Beard Necessities: Winston Brothers Book #7

by Penny Reid

  “Okay. You can look now.”

  Waiting another few seconds, mostly to get a hold of myself, I let the shirt drop a little and peeked at him. I’d expected him to be standing in front of me, doing something sexy and confident. Billy was sexy and confident—because he was always sexy and confident—but neither his confidence nor his sexiness were pointed in my direction. He wasn’t even looking at me.

  Walking around the picnic site, he gathered the hastily discarded plates left by his family, stacking them, folding blankets, putting away food, like we hadn’t just attacked each other moments ago. Like life had moved on.

  I tried to figure out how to feel about his unperturbed, focused demeanor, concentrating on tasks. Meanwhile, I was a flustered ruffle of horse feathers (Yes, I know horses don’t have feathers. That’s the point.)

  His gaze flickered to me as he continued to work. “Is there something wrong with the shirt?”

  “No,” I said weakly, making a face that probably looked like my nose itched.

  He sat back on his heels—still shirtless and glorious and sexy and confident and mesmerizing—and studied me. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s just”—I lifted my hand toward him—“you’re acting like everything is normal, like this kind of thing happens every day, and I-I feel like everything is not normal.”

  “Not normal.”

  How could I describe this to him? How did I explain how shaken I felt? The enormity of my happiness and fear—happy because we’d finally taken the first step over that line, fearful because I worried something would happen and we’d never do it again, or he wouldn’t want to do it again, or he wouldn’t want to do it with me. Which, yes, given our shared history, might’ve seemed like an unfounded worry. But, there it was.

  If anyone knows how to stop worrying about stupid shit, please give me a call.

  He stood and walked slowly to me, apprehension in his eyes. “Do you . . . do you regret what happened?”

  “NO!” I shook my head frantically, adding on a rush, “Only that it didn’t happen sooner. But, Billy, everything is—feels—different now. New. Changed. I need you to talk to me about what’s going on in your head and heart. I love you.” I blurted this last part, wincing slightly as soon as the words were out of my mouth.

  At my confession, Billy’s features softened, his smile was small but warm, pleased.

  I wasn’t finished. I’d said this much, might as well say it all. “I love you,” I repeated, my voice croaky and raw. “I want us to be together, but I don’t want to rush you. I know you want to take things slow, and I respect that. You have many responsibilities to so many people. I guess I want to know what happens after Italy. This feels like a dream, not real life. I want us to be together in real life, and I want to know what that looks like. For you. If you want it too.”

  The persistent happy little smile on his lips and behind his eyes eased some of my anxiety. So much so, I found myself smiling too. He seemed to regard me and my words, debating them silently, absorbing all their possible meanings. This was something about him I discovered whenever we spent a significant amount of time in each other’s company. When he was slow to speak, it was because he was being thoughtful with my words and his.

  Taking one of my hands, he brought it to his—still shirtless—chest, over his heart, and pressed it there. “Make no mistake, what just happened between us was momentous for me. My life and heart have been forever transformed. You are the architect and artist of my own personal paradise. Now, when I close my eyes, I won’t need to imagine what heaven feels like. I’ll know.”

  Oh.

  If I’d been the swooning sort, I would’ve swooned. In fact, you know what? I still might.

  “But Scarlet,” he said my name reverently, gently, like it was a prayer he repeated often, “I didn’t need to see or touch or taste paradise to know how deeply and irrevocably I am in love with you. That hasn’t changed. That is as constant as my soul, which has been, and will always be, forever yours.”

  “Goodness,” I breathed more than said the word, feeling dizzy, lost in the labyrinth of his perfect words.

  He stepped closer and carefully tucked strands of loose hair behind my ear like they were made of gold, his eyes watching the slow progress of his fingers. “I want to be with you, now and in real life. And our real life is ours to define, no one else’s.” His tone was gentle, but held a note of defiance.

  Like he dared anyone to tell us how to live our life together.

  Like he dared me to disagree.

  Chapter Fifteen

  *Claire*

  “I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you.”

  Friedrich Nietzsche

  Billy carried the heavy basket. I carried the blanket. He told me to leave everything else because he wanted to hold my hand on the way back.

  I mean, how could I argue with that?

  The fun started as soon as we walked in through the terrace door leading to the kitchen. Everyone was there, and I do mean everyone. All his siblings, their significant others, the Sheriff, Mrs. James, even little Liam. The room fell into a hush as soon as we entered. I could only imagine how it looked: a bare-chested Billy, me in his shirt, us holding hands, my hair a mess, my lips swollen, him sporting at least two hickeys. At least I’d put my sandals back on my feet.

  Twisting my lips, I lifted my chin, doing my utmost not to succumb to the threatening crush of mortification as I glanced at Cletus. His eyes were twinkling, the fiend.

  I’ll need to thank him later.

  “Not a word,” Billy ordered, placing the basket on the ground, and then taking the blanket from me and laying it on top.

  With that, he unhurriedly pulled me from the kitchen, past the downcast eyes and tightly pressed lips of his family to the back hall. As soon as my foot hit the third step, I heard the kitchen erupt in chatter, happy noises, conversations that had me both covering my face and laughing.

  “They’re nuts. Completely crazy.” He laughed lightly, sending me an apologetic look.

  “It’s just funny.” I wiped at my eyes. “And actually kinda sweet. They really love you.”

  “They really love irritating me.”

  “Are you irritated?”

  “No,” he confessed, fighting a grin. “But don’t tell them that.”

  We’d made a plan on the walk back to the house. Both of us would clean ourselves up in our own respective spaces, and then we’d leave for the rest of the day. We could take a train to Florence, or borrow one of the rental cars and drive to the town of Siena or Lucca, or maybe go have pizza in Pisa. I wanted to take one of those goofy pictures where it looked like he was holding up the leaning tower. He smiled at the suggestion, saying nothing, but the look in his eyes told me everything I needed to know.

  That is, he thought I was as ridiculous as I was cute.

  Part of me would’ve preferred getting dirty all over again while cleaning up together. But another part of me—the part that had been shy about my scars and embarrassed about seeing him naked—felt relief. I didn’t want him to see my scars again, not yet. I didn’t want to talk about them yet. I wanted to leave the past behind us for a while and keep our eyes on the future.

  Now that he’d told me what was in his head and heart, I was able to view his actions last week through this new lens. For example, his lack of touching looked more like restraint, not disinterest. But I still didn’t understand his persistent silence.

  Was Billy Winston just a remarkably quiet person now? And if so, how did I feel about that? I missed his voice, his sharing of thoughts. He had such a beautiful mind, a clever way of thinking about issues and approaching problems. I hoped he wouldn’t withhold it from me.

  Anxious to see him, I showered and dressed in record time—like, ten minutes—and then, on my quick walk to his room, my stomach growled. Hungry, and fairly certain he hadn’t eaten either, I pressed my ear to his door. Hearing the faint sound of his shower
still running, I decided to jot down to the kitchen and whip us up a charcuterie board.

  Charcuterie is one of those words I never attempted to say out loud in front of people. I know what it is, what it looks like, how to make it, but I always ended up fudging one of the syllables between my brain and my mouth.

  “Char-cue-ter-ree,” I whispered to myself several times as I descended the stairs, but then frowned at the sound. “Shar-cut-ter-ree?” I tried.

  Darn. See? Best to just call it an appetizer or a snack.

  It didn’t occur to me until I was already on the basement level that Billy’s siblings and their families might still be milling about, congratulating themselves. Feeling a little weird about seeing everyone after the spectacle of our entrance, I tiptoed toward the kitchen, my courage bolstered when I heard just a faint murmur of voices. Seeing two or three folks wouldn’t be so bad.

  I peeked around the doorframe. Cletus and Duane were standing nearby with most of Duane facing me, a severe scowl marring his expression.

  “I’ll make sure he does,” Cletus was promising, his tone reasonable but firm, like he was trying to talk Duane off a ledge of some sort. “I know you’re tired, sleep deprived. Infants are a form of torture not covered by the Geneva convention. Just, settle down. He’s probably already told her. Did you see how happy they looked?”

  I felt a goofy grin take over my features at that, and was just about to step into the kitchen when Duane’s salty voice said, “What if he hasn’t told her and Claire still doesn’t know?”

  My whole body stilled and I eavesdropped before I could comprehend the fact that I was eavesdropping.

  “Then, like I said, I’ll make sure, before she leaves for that music festival or for Rome, Billy tells her the truth.”

  Duane seemed to grow more agitated. “You know I love Billy, you know I do. I want to see him happy same as everyone. But Scarlet has no one. If he hasn’t told her yet—”

  “Duane. It’s not like it’s bad news, he’s done nothing to hurt her. Everything he did, he did to protect her. He saved her.”

  “Lying to someone for decades is hurtful. Believe me, I speak from personal experience. I understand why momma—why Bethany—never told me and Beau the truth about Christine being our biological mother, but that doesn’t mean it still doesn’t hurt.”

  Cletus shifted on his feet, like Duane’s words affected him, and his voice gentled. “I may not have the ability to know exactly what you’re feeling, but my empathy works just fine. Trust me, Billy will tell her about what he did when she left. You have my word.”

  “The whole truth.” Duane sliced his hand through the air. “Everything, from how they killed your dog in trade for that Carla girl to how they almost killed Billy in trade for Claire.”

  I recoiled, both of my hands flying to my mouth to smother a gasp.

  But Duane was still talking and my greedy ears kept listening, trapped by my own shock. “How he voluntarily handed himself over and they beat him so bad, he lost his chance at scholarships, college. How he was in the hospital for months and rehab for months after that. All of it.”

  Stepping back, I pressed myself against the wall, needing the solid support as I stifled something that tried to burst from my chest.

  “Even that tattoo, why he has it, what it’s covering up.”

  “Telling her about the beating is enough, Duane. No need to traumatize Claire with graphic and gruesome details.”

  “It’s important that she know, and understand, what he did for her, the extent of it. It changed him. He’s never been the same after.”

  Someone grunted, maybe Cletus, and he said, “You and I are in agreement on the fundamentals.”

  And then he said something else, but my brain couldn’t comprehend because it was racing, frantically searching through what I knew to be true. Or what I’d thought I knew to be true and what might be truth and who said what and when and—

  They beat him?

  I shut my eyes as I imagined it, gory details and all, my back sliding down the wall as my body shook with a sudden wave of nausea and anguish. My legs could not support my weight and the weight of this new reality. I curled forward and buried my face in my hands and the past rose up like a tidal wave, submerging me, choking me, and washing away everything I thought was true.

  After I dashed upstairs and finished crying like it was my job, I lay on my bed and allowed myself to imagine it. I allowed myself to think about Billy’s broken body. If I didn’t, if I kept pushing it away, I’d drive myself insane.

  Once I’d done that and accepted what he’d done for me, how young he’d been, how brave and noble, and what he’d lost, I cried some more. I mourned for him, for that boy I knew and loved, and then I mourned for the man he’d become and all the burdens he carried still.

  Scenes from my past materialized next. I catalogued all the decisions I’d made that had been flat-out wrong, and misguided, and based on lies. I mourned for myself too.

  I mourned for that girl of fifteen, who thought the boy she loved didn’t love her back.

  I mourned for that girl of eighteen, who felt so obligated to someone that she let him touch her whenever and however he wanted.

  I mourned for that girl of nineteen, marrying a boy who’d convinced himself and everyone that he loved her while she convinced herself she’d work every day to be worthy of his love. Maybe Ben hadn’t known what Billy did for me, maybe he did. Either way, he’d lied to me. Regardless, the truth was, he didn’t know how to love. He only knew how to possess.

  And then, I buried her. All versions of her. All her misery and pathetic cowardice and decisions based on fear and false information. I was done with that. I wouldn’t resurrect her.

  But laying her to rest didn’t mean I lacked curiosity, the need to know why, to understand. The questions—so many questions—remained, the most important and pressing being: why hadn’t Billy told me the truth?

  I wasn’t a saint. Mistakes were made. I’d tried my best with the knowledge available to me and, even now, I believed Billy had tried his best too. There had to be an explanation. There had to be a reason.

  When I thought about all our encounters, all the moments I’d pushed Billy away—implicitly or explicitly—there’d been a justification each time. What I owed Ben. Safety. My promise to Bethany. My feelings of worthlessness. Believing, deep down, Billy deserved better. Right or wrong, good or bad, there’d always been a reason.

  In my heart, I felt certain Billy had justified the lie to himself each time he’d actively decided to withhold the truth. He had his reasons, and I did not want to believe any of those reasons were spite. Nevertheless, Duane was right, it hurt. It hurt so badly.

  And that’s where I was—hurting, confused, questioning—when I heard a soft knock on my door.

  Licking my dry lips, I swiped at my eyes. They were dry, but I did need to clear my throat before saying, “Come in.”

  The door opened and I knew it was him. I didn’t need to look up. I felt it.

  “Hey,” he said. A second later, the door closed and he walked toward me. I could see him in my peripheral vision.

  Bracing myself, and hating that I had to, I took my time sitting up on the bed, giving him a small smile, but withholding my eyes. “Hey.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you. Did you fall asleep?” He sat next to my legs, placing his hand on my knee, his thumb drawing a circle over my kneecap. Then he stopped. “Have you been crying?”

  I nodded, folding my arms. “Billy, I need to tell you something.” I’d debated how best to do this, how to ask him without confronting him. I wasn’t angry. Maybe I should have been, but I wasn’t. I was hurt and tired of feeling wrung out.

  “What? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s about something that happened a long time ago.” Some instinct had me covering his hand with mine. “And I hadn’t planned on telling you. But something happened today, and I realized it’s better to be honest and potentially hurt the perso
n you care most about than protect them with secrets and lies.”

  He grew very still and didn’t say anything for so long I looked at him. He seemed equal parts wary and concerned.

  “What is it?”

  I curled my fingers around his, holding his hand tighter. “That night you came to the hotel—that last night you came, when I called you—your mother overheard our conversation. She must’ve heard you on the phone talking to me.”

  “My mother?” His eyes narrowed, visibly confused, like I’d handed him one piece to a puzzle without providing the big picture first.

  “She was concerned for you, so she followed you to the hotel. And after you left, she came to the door, and she, uh, she confronted me.” Keeping hold of his gaze, I scratched my forehead, watching for his reaction. “She was worried about what we were doing. She asked me, in her sweet gentle way, to let you go.”

  His frown was one of confusion, not anger. “My mother did?”

  “Yes,” I confirmed quietly. “And I promised her I would stay away from you after that.”

  Billy’s eyes dropped to our hands, but I got the sense he didn’t see them, or me. His gaze had turned inward. “Why would she do that?”

  “Don’t be angry with her.” I gave his fingers a squeeze. “She didn’t want you compromising yourself for me or for anyone. She didn’t want that kind of stain on your soul. She didn’t want you living with the guilt of being a cheater, or—maybe worse—justifying it to yourself as something acceptable, taking what you wanted just ’cause you wanted it. She said that was Darrell, how Darrell behaved. That he could justify every single one of his hurtful decisions, and she’d tried to raise you better than that. I agreed with her, so I promised.”

  He stared at me while I spoke and it was uncanny, the echo of his former self just beneath the surface. He looked so young, almost naïve. And he looked hurt, like this information about his mother wounded him. Clearly, the fact that Bethany had thought these things about him was upsetting.