Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance (Winston Brothers Book 1)

by Penny Reid

  I had to press my lips together because my chin wobbled and I absolutely refused to cry.

  “I thought your feelings must have changed…that you didn’t want me anymore…that those beautiful poems and letters…that you didn’t want me. So I came here to get my letters back before you could see them.” I ended by covering my face with my hands. My neck was burning, and I knew my cheeks and chest were a bright crimson.

  Drew didn’t respond; he was quiet for so long I thought he might have walked away. But then I heard his boots scuff against the wood of the porch and I felt the heat of his body as he approached. His fingers gently surrounded my wrists and he pulled my hands from my face.

  “Ash, open your eyes.” His tone was infinitely gentle.

  And it scared me, because this was always how my nightmare started. He would let me down with infinite gentleness.

  “I can’t.” I dropped my head so he wouldn’t see my face.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of you letting me down gently.”

  Drew released my wrists and his hands covered my cheeks, warming them. He tilted my chin upward, and I felt his lips brush over mine with an infinitely gentle kiss.

  He whispered, “Sugar, open your eyes.”

  I opened my eyes. I peered up at him, into his quicksilver gaze. I saw desire, I saw relief, I saw admiration, and I saw love.

  Before I could speak, he said, “I’m not going to let you down, and I’m not ever going to let you go.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  “There is always some madness in love. But there is also always some reason in madness.”

  ― Friedrich Nietzsche

  He encircled my waist with one arm and lifted me off my feet, his mouth capturing mine for a kiss that started as a tender, yielding exploration and quickly escalated to code red situation. My arms wrapped around his neck, holding him tighter, instinctively clamoring to get closer.

  His big shoulder hit the doorframe as he tried to navigate his way into the house, jarring our teeth together, my top lip a casualty in our rush to reacquaint ourselves. It also had the effect of jarring me back into the present moment and why I was here.

  “Are you okay?” He asked, but his eyes were on my mouth even as he pulled the door shut with his free hand.

  I nodded. “Yeah, but-”

  He cut me off, his lips moving against mine again, as though he planned to devour me with sensuality and his perfectly choreographed tongue tango. It was sinful, invading, and conquering, like I imagined a marauding Viking might kiss in order to establish his dominance.

  Despite the delectableness of his mouth, hands, chest, sides, back, bottom, thighs, arms, features, and—let’s face it—unruly beard, I couldn’t let things progress before clarifying what was happening.

  This wasn’t some neurotic need to define everything; at least, I didn’t think so. I just didn’t ever want to fall into the pit of wine, cookie dough, and fruitcake sweatpants ever again. Nor did I want Drew’s precious heart to be put in jeopardy.

  I placed my hands on his shoulders and leaned my head back; the rest of me was pressed tightly to his front.

  “Wait, wait—first we need to talk.” I shouted this because I have no idea. Really. I have no idea why I shouted it. Just know that I did.

  He stilled somewhat, his hold loosening a tad, but he didn’t let me go. Instead, he gently set me down and pushed off my jacket, biting then licking my neck.

  “Talk,” he commanded.

  I shivered, exhaled a sudden breath. “I can’t talk, not while you’re melting my butter.”

  This gave him pause. Drew’s mouth ceased its assault, and he lifted his face from my shoulder, his eyes bright with palpable desire, but also amusement.

  “Melt your butter?”

  I nodded and tried to step away but failed; his hands gripped my waist like he was afraid I’d run away or disappear.

  “That’s right. Put me in a pan and turn me on. Melt my butter.” I was breathing heavily, mostly because—even though he’d stopped kissing me—he was still melting my butter.

  I could feel myself growing increasingly apathetic about discussing anything except whether he’d remedied his condom dearth.

  On that note I blurted, “I don’t have any condoms with me.”

  His eyebrows jumped and he blurted, “Well, are you clean?”

  I nodded.

  “I’m clean. Are you on the pill?”

  I nodded.

  “Okay. Next subject.”

  The blurting continued. “Why did you push me away after our night together?”

  His eyebrows jumped higher, but he didn’t answer; not right away. Instead, he glared at me—not with malice but with heat—and his grip on my body tightened.

  At last he said, “Ash, I wasn’t trying to push you away, but I didn’t want to hold you back. Bethany told me about you many times. Granted, she called you Ash and let me think you were a man, but she was so proud. She told me about how you fought your whole life to leave this place, how it was all you talked about growing up.”

  This was true. It was all I ever wanted as a child. But it wasn’t about leaving Tennessee. Tennessee was beautiful; its beauty was why I believed in magic as a child.

  I wanted to escape my father’s awfulness and my brothers’ pedestrian antics. I wanted to be educated by the world, see it, and find my place in it.

  “It was never about Tennessee, Drew. It was about escaping an unhappy situation and finding something else for myself other than a house full of perpetual adolescents. I was so blind, Drew. I was so blind to how you felt. You kept saying you didn’t need me, and I believed you. I thought you found nothing in me, nothing that you’d ever need.”

  He shook his head before I finished speaking, his hands moving to my face, pushing my hair back from my temples. “No. No, Ashley. You weren’t blind. You were just incapable of seeing anything but your heartache. I watched you every day for six weeks as you took care of your mother. You could only see her during that time. She needed you. Your brothers needed you. And that’s how it was supposed to be. You were here for her and your family; I understood that. I didn’t want you to feel any pressure from me. I had no expectations that you would feel for me what I felt for you. I wanted to be a comfort, not a burden.”

  I watched him through narrowed eyes. When he finished, I (again) blurted, “Well, start putting some pressure on me. Start needing me. Start having excessively high expectations.”

  His mouth tugged to the side like he was trying to suppress a smile, and his hands threaded through my hair then stroked down my back, eventually coming to rest on the base of my spine. “Okay. I will.”

  I wasn’t finished. “Like, tell me to stay.”

  “Stay. Stay with me.”

  “And, not just for Christmas-”

  “Ash, I want you to move here.”

  “Yes.” I nodded, feeling the matter was settled, and I’d work out the logistics later because I knew in my heart that this was where I wanted to be. I didn’t want to see Drew. I didn’t want to talk to Drew.

  I wanted to live Drew.

  Besides, I was a nurse. Nurses were needed everywhere.

  “And another thing….” I grabbed the front of his shirt. “Stop making decisions for me and having discussions about me behind my back. You should have talked to me before sending me away on Quinn’s plane.”

  His mouth flattened, and the trace of humor in expression transformed into mild frustration. “That was for your own good. Darrell had been making a fuss all over town about how his children had stolen from him. Your name was the one he’d shouted the loudest. We needed to get you out of town.”

  “Or, I could have stayed here with you.”

  He licked his lips, the frustration easing. “I didn’t know that was an option.”

  “Well you would have known if you’d talked to me about it.”

  Dr
ew’s eyes narrowed and he seemed to be inspecting me.

  I took the opportunity to twist my arms around his neck and press my front to his. “Just think, you could have spent the last ten weeks melting my butter.”

  His hands moved to my bottom and he squeezed me through my jeans. “Your point is a good one.”

  This made me smile big and wide and maybe a little smugly. Drew shook his head at my smug smile then proceeded to kiss it off my face as he walked me backward to his bedroom.

  We navigated the hallway without incident and soon my scarf was off, and my shoes, and my sweater, and I was pressing myself against his hot hands as they grabbed and caressed and massaged my bottom, stomach, back, and breasts.

  I opened my eyes as he knelt over me, my hands reaching for the front of his pants, reaching for him. The light was on in his room and—despite all the really wonderful and necessary euphoria accompanying Drew’s skillful fingers—my attention snagged on a photo above his dresser.

  “Is that…?” I stared, blinked, then frowned at the picture.

  He kissed my jaw as I tried to focus, unbuttoning my jeans, making me feel like heaven.

  But the picture was so surprising, I had to ask. “Drew, is that me?”

  Drew stiffened; his hands on my body stilled. Seconds passed while I stared at the picture while Drew knelt motionless above me, his face again buried in my neck.

  I released a huff, pushing him away so I could see his eyes, but also gripping his arms so he couldn’t go too far.

  “Drew….” I made sure my voice was soft and calm as our eyes met; he gazed at me with wary watchfulness. “On your dresser, is that picture of me?”

  He didn’t respond. But after a beat, he tried to extract himself from my hold. I wouldn’t let him go; my grip tightened. When he felt the force of my fingers, his mouth tugged to the side.

  “Ash, I’m not leaving you. I’m just getting the pictures.”

  “Pictures?”

  “Yeah. Pictures.”

  I released him and he gave me a quick kiss before sauntering over to his dresser and grabbing three picture frames. He returned, sat on the edge of the bed, and patted the space next to him.

  I scootched closer to him, tucked my hair behind my ears, and peered at the pictures on his lap. I was right. The first picture was of me. It was of me and Momma in Hawaii. I’d taken her there three years ago on vacation. We both looked happy and tan.

  “Bethany gave these to me.”

  “When?”

  “When she figured out that I was in love with you.”

  My heart flip-flopped in my chest and I looked at him. He was watching me, his features open but hesitant. I didn’t like the hesitance, so I leaned forward and kissed him, needing to remove the uncertainty from his expression.

  A thought occurred to me, so I broke the kiss and rested my forehead against his, my hand on his jaw and neck to keep him close. “Drew, that day I left, when I knocked on your door and I heard the drawers open and shut, were you hiding these?”

  “Yes.”

  I tsked. “Oh, Drew….” I kissed him. “Is this part of the not wanting to hold me back thing?”

  He threaded the fingers of one hand through my hair and tugged until our eyes met. “Ashley, I need you. I need you like lungs need air. But I need your happiness, not your obligation.”

  “Well, this explains why you like Nietzsche, bless your heart….”

  Drew’s gaze immediately turned into a glare, the hesitation giving way to reluctant amusement. “Did you just bless your heart me—again?”

  “Bless your sexy, sexy Viking heart,” I said, my eyes moving back to the pictures.

  He rubbed his jaw, handing me the frames. “If you’re going to insult me, then I’m going to go get those letters.”

  My body stiffened and a jolt of anxiety shot down my spine, radiating outward to my nerve endings. I’d already forgotten about the letters. I was about to tell him to stop, and beg him to give them back to me. The thought of watching Drew reading my words and declarations of love was thrilling, but mostly terrifying.

  And yet….

  He was studying me, his mouth twisted to the side, his eyes still narrowed.

  I cleared my throat then swallowed, inhaled slowly, and said, “Yeah. You should. You should read them. You should know what’s in my heart, because if you think having pictures of me on your dresser is going to freak me out, then you are in for a big surprise. ’Cause those letters…those will freak you out.”

  Drew rolled his lips between his teeth, fighting a smile. Abruptly he leaned forward and kissed me, his mouth moving against mine, demanding entrance, tasting me like I was cake with frosting and he’d decided to lick first then take a bite.

  Just as abruptly, to my infinite frustration, he pulled away. Drew was halfway down the hall when I realized that he really was going to get the letters. I braced myself even as a small, nervous laugh passed my lips.

  “Fear don’t count if you really want something….” I muttered under my breath, Momma’s words again calming my thundering heart, and I glanced at the pictures on my lap.

  I set the one from Hawaii to the side. The next picture was of me graduating from nursing school. I was in my cap and gown, and I was holding my diploma. Momma had been so proud, and I’d desperately wanted to make her proud.

  The last picture was of me when I was eighteen, a few days before I’d left for college. I was surrounded by all my brothers. We were standing at the edge of the woods against a backdrop of spring flowers. The scene was beautiful. We were laughing. I remembered the moment; I think Beau had just done something crazy.

  I stared at that one the longest. I was surprised by what I saw. Eighteen-year-old Ashley was a beautiful young woman, a smart girl, a girl with hopes and dreams who maybe still believed in fairies and unicorns—not much, just a very little bit. Yes, I looked like my father, but so what? Looking like Darrell didn’t make me Darrell any more than Cletus’s banjo playing made Cletus like Darrell.

  It would be a shame if Cletus didn’t love music. It would be a shame if Roscoe weren’t charming. It would be a shame if Billy weren’t so smart.

  This Ashley also loved her brothers despite their torment, and I could see on their faces that they loved her too.

  When I thought about myself at that age, all I remembered was wanting to leave, wanting to escape, wanting to be different. But now I didn’t want to be different. I wanted to be her. But I wanted to be more, just like a building wants to be more than its foundation. Being more didn’t mean I needed to abolish who I’d been.

  And being with Drew wouldn’t be a step back; it would be coming home.

  “Do you want another pancake?”

  I tossed this question over my shoulder without looking up from the skillet. I wasn’t used to Drew’s fancy pots and pans or his fancy gas stove. Therefore, I was watching the pancakes like I’d watch a hawk. I was a pancake falconer.

  “No, thank you,” Drew responded from someplace near my shoulder just before his hands lifted the hem of my nightshirt. It was another of his T-shirts. At some point, I would have to wash it.

  Drew caressed a path from my thighs to my hips to my lower back then stomach. His hands were hot. I shivered, instinctively arching, pressing my bottom against his front.

  When I spoke next, I sounded a little winded to my ears. “Shouldn’t we call the boys and get your car back?”

  Roscoe, it seemed, had dropped Drew off just hours before I arrived. Drew’s truck was at the Winston Bros. Auto Shop and, despite having been there for six weeks, hadn’t yet received its tune up. Imagine that.

  As well, my brothers weren’t answering their phones when we called. Neither were any of my friends. I had no idea whether they’d already left for Chicago, but I guessed that they had. We were stuck. Cut off from the world. We had no way of coming down the mountain. It was glorious.

  Drew’s fingers slipped lower, dipping into the waist of my panties. I gasped. He
didn’t respond to my question. Instead, he reached around me with his other hand and turned off the stove.

  Drew melted my butter.

  He melted it standing, sitting, crouching, leaning, reading, smiling, hugging, laughing, frowning, writing, changing a light bulb, milking a cow—basically, if it was a verb and he was doing it, my butter was melting.

  I rediscovered this fact over the thirty-six hours after our big talk, while we were stuck in his house on the top of the mountain, not that he milked any cows. Yet.

  I also rediscovered that he was a man of his word. When he’d told me on the porch that he wasn’t going to let me go, he’d meant those words quite literally. I don’t think he’d gone five minutes without grabbing, fondling, cuddling, kissing—basically, if it was a verb that involved touching, he was doing it.

  I was still holding the spatula when, after several minutes of his clever attentions, I lost my mind. I lost it standing in front of his combination range and oven. Unthinkingly, as I came apart in his hands, I reached behind my head to grab on to him and nearly fly-swatted his face with the spatula. He deftly ducked my inadvertent attack, and I felt his chest rumble with a laugh.

  My head fell back against his shoulder and I loitered in this position as I tried to normalize my breathing. He removed his fingers from my panties and rubbed his big palms from my thighs to my waist and back again in a soothing, sensual ellipse.

  “You can do that anytime,” I said on a faltering exhale, staring at his ceiling.

  “I will.” Drew paired this evocative, growly declaration with an earlobe bite.

  I’d never looked at his ceiling before. It was covered in decorative copper tiles, at least they looked like copper. In that post-orgasm mind-randomness, I found myself fixating on the ceiling.

  “Drew, can I ask you a weird question?”

  He nodded, turned his lips to my temple, and gave me a kiss.

  “How did you manage to buy this house? Or, I guess, how did it come into your possession? Aren’t all these places deeded such that you have to sell to the US government?”