Beard Necessities: Winston Brothers Book #7

by Penny Reid

  “I don’t know, Drew.” I didn’t precisely snap at my friend, it was more of a nip than a bite.

  He ignored my hostility, strumming out a chord. “She working late again?”

  “Apparently.” I said under my breath, It wasn’t my place to say anything to Diane Donner-Sylvester (soon to be ex-Sylvester) on behalf of her daughter. It was up to Jenn to stand up to her mother, set and enforce boundaries. Jenn needed to be the one to call the shots. I knew that.

  But I didn’t have to like it.

  Maybe once we get married. . .

  A knot of unease twisted in my stomach, adding a heaping helping of restlessness on top of my frustration.

  Over Thanksgiving, we’d—

  Well, I’d—

  Damnit.

  The truth was, we’d discussed marriage. I’d asked her while we’d been informal. She’d said yes. That was that. If or when she needed help planning the wedding, I surmised she would ask me.

  But now it was January, and she hadn’t deigned to mention the wedding, or marriage. And when she introduced me, I was a boyfriend.

  Boy. Friend.

  Now I ask, would anyone who’d met me ever use either of those words as a descriptor? Can you imagine? Good lord.

  Then again, in her defense, marriage wasn’t the only thing on her mind as of late. Jenn’s busiest season was between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, and on top of that, her momma was going through a tough time, seeing as how Diane Donner-Sylvester’s soon-to-be ex-husband—and Jennifer’s daddy—Kip Sylvester was a real pain in the ass.

  I’d hardly seen her for going on six weeks. When I did see her, it was either a Winston family affair where we had no privacy, or me showing up after work at the Donner Bakery. We’d fooled around a little—a very little—but mostly, Jenn had been exhausted.

  Thus, I did my duty as her betrothed and administered foot rubs and back rubs, completed her grocery shopping, and maintained her homestead, plus car maintenance and absolutely no expectations.

  That’s right. No expectations. Merely a heckvalot of hopes. Unfulfilled hopes meant I may have been frustrated by the lack of Jenn’s time and attention, but I wasn’t allowing myself to dwell on it. I looked to the future, to a time when Jenn’s momma was less dependent, and folks hadn’t yet cheated on their New Year’s diets with baked goods.

  In the meantime, Jenn’s porch had received two new coats of lacquer, her shutters had all been cleaned, repainted, and rehung, I’d installed two ceiling fans in anticipation of the summer, and I’d replaced her garbage disposal.

  But now, the time was night. New Year’s was last week. I’d gathered all my hopes, stacked them in a pile, and stapled them to today’s date on the calendar. Tonight was the night, our night. Finally. She was supposed to leave work on time.

  Sitting as straight as my spine would allow, I craned my neck, lifting my chin and peering at the back row of the room, specifically the seats closest to the door. My attention flicked through the faces there. Mr. Roger Gangersworth was wearing unsurprising overalls; Posey Lamont was wearing a bright pink shirt heavy with unfortunate plastic beading in the shape of a rainbow, except it was a calamitous arrangement of RYOGBVI instead of ROYGBIV; and Mrs. Scotia Simmons wore a sour expression indicative of a woman who’d lived a self-centered existence and was thusly dissatisfied with everything and everyone.

  But there was no Jennifer.

  I needed to get away from the crowd and their talking.

  “Go on with the set if you want, I’m making that call and I can jump back in when I’m done.” Standing, I placed my banjo in its case and then leaned it against the back corner, away from the threat of any future lumbering morons.

  “Fine. Once Billy’s fan club clears out, we’ll get started again.” Drew sounded unperturbed at the loss of my superior banjo skills, which meant he must’ve sensed the call was important. “Tell Jenn I say hi.”

  I grunted once, in both acknowledgement and aggravation. Great. Now I had to remember to say hi to Jenn from Drew on the off-chance she picked up her phone when I called. And if she didn’t pick up, I’d have to remember to say hi the next time I happened to see her.

  Why did people do that? Send salutations through other people? I am not the post office, nor am I a candygram. Why not send a text message if one is so eager to impart a greeting? Why did I have to be a “hi” messenger? Another reason why a silence ordinance was needed. If today had been a no-talking day, the chances of Drew writing me a note, pointedly asking me to “say hi” to Jenn, would have dropped my chances of being an unwilling messenger precipitously.

  Talking, I was beginning to suspect, was the root of all evil. The ease of it in particular was an issue.

  Talk it out. Talk it over. Talk it through.

  Useless.

  If more folks thought it out, thought it over, and thought it through instead of talking, then the world would be less cluttered with opinions and assholes.

  Navigating the room easily, I made a point to give Posey Lamont a wide berth, careful to keep my beard far away from her beaded shirt. The last thing I needed was a beard-tangle with an ignorant representation of the visible light spectrum.

  Once free of the labyrinth, I strolled down the hall of the Green Valley community center, aiming for the front door and the parking lot beyond. It was cold, even for January, and the lot would likely be empty. My head down to avoid eye contact with passers-by and hangers-on, I typed in my password and navigated to Jenn’s number.

  I was just bringing the phone to my ear when I heard a woman shout, “Cletus!”

  I halted, only because the woman sounded like Jenn, and twisted toward the voice, anticipation filling my lungs before I could quell the instinct.

  And there she was.

  Well, more precisely, there was a version of her. She wore a blonde wig on her head, a yellow dress on her person with a brown collar and trim, and pearls around her neck.

  Frustration grabbed a shovel and dug a deeper well within me.

  Jenn rushed to close the distance between us while I stood stock still, her expression a mixture of guilt and hope, a bakery box clutched to her chest. My eyes moved from the bakery box to her shoes and I sighed quietly.

  She jogged to me in high heels.

  She must’ve just left work.

  As an aside, jogging in high heels really should be added to the Olympics as a sport, but I digress.

  When Jenn was about five feet away, her smile—looking forced—widened unnaturally and she said, “Hey, there you are.”

  “Here I am.” I stuffed my hands in my pants pockets.

  She stopped abruptly about two feet away, unable to come closer without moving the Donner Bakery box to one side, and that would have been awkward. It was a big box, both a literal barrier as well as a figurative representation of what separated us.

  A second ticked by. She said nothing. Maybe because I was glaring at the box. I didn’t want to be the first to speak; I was too persnickety to be trusted. But then I remembered Drew’s request, and I relented.

  “Drew says hi,” I said.

  There. That’s done. Message conveyed.

  “Oh.” The word was airy, like she was out of breath. If I’d just jogged a hallway in high heels, I would’ve been out of breath, too.

  Another second ticked by, then another, and that deep well of frustration began to rise, reaching my esophagus and higher, flooding my chest with suffocating disappointment.

  Damn it.

  I felt her shift closer and the movement drew my attention to her sweet face and gorgeous eyes.

  “Please don’t be mad.” The hope in her features had been entirely eclipsed by guilt. “I am so sorry. I would have been on time, but Mr. Badcock sold all my eggs to somebody. And then he was treating me like I was a person of suspicion, like he couldn’t trust me. Truth be told, he was downright hostile.”

  What’s this? Hostile?

  Stepping around the box, I came to her side, my hand au
tomatically lifting to her back. “What did he say to you?”

  Note to self, Richard Badcock, add to list: Maim for mistreatment of my Jenn.

  “Nothing harsh.” She quickly shook her head, holding my gaze and allowing me to steer us down the hall, away from the entrance. “But I did have to convince him to sell me eggs again, and then he’d only sell me eggs with an advance and a deposit. And then, once that was settled, it turns out he did have a few dozen in his house, which he eventually gave me. But trekking up the hill and back down again took longer than I’d planned.”

  I stopped in front of the door leading to the stage area of the old cafeteria and pulled out a key to unlock it, listening intently to her egg-tale while keeping an eye out for any passer-bys or hangers-on. I didn’t need folks following us or asking me about how it was that I possessed a key.

  “So, when I got back to the bakery,” she went on, her words dripping with fatigue, “momma was in tears, ‘cause my daddy had just called. You know, he wants half the hotel and the bakery, so he was threatening her with that again.”

  I grimaced. I was aware of Kip Sylvester’s reprehensible behavior: he’d popped up again this last week after being mostly gone for just about a month, making all kinds of threats.

  “When she stopped crying, there was still the custard to make, and only four dozen eggs. After some fretting and discussing the issue with Momma, I decided it was best to go to the store and pick up a few dozen eggs there—since Blair Tanner had already left, I was the only one to do it—and use half Badcock eggs and half store bought to get the most out of the Badcock four dozen. I’ll need them later this week.”

  “Did you make the custard?” I ushered her forward and shut the door to the backstage area, tired on her behalf. We were enveloped in dark, which meant she couldn’t see at all, and I—like all my siblings—could see tolerably well.

  “Yes. I made the custard, it’s sitting in the fridge. Used the last of my vanilla; I’ll need to order more. I just hope no one realizes about the eggs,” she finished with an agitated exhale, allowing me to lead her through the darkness.

  I took the infernal bakery box, set it on a nearby crate, and then brought her near a corner, placing her back against the wall. This particular corner was scarcely illuminated by a sliver of light coming in through the stage curtains.

  The cafeteria was just beyond the curtains, and the loud buzzing of town gossip and chatter from earlier in the evening was now a low murmur of scant conversation. Apparently, most folks had moved to on to the music rooms, likely because all the coleslaw had been eaten. As long as we whispered, we wouldn’t be overheard or noticed.

  “Is everything settled? With Mr. Badcock?” I studied her expression, noting the groves of worry on her forehead and the way she was twisting her fingers.

  “I think so. Momma is going to drive out there tonight and drop off a deposit check, try to smooth things over with him.”

  “That was your idea?” I questioned, already knowing the answer.

  It was a great idea, so of course it was Jenn’s idea. Mrs. Diane Donner-Sylvester, Jenn’s dragon-lady mother, was one of the most powerful business persons in the region. A visit from Diane was a big deal indeed. As well, Diane clearly needed a distraction from her divorce woes.

  “Yes.” She whispered, her eyes searching for mine, but seemingly unable to settle on the right spot—my face must’ve been wholly in shadow. “We’re putting in an order for the entire year.”

  “That’s good.” I nodded, but part of her story troubled me.

  Why would Mr. Richard Badcock treat Jenn with even an ounce of hostility? It didn’t make any sense. Folks who knew Jenn—or of Jenn—considered her harmless, or less than harmless. A novelty, a local celebrity of no real substance or consequence, which was also how they saw me (minus the celebrity part).

  I knew better: she’d revealed her genius to me last fall while proving to be the most brilliant opponent I’d ever faced, by far. She’d bested me.

  Consequently, having no choice in the matter, I’d promptly fallen in love with her. Obviously.

  But back to Dick Mal-Rooster and his antagonism.

  “Did he give a reason for his poor temper?” I asked, studying her.

  The question seemed to agitate her, and she huffed, stepping forward and reaching out blindly. “Cletus, can we talk about that later? Where are you?”

  My mental processes shifted gears and abruptly, the flood of disappointment from the deep well of frustration rose to my throat. I swallowed, stepping away from her searching hands as I stuffed mine back in my pockets.

  “Jenn—”

  “I am so, so sorry, Cletus. I know I promised I’d be here on time, and I wasn’t, and for that I’m sorry.” She found me, her hands grabbing the front of my shirt. Her warm palms slid over my chest, up to my shoulders, her arms twisting around my neck.

  I braced myself for the feel of her body, but I was unprepared for the reality of it. Soft and warm and impatient, Jenn pressed herself to me in a way that felt at once eager and content. Her lips brushed lightly over my neck. I tensed. Her hot tongue coming out to lick a path to my ear had me jumping, every inch of me aware of every inch of her.

  “I’ve missed you,” she whispered, a note of vulnerability in the words, her breath scorching as it spilled over my skin, a counterpoint to the disappointment still burning my chest. “Have you missed me?”

  I was at once inebriated by her actions and incredulous of them.

  “You know I have,” I answered gruffly, keeping my hands in my pockets for both our benefits.

  Likely, she didn’t want our first time together in over six weeks—and our second time together ever—to be me ripping off her underwear and taking her against the backstage wall of the Green Valley community center. Rationally, I knew this to be true.

  Irrationally however, I wanted to rip off her underwear and take her against the backstage wall of the Green Valley community center. I wanted to tear open the buttons of her dress and feast on her body, the smooth silk of her skin, while I filled her and claimed her and satiated myself with what would surely be an unrefined display of possessiveness.

  Jennifer pressed herself more fully against me, one arm still hooked around my neck, a hand sliding dangerously lower, from my shoulder to my chest and stomach. I caught her fingers before she could slip them between us and cup me over my pants. Or inside my pants.

  “Not a good idea.” My body shook, a surge of covetous mindlessness threatening to overtake my good intentions.

  “It’s been weeks,” she complained between biting kisses on my neck, bringing my hand to her breast, pressing it there. “Don’t you want me?”

  I choked on my incredulity. If she didn’t know how much I wanted her, then I’d been doing something very wrong.

  “You’re asking me foolish questions,” I ground out, catching both her hands and holding them hostage between us to force her to back away a step. “And you’re not foolish.”

  I needed a minute.

  “Then what’s the problem?” She pressed forward. Jenn didn’t fight my hold, but she did feel restless beneath my fingers. “Why aren’t you kissing me back? Why do you keep stuffing your hands in your pockets? Why won’t you touch me?”

  Lost of words, I settled on whispering the truth, “I’d like nothing more than rip off your underwear and—”

  “No need, I’m not wearing underwear.” Jenn bent her head and placed a kiss on my knuckles.

  Meanwhile, I needed. . . another minute.

  What?

  “What?” Equal measures of astonishment and lust drove away any of my remaining good intentions, leaving me only with lust.

  “I took them off in the car.” Her tongue licked the juncture between my index and middle fingers. “I know I’ve been working a lot and, God Cletus, I just want you so—oh!”

  Unceremoniously, I backed her against the wall, tossing away her hands and clamoring for the hem of her skirt. Sliding m
y fingers up her legs as I lifted her dress, I groaned when I discovered no material at her hip or bottom. Since I already had a handful of her, I squeezed, resisting the urge to fall to my knees and take a bite of her perfect backside.

  I’d wanted us to have privacy. I’d wanted to unwrap her. I’d wanted to take my time. I’d wanted conversation and kisses—many kisses—and a lot more light sources. Sunlight, lamps, spotlights, I wanted to see every part of her.

  I pressed my forehead against the cold wall, unable to resist touching her, slipping my middle finger into that hot, silky place.

  Her breath hitched, her arms once again wrapping around my neck as her hips rolled forward into my hand. “Please, please.”

  Damn, but I missed her. Her skin was heaven, her fragrance paradise, and I couldn’t get enough. I was breathing heavy, wanting her all around me, in my lungs. I couldn’t think. I just wanted.

  I took her mouth with mine, no preamble or gentle invasion, but a full-fledged frenzy. She moaned, a sound I took as encouragement.

  Jenn’s nails scratched down my shirt, her fingers shaking as they found my belt, tugging and pulling frantically while I nipped and licked and kissed her jaw and neck, stopping at her breast to place a wet, biting kiss at the center, all the while working her with my fingers.

  Her hands faltered as I devoured her collarbone and neck, preparing to lower to my knees, lift her skirt completely, take a bite out of that ass, and then spread her wide for my tongue and mouth and pleasure.

  But then, her phone rang; Reba McEntire’s, ‘I’m a Survivor;’ that was her mother’s ring tone. The woman had recently programmed it into Jenn’s phone.

  She squeaked, fumbling for the device. Her face briefly illuminated just before quickly rejecting the call.

  “Don’t stop.” She reached for my belt again, this time deftly undoing it, the button of my pants, and my zipper while I stoked her.

  Her phone buzzed. Then it chimed. Then it buzzed and chimed two more times. Then it rang, again Reba.

  Cursing, Jenn pulled the phone from her pocket and once again her face illuminated, murderous rage in her eyes. Her finger moved to the power-off button. She blinked, hesitating. Her eyes widened, her body stiffened, and she gasped.