by Penny Reid
I sucked in a breath. “Oh, Cletus.”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t feel sorry for me.” He brought my hand to his mouth and kissed my palm, his voice monotone. “I deserved what I got, probably more.”
Now I breathed out, feeling suddenly tired and relieved it was over, but—strangely—still not angry. “Cletus, can we . . .” I pointed over my shoulder with my thumb. After what had just occurred, I needed a minute with him, just the two of us.
He seemed to need it too. Wordlessly, he led us to the fringes of the crowd, out one of the side doors, and into the night. I let him guide me, wishing I were angrier, knowing I should be. He was so infuriating sometimes.
But Cletus was mine. And I was his. And I wouldn’t change that fact for anything in the world.
Chapter Three
*Jenn*
“Question everything. Your love, your religion, your passion. If you don't have questions, you'll never find answers.”
Colleen Hoover, Slammed
“What are you thinking about?” I dabbed gently at the cuts on his face with a ball of cotton soaked in hydrogen peroxide and blew on the wound. The scratches already looked a little better, but he also had a wee little bruise under his left eye where my father had punched him. Apparently, Cletus’s plan had almost worked and would’ve been fully realized if Billy hadn’t held Cletus back.
After Cletus and I left the party, he’d taken us as far as the parking lot by the bakery. There, he’d seemed to hesitate. The Buick was just a few feet away. Eventually, as though finished with a wieldy internal debate, he’d grumbled and turned from the car. He took me to the Donner Bakery building instead. He’d unlocked it and opened the door for me, the bell jingling as we entered.
I’d walked past the storefront, the bakery case, and back to the kitchen where I’d grabbed the first aid kit while he’d flipped on the set of lights over the sink.
Presently, he lowered himself to the edge of the kitchen counter, and I stood between his legs. We were more or less at eye level, which made it easier to tend to his face.
Cletus hadn’t yet answered my question. I ceased dabbing at the wounds and leaned back a bit, catching his eyes. “Cletus Byron, what are you thinking about?”
The set of his mouth was distinctly grim, so I didn’t expect him to say, “I really love this dress.”
Something about the way he said it struck me as immensely charming, like he loved the dress, but he also hated the dress because he loved it so much. This dichotomous delivery of a sweet statement had me fighting a smile.
“Oh? You do?” I backed up a bit more and felt the reluctant slide of his hands release me from where they’d been resting on my waist. I turned to the side, modeling it for him. “Did you see the back?”
“I don’t need to see the back.” His eyes closed, like the sight of me overwhelmed him a little, and he moved to rub his forehead, wincing when his fingers made contact with the scratches. “Dammit.”
Crossing my arms, I watched as frustration played over his features. Confound it, but I wasn’t mad at Cletus. Yet I didn’t feel sorry for him either. Well, I didn’t feel sorry for him much. Cletus knew what he’d been doing.
“Actually—” he placed his hands on the counter at either side of his waist, his gaze on the floor “—what I was really thinking was I wished we were alone.”
“We are alone, silly. I don’t see anybody else here.” I laughed, coming back to stand between his legs and finish what I’d started. The scratch extended into his beard, and I swallowed around a thick knot of anger. As much as I wasn’t angry at Cletus, I was furious at my father and Elena.
The last time I’d seen my father was at his court sentencing last spring, where he and Elena had been given probation for what they’d done to us last year. I’d been . . . well, I’d been angered by the outcome. The court considered what they’d done “assault,” which was a Class A misdemeanor, punishable by up to 11 months and 29 days in jail, a fine up to $2500, or both.
Up to 11 months and 29 days in jail and $2500 for ruining my peace of mind. Good to know what the court thought it was worth.
They’d put their hands on me, harmed me, invaded my sleep and robbed me of my tranquility, and ultimately got off with a fine and probation. The injustice of it had left me feeling pretty bitter about the state of the legal system. I hadn’t admitted as much to Cletus, nor had I discussed it with anyone else, but a darkness had followed me ever since that day. Truth be told, I was coming around to Cletus’s way of thinking.
Perhaps it was necessary to take matters into your own hands if you wanted to see real justice served.
Maybe that’s why you’re not angry with Cletus now, even though you should be . . .
“I meant tonight. I wish we were alone tonight.”
“We’ll be alone later.”
“All of tonight.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “You’re being greedy.”
“With you? Always.”
I rolled my eyes so he couldn’t see how I loved his answer. “It’s only one night. Don’t you think the barn looks pretty?”
“It does . . . look . . . pretty,” he conceded, haltingly.
I ceased dabbing again, again catching his eyes. They looked as cagey as his words had been. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m not in a suit.”
“So what?” I glanced at the fit of his red shirt and black pants, admiring the shape of him and taking a moment to thrill in what I knew his clothes concealed. “You look perfect just as you are.” I meant it, scratches and all, he was perfect.
“Your momma expected menfolk to wear suits, and Jackson James knew to wear a suit,” he grumped, his hands coming back to me. But this time they settled on my hips, holding me a little tighter, his grip feeling somehow more possessive.
“So?”
“So, aren’t you concerned we’re nearing the end of days?”
I looked at him blankly. “End of days?”
“Jackson James knowing something I don’t.”
I laughed again, lowering my eyes to his beard and the hidden scratch left by that—that—that harpy. The next time I saw her, I’d scratch her eyes out. So much for violence not being an answer. . .
“I don’t care whether you’re in a suit or not. It’s no big deal.” I shrugged away the dark turn of my thoughts and his concerns about wearing a suit.
“Jethro left some time ago to pick something up for me, so I’ll be suitably attired.” His tone was both officious and droll, a cute combo.
“That's very funny.” I smiled appreciatively at his pun.
“Yes, I know. But Jenn, all this—” He reached for my wrist and lowered my hand; this time he was the one to catch my eyes. “Why are we doing this?”
“What?”
“The fussy tableware, the suits, the guest list filled with acquaintances. We don't need all that. We could’ve just had a small engagement party at the Winston house. Then your father—”
“I know we didn’t—don’t need it. But my momma, the staff here at the lodge, your family, they love us, and they want to show it. I was excited about tonight.”
He looked confused by my statement. “You were?”
“Yes, I was. I mean, not all the people I barely know. But what they did with the barn, everyone at the lodge pitched in to decorate, staying late and helping. They are excited. And your family helped too.”
“My family?”
“Shelly and her sculptures? Did you see the hearts? They’re beautiful. And Jess and Duane sending those fancy place settings over from England, brand-new for the lodge, and we’ll use them for the first time tonight. Sienna having a dress designed for me by one of her famous friends—and she designed my wedding dress. Billy arranging for us to use the governor’s silverware. It’s real old, special. Drew and Ashley arranging for those glass chandeliers to be flown in from a glass blower in Texas. Actually, Ashley did a lot. She’s respon
sible for the planning just as much as my momma, they did it together. Heck, Roscoe worked with Claire McClure to arrange the string quartet. Did you know that?”
“I—I did not know that,” he sputtered.
“He did. They did! Roscoe went to her with the idea and she made it happen, musicians she knows in Nashville. They drove all the way out here and my momma is putting them up at the lodge. Everyone is being so sweet, coming together to celebrate us and—so—I know we don’t need any of it, but it sure made me feel good, feel grateful that your family wanted to welcome me like this.”
Cletus’s confused frown persisted, and he stood from the counter, setting me to the side. Pacing away, he pushed his hands through his hair roughly. “Jethro didn’t seem to know.”
“Jethro has been pretty busy with Benjamin. I think he can be forgiven for not pitching in. I think Sienna said he’s getting about three hours of sleep these days. You know he doesn’t want a night nurse, and I guess I understand that, but—”
“I didn’t know either.”
“But isn’t it great?” I tracked him, bothered by his reaction.
“It is . . . great.”
I tossed the used cotton ball to the counter, irritated with Cletus’s continued agitation. “Then why do you sound so unhappy about it?”
“Because I had no idea it was happening!” In a rare demonstration of temper, Cletus’s voice rose.
He didn’t shout, didn’t yell, but it was an unmodulated, unintended display of feeling, something he never, ever did. Especially not with me. Even after being together for over a year. He was, for better or for worse, always controlled in my presence, his tone perpetually thoughtful and measured. Unless we were . . . well, having sex.
Intimacy, sex, making love seemed to be the only time Cletus allowed himself to let loose the reins he otherwise held with a white-knuckled grip, and not every time. Just sometimes. It drove me a little crazy.
I watched him now as he breathed out, seeming to shake himself. I remained silent because the thoughts running through my mind would likely sound absurd to anyone else. To me, Cletus was sexy as hell when his control slipped, when that edge entered his voice and the rough, sharp pieces of him were revealed. His eyes would narrow, flash, spark, and a gravel entered his voice, one that made my mouth dry and my tummy flip, made me chase my breath and my lungs squeeze.
I couldn’t explain it. It’s not that I wanted him yelling at me, or that I wanted him mad or frustrated. But I wanted uncontrolled . . . Passion? Desperation? Intensity? All three?
When I needed to rant and rave, I did with him. When I was angry or feeling desperate for his touch or frenzied because I missed him so badly, I showed it. But he rarely did. He stuffed it down, buried it, and that left me feeling oddly neglected.
I loved all of Cletus, was greedy for every part of who he was. This was a side he’d continued to keep hidden, only to ration out in bite-sized portions, and only in the bedroom, and only for a few minutes at a time. After, he’d put it away, high on a shelf out of my reach.
Requiring only a second to regain his slipped control, Cletus lifted his eyes, dimmed by forced calm and restraint, and spoke as though he measured each word with a mental ruler, “I’m sorry. It’s just that I have trouble with surprises, with feeling unprepared, and with crowds. Especially when I’m expected to—uh—perform in some way in front of people.”
I knew this, but it hadn’t been my intention to surprise him. “I don’t know what to say, Cletus. It’s not like we hid anything from you. You never asked about it, about the plans or how things were going. I honestly thought you knew.” He seemed to always know everything about everyone, sometimes before they did.
“I’ve been a little distracted,” he admitted, glancing to the side, an exceedingly small, wry smile tugging at the side of his mouth.
That made me blush, a hot surge of knowledge, a certainty as to what and who had distracted him, made my tummy flip.
He heaved out a breath, again shaking himself. “But, Jenn, as much as I appreciate what everyone did, if we’d kept tonight small and private, your father wouldn’t have had a chance to make a spectacle. Whatever the plans are for the wedding as of right now, we should rethink them in light of tonight’s events.”
That all sounded very reasonable, except—
“Nope. I’m not going to let my father’s behavior—what he does, or what he might do—dictate how I live my life. You helped me learn that.” Nor was I going to allow myself to mire in unhappiness now. Tonight was our night, dammit. My father was not going to ruin it and I refused to waste another moment thinking about him or Elena.
There. All done. Moving on.
Cletus grimaced, looking grumpy. “I suppose I did help you learn that.”
“And I was having a good time tonight. Sometimes it’s nice to get all dressed up. How many times do people get engaged? I only ever plan on getting engaged once.”
“That’s the right answer.” He looked considerably less grumpy until, abruptly, he frowned again. “Wait, Ash helped plan tonight?”
“Yes. Like I said, she and my mother basically planned it together. And they’re planning the wedding together.”
“What? How is this possible?”
“They actually get along just fine.”
“No, I mean, Ashley planning a wedding, any wedding. Drew has asked her to marry him several times, and I know for a fact she wants to say yes. She won’t commit to her own wedding, but she’ll gladly plan ours? And you know their babies are going to be incredibly cute.”
It was obvious thought of Ashley’s involvement in planning our nuptials renewed his agitation. “Cletus, it’s fine. If it makes Ashley happy, let her be happy. We've been through so much. It's been a crazy year. Let's enjoy this big fancy party we had nothing to do with organizing—tonight and the wedding. This is something my mother excels at and enjoys doing, so we didn’t have to do a thing.”
“That’s not the point—”
“And at no trouble to you or me. It's not something that we need to worry about or fret over. You can just sit back and enjoy yourself.”
“Sit back and enjoy myself?”
“That's right. Just relax. Everything has been done. You don't need to do a single thing but show up and smile.”
“I am not accustomed to sitting back and enjoying myself. Nor smiling.”
“I beg to differ. You’ve done quite a bit of both with me.”
Another wry smile tugged at his mouth, but I could see he planned to keep arguing the point.
Obviously, he needed me to spell out the actual point. “The point is, let's celebrate!” I crossed to my big, sweet man, slid my arms around his waist and tilted my head back to peer up at him. “Despite my father and that woman trying to ruin our fun, I want to celebrate with you. I want to celebrate us. I want to show you off, my brilliant, handsome fiancé. I want to show the world how much I adore you.”
Everything about him seemed to soften at my words, and I felt the moment he became putty, witnessed the precise second I’d won him over.
His arms came around me, his hands sliding from my back to my bottom. “You want to show me off?”
“Of course.” I brushed my lips against his, just a light touch. “Don’t you want to show me off?”
“Honestly?” He continued stroking me—back, hip, bottom—as he seemed to debate his answer. “I don’t know. Sometimes I do. Only if you’re keen on it, only if it’s something you want,” he added solemnly, knowing better than anyone how my parents had trotted me out as a kid and teenager when the attention used to terrify me. I loved him for wanting to take my past and my present feelings into consideration.
“But mostly—” his hands paused on my backside, his fingers gripping and pressing me to him possessively, his voice adopting just a faint hint of that gravelly tone I adored—"I want you all to myself.”
“Okay.” I grinned up at him. “Then if I don’t get my party, you have to attend to my e
very whim.”
“When?”
“Forever.”
His eyelids drooped, his eyes darkening to indigo, and a true smile laden with sinister thoughts—such a sexy smile—curved his mouth. “I’m fine with the party, and we should go back soon. But I’d also enjoy attending to your whims. Likewise, the thought of forever suits me just fine. Perhaps you could give me a task list of said whims, to get me started.”
“I know how you like your lists,” I whispered, my toes curling in my high heels as his mouth lowered to mine and I lost myself in it, in him, in the hot slide and press of his generous lips, the slick, knowing heat of his tongue.
He stroked the inside of my mouth reminiscent of how he’d feasted on my body last night before we’d gone to bed. My knees wobbled. Maybe we don’t have to go back to the party at all?
“Cletus,” I gasped, lifting my chin, untucking and undoing the buttons of his suit shirt because I needed the hot and hard feel of his skin and body right now. I was delighted to find he wore nothing beneath it. “You can’t kiss me like that if you expect me to think straight.”
“Who says I expect you to think straight? Let’s think crooked.” He toyed with the thin strap on my shoulder, pulling it down, placing a wet kiss where it had been, and sliding his fingers into the neckline of my dress, his knuckles grazing my breasts. “I thought I wanted you out of this dress, but now I think I’d like you to keep it on . . .” The words he’d left unspoken swirled around my head, making me dizzy.
Keep it on while we fuck.
He didn’t usually speak while we were intimate, and I’d started to suspect it was because he didn’t trust himself. We’d only had phone sex the one time last year and that was the most he’d talked—ever—during the deed. But just last month, after coming back from a boxing gym with Drew, sweaty and sporting a few bruises, he’d backed me into the door of my bedroom and growled in my ear, “I’m going to fuck you against the wall.”