, resolve setting my jaw. “Not if I rent it first.”

“Love brings to light a lover's noble and hidden qualities-his rare and exceptional traits: it is thus liable to be deceptive of his normal qualities.”

― Friedrich Nietzsche

~Jennifer~

An amended plan
took shape. And based on Ashley’s advice, it involved blackmail.

After the quick stop at Claire’s—and an even quicker phone call to the woman herself—Jethro was nice enough to swing by the Donner Bakery so I could retrieve an item from the gluten-free flour container. Then he took us back to the Winston house.

I wasn’t nervous. I was anxious.

Oh, heck. I was also nervous.

But I was determined.

Jethro insisted on carrying me into the house and I knew I looked a mess, but I didn’t have the energy to think about that. More important matters required my attention.

He opened the front door and we found a pacing Cletus by the fireplace. He lifted his eyes. His eyes weren’t blue today. They were greenish gray and they looked tired. He was suffering. When his gaze collided with mine, I felt the contact at the base of my throat and beneath my ribs. I ached for him.

Instinct had me wanting to reassure him, to tell him all was forgiven, to hold him close and kiss away his hurt.

But reason told me to hold my damn horses.

First, things needed discussing.

Then kissing.

Then more kissing.

“Hello, Cletus,” Jethro said, his tone impressively prosaic. “How are you?”

Cletus narrowed his eyes on his brother, then crossed the room to stand in front of us.

Ignoring his brother’s smirk—which was a remarkable achievement as Jethro’s smirk was extraordinary—Cletus addressed me. “Jennifer, may I carry you upstairs so we can discuss what has occurred?”

I hesitated.

I didn’t know if it was a good idea to be alone with him, not yet.

But then his eyes moved over my face, haunted and tortured and cherishing.

I said, “Yes, please.”

The anxiety drawing tension lines on his features eased, leaving his gaze still tortured, but mostly cherishing.

My heart fluttered in anticipation. Even though I was still holding on to my damn horses, I also still craved my man’s touch. I craved the feel of him, his warmth, his hands, and his mouth. I craved it all.
I craved him.

So when Jethro handed me over I couldn’t help but snuggle against Cletus, tuck my forehead into the curve of his neck and breathe him in. This man belonged to me. He was mine. And I enjoyed every minute of the journey upstairs, especially because what would come after, what I had planned, might lead to less touching. I dreaded the aftermath, but I had to be strong.

Best to make the most of touching now, while I had the chance.

At the top of the stairs, instead of turning toward Ashley’s room, he moved in the opposite direction, swiftly carrying me to and through an alternate door. Cletus’s room. Before I could voice my objection, we were inside and I was distracted by being in his space. Everything was tidy and in its place, but traces of him were everywhere.

My attention caught on a chess board by the closet; it appeared to have been left in the middle of a match.

“I didn’t know you played chess.” I spotted two series of moves the black side could initiate to put white into checkmate.

He nodded absentmindedly, placing me gently on his bed and lifting the pillow against the headboard and encouraging me to rest against it. “Is that okay? Do you need another pillow? Are you thirsty? Do you need water? Or something else? What about tea? I know you like tea.” He turned from the bed and walked to his closet.

“Cletus, I don’t need anything. But I think we should . . .” I didn’t finish my sentence. I couldn’t. Because I was too confused.

Cletus began pulling gifts from the closet. Gift after gift. All wrapped in different wrapping paper with ornate bows. I gaped at him, at the never-ending pile of gifts. When he’d placed at least fifteen on the bed and the floor at my side, I finally came to my senses.

“What is all this? What are you doing?”

“They’re your birthday presents.” He placed two more on my lap.

“What?”

“Your birthday presents. I missed your birthday, so here you go.”

“Cletus, what are you talking about? You didn’t want to know me last year, why would you have bought me a present?”

He paused on his return trip to the closet and faced me, placing his hands on his hips and sounding intensely frustrated. “I should have. I should have wanted to know you, not just last year, but all your life. I’ve missed all your birthdays, and I’m sorry. I was wrong, to miss your birthday twenty-two times, so here are your presents.”

I stared at him. Actually, I gawked at him, dumbfounded. My beautiful man looked so tormented, and I could see he’d spent the last half day beating himself up.

When he’d texted me earlier that he was wrong, he’d meant it. He believed it. And I believed him.

Cletus turned, walked to the closet, and retrieved another three wrapped boxes, his expression drawn with grief and ripe with self-recrimination.

Before he could turn again, I caught his arm. “Wait. Wait a minute. Just, stop. Stop bringing me presents, you sweet, terrible, infuriating, hilarious, clever man.” I was laughing by the time I finished speaking and was pleased to see some of his misery replaced with a weary smile.

“I’m sorry,” he said, gazing at me with his sad gray eyes, his voice a gravelly whisper. “I’m so sorry. You were right. I didn’t trust you.”

I switched my hold on his hand so our fingers were entwined. “Thank you. Thank you for apologizing.”

Cletus released an audible breath and moved to sit next to me, but his way was blocked by the plethora of wrapped boxes. He frowned at them. Using his free hand, he swept them from the bed.

“None of these are breakable,” he mumbled, claiming his spot and pulling me into a tight hug.

We hugged. And it was perfection. His body, his embrace was where I wanted to be always.

I hoped—in the future, whenever we fought—we’d always end our arguments with a hug.

After a time, but only because I was still holding my damn horses and they were growing restless, I pulled away, immediately missing his strong arms. “There are things we need to discuss.”

“I agree.” He shifted on the bed such that his back was also against the pillow and I was tucked under his arm. He kissed my neck, lingering there as though he was reluctant to leave my skin. “I have a lot I need to tell you.”

I paused, frowning, because his tone sounded ominous. “Wait, there’s more?”

He nodded, straightening. “Not about your father. I blackmailed him, this is true. But I didn’t do anything else to him. You already know about the Jackson James leprosy plan—which is on hold, as promised—as well, I have a few other irons in the fire. Let’s see—”

“Wait. Stop. Stop right there.”

“What?”

I twisted so I could look into his clever eyes. “Cletus, you’re an adult. You don’t need to confess a single thing to me unless it’s something done on my behalf, or for my theoretical benefit. I trusted you and I still do. I’m not your confessor. I cannot absolve you. You have to take responsibility for your own actions and their ramifications, just like I do. Just like everybody does.”

He frowned, looking nonplussed, but then eventually nodded.

Quickly, I added, “Now, if you want to talk about your day, or your leprosy plans, or whatever, I’m here for you. Just like I hope you’re here for me when I want to talk about my day.”

“Or your leprosy plans.”

“Yes. Or my leprosy plans. That goes without saying.”

Cletus cracked his first true smile and gave me a quick kiss, like he couldn’t help himself. “I love you.”

Smoothing my palm over his beleaguered beard, I cupped his jaw. “And I love you.”

His smile grew, warmed, heated, and his hands on me tightened in a way that felt both instinctual and possessive. “That’s the first time you’ve said it.”

“I know.” My grin mirrored his. “You kept interrupting me.”

Cletus’s eyes dropped to my lips and he rumbly whispered, “Remind me to stop interrupting you.”

I endeavored to ignore the ache in my chest, the circle of heat around my neck, and worked hard to sound serious. “Please stop interrupting me, because I have something important to say.” I tried twisting toward him to be closer, but the angle was awkward. So I huffed. “Can you just move—yes, like that. Move there so I can straddle your lap. I can’t see your face.”

“For the record, I will never turn down you straddling me.”

Shaking my head at him, I waited until he was centered on the bed, then I climbed on his lap and twisted my arms around his neck. “That’s better.”

“So much better.” His voice was low and sent a shiver racing along spine, which he chased with his hands.

I caught his fingers on their way to my backside and pressed them against my waist. “As I was saying, we have a few things that need discussing. A lot has happened.”

“Agree.” He nodded once.

“And last night, you really hurt me.”

A forlorn frown chased away his friskiness. “I know. What can I do?”

“Your apology helped. Thank you for that.” I swallowed, fighting to suppress the butterflies in my stomach. Being this close to him, in this position, was a bad idea. My hormones wanted me to abandon my plan. They wanted me to release the horses and unwrap my presents, starting with my man.

But I couldn’t.

Not yet.

“Here is how things are going to be: I am moving out of my parents’ house and into Claire’s house—”

“Agree.” He moved to kiss me.

Ducking, I dodged his mouth. “By myself.”

Frowning severely, his eyebrows pulled low into a dissatisfied line. “Disagree.”

I ignored him. “And I’ve talked to my mother. She’s going to pay me for the work I do at the Donner Bakery. I’ll also be baking for Sienna while she’s pregnant. I have some ideas—based on the lemon cakes she likes—that might help her.”

“Let’s go back to the housing part of the plan.”

Again, I ignored him. “I am going to support myself, with my baking, or whatever else I choose to do. Because it is right and normal for a twenty-two-year-old woman to support herself.”

“Yes, but—”

“Just like you are going to support yourself. Because it is right and normal for a man of your age to support himself.”

His frown became an eye squint. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying we need to stand separately,” unable to help myself, I kissed his nose, “so we can eventually stand together.”

His lips flattened into a dissatisfied line and his squint intensified as he mulled this over. “And if I disagree? If I want to—let’s say—get married and start making babies now?”

I gave him an indulgent smile and shook my head. “The answer is not yet. Because we’re not ready. I’m not ready.”

“And if I insist?” His hands slipped lower, his fingers caressing my backside. “I can be very persuasive.”

I grinned, because he was right.

“I will not discourage you from using every weapon in your persuasion arsenal.” He leaned forward to kiss me and I dodged his mouth again, holding a finger to his lips. “But I have to warn you, I currently have the upper hand.”

His left eyebrow arched and a delightfully mischievous smile claimed his lips. “Do you? How so?”

I withdrew the last thumb drive from my back pocket and held it up between us. He looked at it, then at me, then at it, his smile falling by degrees.

“That night I gave them back to you, I couldn’t find this one,” I explained. “I found it the next week and planned to hand it over when—or if—I saw you next.”

“Is that . . .?”

“Yes.”

A torrent of emotions passed behind his eyes. Before he could settle on a feeling, I plucked his hand from my body and placed the data drive in his palm. Confusion claimed his features while his gaze followed my movements.

“Here.” I waited until he’d refocused on me. “Now no one has the upper hand.”

Cletus’s frown persisted as he studied me, but it became something else. Less confused, more thoughtful. More determined.

“You’re wrong. You have the upper hand, because my remarkable woman is astute, and strong, and kind.” He leaned forward slowly, holding my gaze, until our lips met. The kiss he gave me was both sad and sweet, resigned and rejoicing, and it crushed me, re-forming my body into a thousand tiny pieces of longing. I wanted to press closer. My thighs tensed on his lap. I wanted to live his kiss and touch his skin and dwell within his warmth and strength for eternity.

When our mouths parted, I chased his. But he tilted his chin to his chest until our foreheads touched. “You’ll always have the advantage of me, Jenn. Because I’m lost without you.”