Grin and Beard It (Winston Brothers #2)

by Penny Reid

  “Holy cow. Drew writes poetry?”

  Drew, or what little I knew about him, seemed to be a man of few words. He looked like a Viking but struck me as a gentle giant. The fact he wrote poetry left me stunned.

  “Drew writes poetry. You want me to read that one first?” Jethro flipped through the pages of his notebook and withdrew a folded piece of paper, poised to start reading.

  “Wait! Before you start.” I set my plate to one side then crossed to him on my hands and knees. Once I was next to him I lay down, resting my head on his lap and folding my hands over my stomach. “Okay, now start.”

  He grinned at me like I was a goof. “You finally agree? This is the poetry-reading pose.”

  “Yes. I agree.”

  “Then I’m reading you poetry every day.”

  I reached above my head and pinched his thigh. “Stop being a dirty mister and read the damn poetry.”

  His grin widened, but he acquiesced. Attention back on the journal, he cleared his throat, and then he began.

  “I see you.

  A weapon to wield.

  Tightrope above, No net below,

  Start.

  Need water, Need air, Need forgiveness,

  Acceptance a mantle, hopelessness a shield,

  Apart.

  I see you.

  Rejection causes blindness,

  Reset, renew,

  Restart.

  Forgiveness on your mind, Love in your heart.

  I see you.

  Son to one.

  Brother to many.

  Friend to me.

  Now husband.

  Soon father.

  I see you.”

  As Jethro read, the steadiness of his voice diminished as it slowed. He swallowed thickly between the lines beginning with Brother and Friend and finished the last I see you in a hauntingly roughened tone.

  When he finished he continued to stare at the words, his throat working, his eyes darting over the page. I frowned my concern, reaching a hand above my head once more. But this time I squeezed his thigh, wanting to offer reassurance.

  “Hey,” I said, drawing his eyes to mine. “Are you okay?”

  He nodded though he looked lost.

  I sat up, twisting at the waist. I’d planned to hold his hand, but Jethro set aside his notebook and reached for me, turning my body and bringing me to his lap. I straddled him and wrapped my arms around his neck, giving him a soft kiss.

  “Thank you.” His words escaped on an exhale.

  “For what?”

  “For giving me a chance. For wanting to know me.”

  I gave him a disbelieving smile, tilting my head back so I could see him. Without thinking, I said, “Of course I gave you a chance. Do you know how hot you are? You are seriously hot.”

  Jethro smiled in return, yet it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and that had me frowning again. I could’ve kicked myself. My instinct was to be silly in all serious situations. Sometimes that silliness made me thoughtless.

  I shook my head, shoving instinct out of the way and inviting true depth to visit. I gave myself permission to feel the moment.

  “That’s . . . that’s not what I meant. Let me try that again.”

  I gathered a deep breath and steadied myself by counting the colors in his iris. Green, gold, brown, and blue.

  I started again. “Of course I gave you a chance. You are deserving of every good thing, Jethro. I know you struggle with feeling you deserve good things, and I admire you for your struggle, because I think a lot of people would move on or make excuses for their bad choices and behavior. You could blame your father—and I think you absolutely should to a certain extent—or you could blame a hundred different other influences and factors. But you don’t.”

  His answering smile was smaller, but I was happy to see it reflected in his eyes. His gaze traveled over my features, warm and cherishing.

  I slipped a palm to his chest and pressed it there. “You have a good heart. Thank you for letting me know it. And thank you, Jethro, for wanting to know me.”

  We swapped small smiles and good feelings until Jethro pushed his fingers into my hair, lifting it as though measuring its weight.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said, his attention skimming from my hair to my neck to my chin. “I don’t think I knew what beauty was, until I met you.”

  “Uhh.” The involuntary sound tumbled from my lips, both a grunt and a sigh. I felt his words and the sincerity behind them like an arrow to my heart.

  His eyes sharpened and he studied my face with interest. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “You and your saying of sweet things, it does something to me. You do something to me.”

  Jethro’s mouth hitched to the side with a pleased smile. “Happy to hear it. Because when I’m with you, I feel like I’m both flying and falling.”

  “Uhh!” I sigh-grunted again and quickly pressed my lips to his. “I thought you said you don’t write poetry?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Stop lying to yourself and the world. You are a poet, and you don’t even know it.”

  He pressed his lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. Again, I was being silly. Funny was my default, but my default felt right this time, so I went with it.

  “You should get a permit, but don’t attempt to outwit, and here’s a tidbit.” I pointed to my shoulder, “This is my armpit.”

  Jethro laughed, scrunching his face at me like I was funny and weird—which I was—and gifted me with a smiling kiss. “You’re going to be my wife.”

  I nodded. “And you’re going to be my husband.”

  He rested his forehead against mine and we sat together for a long moment, breathing each other in, until I asked, “Are you giving me comfort?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Winston-Diaz.”

  “Good, Mr. Winston-Diaz.”

  Jethro closed his eyes, a small grin curving his mouth, and whispered like it was a secret, “Thank you for being lost.”

  I smiled and whispered in return, “Thank you for finding me.”

  About the Author

  This is the fifth full-length novel published by Penny Reid. Her days are spent writing federal grant proposals for biomedical research; her evenings are either spent playing dress-up and mad-scientist with her people-children, or knitting with her knitting group at the local coffee shop. Please feel free to drop her a line. She'd be happy to hijack your thoughts!

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  If you liked this book (and, more importantly perhaps, if you didn’t like it) please take a moment to post a review someplace (Amazon, iBooks, Goodreads, your blog, on a bathroom stall wall, in a letter to your mother, etc.). It helps society more than you know when you make your voice heard; reviews force us to move towards a true meritocracy.

  Read on for:

  Acknowledgements

  Sneak Peek of Book #3 in the Winston Brothers Series (Cletus’s book) Beard Science, by Penny Reid

  Penny Reid’s Booklist (current and planned publications)

  Acknowledgements

  I receive emails from all over the world (India, Nigeria, Pakistan, France, Greece, Australia, etc.) in which readers tell me how much they identify with my nerdy, smart, ambitious, and capable women characters. When asked which of my characters they identify with the most, over 60% of my readers say Janie from Neanderthal Seeks Human and Neanderthal Marries Human.

  I think that’s pretty freaking awesome. Awkward doesn’t care who your parents are. Smart doesn’t consu
lt your skin color. Because being smart, awkward, having an affinity for nerd culture, and falling in love are—in fact—universal concepts.

  Last year, a reader pointed out to me that all my main characters thus far have been of Northern European ancestry. She asked me, “Why are all your characters white?”

  And I responded, “Because that’s what I know. How can I write and do justice to a person of color? I’ve never been a person of color.”

  She smiled and said, “But you write men, and you are a woman. You write about male auto mechanics in the Tennessee foothills and you’re a female scientist from California.”

  She had me there.

  So I penned a blog post asking my readers of color to email me. I asked that they share their experiences growing up in the United States. I made a request: “Tell me what I don’t know.”

  I received over 500 responses. And it turns out I don’t (didn’t) know much.

  In addition to basic data gathering and information (e.g. several women of African descent pointed out that some African Americans / blacks don’t like getting their hair wet and therefore don’t like to go swimming; I did not know that) readers also shared a range of stories and experiences that ignited my imagination. New, exciting ways of seeing the world, perspectives I never would have discovered if left to my own paltry well of experiences.

  One woman (a 3rd generation American) wrote, “I have more in common with you—culturally— than my cousins in India.”

  This is true. She is right. If I can write a man, or an ex-CIA agent, or a medical doctor, then why can’t I write a person who happens to not be of my same/similar ancestry?

  Sienna Diaz was originally slated to be Sienna Foster. But as all the events (above) unfolded, I decided there was absolutely no reason Sienna couldn’t be a woman of color. In fact, making her a Latina (in my opinion) actually added additional/surprising layers to the character. And all of these new layers were wonderful.

  I have to thank people. This book, more than any other I’ve written, was definitely a group effort.

  First and foremost, I have to thank Angela Houle. She is the reader (she’s also a stellar editor) who originally asked me why none of my characters were of color. Thank you for asking the question.

  Second, I have to thank the 500+ readers who responded to my initial request for information. I plan to continue pilfering their experiences for the benefit of my future books (Sienna is the first of many to come!)

  Third, my BETA readers who specifically helped me with the character of Sienna: Felicia Valadez, Michelle Linnborn. Elizabeth Lopez, and Melissa Breit. When I sent these ladies an early version of the book, I asked, “Please help me make her authentic. Not a stereotype and not white-washed. Help me make her real.” Each of these ladies responded with suggestions, comments, and notes regarding experiences/perspectives growing up in the United States as a 1st or 2nd generation Mexican (or part Mexican).

  In fact, one of Sienna’s lines in the book was taken verbatim from Felicia Valadez’s BETA notes, as follows: “We all grew up knowing who she was and being told we must listen or La Llorona will find you. I'm still not sure if the lesson is listen to your parents or La Llorona will find you and kill you, or listen to your Mexican mother because she might go crazy and kill you. Oh sure, she'll spend eternity crying and searching for you, but she will kill you.” (chapter 4)

  It made me laugh out loud, so I used it (with her permission).

  I also want to thank my BETA reading team (Shannon, Tracy, April, Heather, Amber, Angie, and Becky), as well as my editors: Marion, Karen, and Iveta. I lost all of my content changes (18k words) the day this book was due back to my editor for a second read. Marion and Karen pulled me through to the other side. Without their support and encouragement, I think I would have shelved the book indefinitely. Instead, I wrote 23k words in 56 hours.

  Last, but not least, I want to thank my family. I wrote this book under extreme circumstances (teething baby, closing on a new house, selling our house, packing for a move across the country, etc.) and would not have been able to finish it without the support and understanding of my family.

  Wishing you the best, Penny Reid

  Sneak Peek: Beard Science, by Penny Reid

  Book #3 in the Winston Brothers Series (available Fall 2016)

  CHAPTER 1

  ~Cletus~

  Despite my best intentions, I was going to have to tell Deveron Stokes a falsehood.

  “How can a transmission be so expensive? I don’t got that much money to spend on a new transmission!”

  “The transmission is only part of the bill. We’ll give you a deal on the transmission, Mr. Stokes. See here? Your muffler needs new bearings. And your tread fluid is running dangerously low, not to mention the undercarriage spark plugs and crank chortle.”

  Crank chortle was a new one. In fact, I’d just made it up on the spot. Beau was better at this than I was, but he wasn’t here. The charlatan.

  Deveron sighed, blinking rapidly at the bill on the counter between us; he frowned, then shook his head. “Well, alright then. I mean, I guess the car does need a lot of work. I appreciate the deal on the transmission.”

  I nodded somberly. I was good at somber nodding. It was probably my best, most well-received kind of nod. People always felt comforted when I did it, so I employed it liberally.

  Mr. Stokes lifted his eyes. “You’re a good friend, Cletus.”

  I nodded somberly again, but said nothing. Mr. Stokes wasn’t my friend. Mr. Stokes wasn’t a nice person. He hadn’t paid his child support in six years but always managed to stay well stocked in whisky, women, and cigarettes. However, even before I’d been told this unsavory fact about Mr. Stokes, I didn’t like the man.

  I don’t like to judge people.

  I love it.

  Truth be told, writing people off is liberating.

  First impressions are typically correct. At least all my first impressions are correct. This is because I employ a very scientific approach to forming impressions and was born with infallible logic.

  I allot ten minutes. If I don’t have ten minutes, I’ll put off forming an impression until such a window of time is available. I never deviate from the ten-minute rule. I once put off forming an opinion about our new pastor for six months because I hadn’t found the ten minutes all together required.

  My momma didn’t like the fact that I refused to look at the man over those months, but you can’t bend or distort the scientific method. It’s sacred. And ten minutes is all I’ve ever needed to sum up the character of any given person.

  For the first five minutes, I don’t look at him or her. I close my eyes, or study my feet, or glance to one side. In this way I delay forming an opinion based on his outward appearance.

  I extend my hand—every single time—see what kind of grip she gives me. Is it limp? Too tight? Tentative?

  I listen to her voice and his vocabulary, the lexicon of their thoughts. Is she confident? Learned? Pompous? What subjects does he bring up? Is she interested in talking only about herself? Or does he shy away from notice?

  After the five minutes of passive listening is over, I interrupt the conversation to ask what kind of car he or she drives. Then (and only then) do I look at the person. It’s not the car that matters. It’s how he talks about the car. You can tell a lot by how a person talks about his car. Proud? Embarrassed? Ambivalent?

  The answer to this question typically takes anywhere between ten seconds and five minutes. By the end of this motoring monologue, I’ve made up my mind.

  Of course I love my neighbor. My momma brought me up right. I certainly see the wisdom in loving neighbors, and doing unto others, and being nice for the sake of being nice. I just chose to love my neighbors from afar. I prefer long distance relationships, where speaking and listening don’t occur with frequency.

  I only have time for twenty-four people (tops) in my life, and I already have six siblings. Twenty-four people is an average of two birthdays
a month. Ain’t nobody got time for more than two birthday celebrations a month. That’s a lot of cake, and I’m particular about my cake.

  But back to Deveron Stokes and his transmission.

  He was rubbing his neck, frowning at the bill. “The thing is, Cletus. I, uh, I don’t have the money at present to pay for all this work.”

  I nodded, more thoughtfully than somberly this time. “Well now, Deveron, you have two options. You can tow the car out of the parking lot at your own expense until you do have the money. Or maybe we could work out some sort of agreement.”

  I was not surprised. In fact, I was counting on him reneging on payment.

  The bell over the door chimed as it opened, announcing the entrance of a new customer. I tilted to the side, looking around Deveron to see who’d entered.

  It was Jethro, my oldest brother. Next to him was a tall woman I didn’t recognize. I made a point to avert my eyes before I could comprehend too much of her exterior.

  “What kind of agreement?” Deveron asked, looking mighty shifty.

  “Oh, nothing untoward, Mr. Stokes.” That was another falsehood.

  Mr. Stokes was a presser at the dry cleaners, though he was paid under the table and wasn’t technically on staff—another way to avoid child support. The first favor required of Mr. Stokes would be to put itching powder in Jackson James’s starched police uniform. Officer James had made the mistake of pulling me over last week for no reason when I was not in the mood to be pulled over.

  A small number of plagues would befall the Sheriff’s Deputy over the coming weeks. I’d considered leprosy via an armadillo infestation, but decided against it. Maybe next time.

  Mr. Stokes swallowed nervously. “Well… I guess. I mean, sure. Anything you need, Cletus.”

  I grabbed a set of keys from behind the counter along with rental car paperwork, and placed them between us. “Good. I have a few favors in mind. We’ll work out the details later, but I’ll need them done before we start work on your truck. In the meantime, I’ll be happy to offer you one of the shop’s cars as a loaner at the rate of ten dollars a day, paid up front in cash.”