by Ava Miles
“He’s as compelling as you said, dear,” Aunt Clara whispered. “I have to admit…I like his new mode of dress.” She fanned herself.
“I rather do too,” she said, turning left down the hall.
Her uncle laughed. “I’ll tear up some of my shirts if it makes you so hot and bothered, Clara.”
“It will make them harder to launder, sir,” Hargreaves deadpanned.
Everyone laughed together, the sound releasing some of the tension that had built up in the house these last days.
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said, stopping to hug her aunt as they arrived at the door to their guest room. She hugged her uncle for good measure. Hargreaves only lifted his brow when she jokingly moved to embrace him.
Aunt Clara waved a hand. “We are too, dear. I’m quite certain you don’t need a chaperone, but…”
Uncle Arthur put his arm around her. “Clara, I know that you’re thinking, and I need a few more days to be sure.”
Caitlyn glanced at Hargreaves, who seemed to be fighting a smile. “Sure of what?”
Her aunt gave her a knowing look. “That you need matchmakers, dear.”
“Aunt, I think—”
“It’s a good thing we’ve arrived, and not a moment too soon.” She patted her on the cheek for good measure. “You’ll be shacking up with him in no time.”
“Clara.”
“No, Arthur, it was as obvious as the nose on your face. Hargreaves, tell me I’m right.”
He stood there in his butler’s outfit of black trousers, black tie, and white shirt, all ironed to perfection, and said, “Yes, Madam, I would concur.”
Caitlyn stomped her foot. “Stop this. I asked you to visit because I wanted to see you, not because I need matchmaking.”
“You’re both watching each other, dear. Like two bonfires whose flames haven’t mingled yet.”
She thought about Ibrahim’s comment about missing the press of his wife’s skin. “We’re courting.”
“I’m liking the boy better all the time,” her uncle said.
“You both need a push,” her aunt said with a firm shake of her head.
No kidding.
Aunt Clara smiled grandly, her blue eyes sparkling. “Don’t worry, dear. I’ve been known to give a good push in my day. Make sure to wake us for dinner so we don’t oversleep. Tonight is going to be monumental.”
Caitlyn couldn’t wait to see what her aunt cooked up.
Chapter 12
Caitlyn’s elderly relatives weren’t at all what Beau had expected.
Talk about piss and vinegar. Spry. Saucy. The butler was still a foreign concept to him, but the man seemed nice enough. He even knew about guitars, and that spoke to good taste.
Not that playing his own guitar was helping him much. For the past three days, pretty much all he’d done was play with Chou-Chou, his constant companion. The baby goat seemed to like his music, so at least he had one fan. When his rage at his mama surfaced, he’d play hard enough to feel the bite of the strings on the pads of his fingers. The goat would sometimes start to bleat along with him. God, what a pair they made.
He’d broken five strings but hadn’t streamed together five honest-to-goodness verses. None of his old lyrics suited him, except what he’d written about Caitlyn. The old songs sounded too sweet, too “touching,” Caitlyn’s aunt had said—false.
He’d decided to seek help from the one person he suspected might be able to push him in the right direction. That deserty Bedouin music, Raï, was audible as Beau walked down the hallway to Ibrahim’s lab. He’d looked it up, deeply curious, only to discover it was a music known for shaking things up, speaking truths some felt were best left unsaid. No wonder it spoke to his heart.
He knocked on the doorframe since Ibrahim’s back was to him. The man turned from his perusal of the apothecary bottles.
“Beau! Come in.”
“Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, taking off his hat out of respect. This lab had a sacredness to it despite its clean, clinical look. “I did some reading on Raï music, and no wonder you love it. It’s the music of truth.”
Ibrahim gestured to one of the metal chairs in front of his glass table, and they both took a seat. “I’ve been listening to more of your songs. You sing about matters of the heart. Family. Love. Hometowns. Why is it you’re so stuck right now?”
“Is it that obvious?”
Gesturing to Beau’s clothing, Ibrahim smiled. “If I hadn’t noticed it before, your evolving look would give you away. You’re like a silkworm struggling in the cocoon. The process is messy now, but it will end in new wings.”
With any other man, this conversation would have been weird. But Caitlyn was right to call Ibrahim her Perfume Jedi. He was like Obi-Wan Kenobi and Yoda rolled into one. “My concern is how long the struggle will last. I have songs to write. Issues…to sort out.” A woman to court. “How do you cut through the struggle?”
“The silkworm only incubates for three weeks before emerging. We humans follow a sometimes less predictable schedule. But there’s no silk without the process, and that’s where the magic is.”
Something about the way Ibrahim said that reminded him he wasn’t the only one in the midst of a struggle. “You miss your wife a lot, don’t you?”
He pressed both hands to the glass table. “Yes, terribly. Like I told Caitlyn, it’s one of the reasons I took this position. I thought I could escape her scent and all the memories it evokes. It was agony to think I wanted to escape for a while. Why would I wish to escape the happiest memories of my life? But pain is a funny beast. It makes us run, howl, and push back from the very things that once nourished our soul. Loss makes us forget our truth for a time.”
Beau’s throat clogged up with emotion like a backed-up pipe. “I came here to escape, but you’re right. It’s like the emotional suitcase followed me.”
“There’s no escaping our inner hurts.” He folded his hands. “I thought I’d get started on the men’s fragrance. I’d like your help if you’re open to it.”
“I’m not sure you want to base a fragrance off anything I have to say. I’m just a regular ol’ guy. Nothing flashy.”
Except that was Old Beau talking. This one was arresting conversations among Caitlyn and her family with his torn shirts and jeans and cowboy hat.
“Like Caitlyn, you underestimate yourself. I have a phrase for you to finish. Take as long as you need to find the answer that sits well with your soul, something you’d feel comfortable singing in a song perhaps. I’ll suggest some more exercises as we go along, just like I’ve been doing with Caitlyn for the perfume. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to stop in on you and Chou-Chou and listen to your guitar sessions.”
“Not much to hear musically. I pretty much stink to high heaven right now.” His audience was a baby goat, after all.
“And yet, the guitar notes are much like the notes in a perfume. Hearing them played in the fields while the hot sun beats down, the air redolent with lavender… How could I miss the chance?”
When he put it that way… “The view will be better than the show.”
“Again, you underestimate yourself. Here is your homework, as Caitlyn calls it.” He scrawled something on a small piece of paper, his hand cupping it for privacy, then rolled it up and passed it to Beau.
Taking it, he said, “Thank you. Is there anything I can do for you, Ibrahim? You’ve been more than generous with me. I mean, Caitlyn’s party wasn’t the only one I crashed. I’m sorry I haven’t thanked you for putting up with me.”
Ibrahim made an unintelligible sound, rather like a scent note Beau couldn’t distinguish. “Let me think on it. And Beau, you aren’t crashing anything. You’re a welcome addition to this perfume we’re making. I’ll see you at dinner shortly. I hear Katrine has another masterpiece in store.”
The flavors in her cooking had surprised him, but each dish had been a treat to his taste buds. “Thanks, Ibrahim.” As he left the room, the s
trains of music followed him—a haunting vocal in a language he didn’t understand…except somehow he did. The longing in the singer’s voice grabbed the throat, and the striking drumbeat bespoke of the continuity of life. One person’s pain didn’t put a halt to the world—although for that person, it likely felt as if it should.
Loss makes us forget our truth, Ibrahim had told him.
He needed to consider that. When he let himself back into the farmhouse, he unrolled the paper in his palm. He stopped short as he read it.
A good man is…
That was it? That was easy. Old Beau had this one down pat. A good man was someone you could count on, someone who kept his word, someone who did the right thing.
But was he that man really? Or had he been playing a part his whole life, shoehorned into a role he’d never auditioned for?
“Beau!”
He jerked around in surprise to see Caitlyn standing in the doorway to the kitchen in one of her short-sleeved cotton dresses, this one the color of pink bows at Easter.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Curling his hand around the paper, he shoved it in his back pocket. “Nothing much.”
“Did Ibrahim give you homework too? I told him it would be up to you.”
So they’d spoken about him? “I’m happy to do it. Hoping it might fuel my songwriting. Chou-Chou is a darlin’, but he’s no collaborator.” And yet, sometimes when the baby goat bleated in time with his guitar, he swore the poor thing was grieving for his mama.
Shit. No wonder they got along. He was grieving for his mama too, the woman he’d thought she was, the one he was scared she wasn’t.
“He’s really taken to you,” Caitlyn said. “Ah…would you have time to help me with the final touches for dinner? I sent Katrine home to her family. I just woke Aunt Clara and Uncle Arthur, and they’ll be down shortly. Hargreaves was already up and reading a new mystery. He loves to read on vacation.”
Beau looked down at himself. This wasn’t the proper dress for a dinner with Caitlyn’s elderly relations. He’d have to wear something more in keeping with the Old Beau. Appearances. First impressions. His mama had always told him they were important.
But hadn’t they already met him like he was now? Would getting gussied up affect their opinion of him, and if it did, was he interested in what they thought? He’d been raised to think of others’ opinions before his own. What the hell good had it done? He was tempted to remain dressed as he was, a shocking yet exciting thought.
“Of course, I can help.” Still, old habits died hard, and he found himself saying, “I should probably shower and change. I imagine I smell after being outside all day. Sorry.” Damn Old Beau.
Great, now he was cursing himself. But why in the hell had Old Beau sucked up to people? Worried so much about others’ good opinion?
His mama was the one who’d felt that way, of course, and he realized why. She’d wanted everyone to think she was lily-white.
“I don’t think you smell bad,” Caitlyn said, drawing him out of his reverie. “I mean, I have a scent journal now. Smells are just smells.” She leaned closer and sniffed, as delicate as a butterfly fluttering its wings after landing on a flower. “Earth. Lavender, of course. Sweat. Salt. Metal. Maybe from your guitar strings? A touch of pine.”
Not pine, but the cedar in his body wash. He hated to tell her because she was so competitive. “Probably goat too. Chou-Chou likes to cuddle.”
She laughed, a delighted sound. “You two are so sweet together.”
Sweet? He was starting to hate that word. “Do you think I’m too sweet?” he dared to ask.
She was silent a moment, and her eyes drifted to his mouth. “Sometimes. Lately, I’m certain of it.”
The room seemed to vibrate with tension. Being her kindred spirit, he knew she was referring to kissing, something he’d had to reel himself back from every time he was with her. Why did he think being a gentleman meant not kissing the woman he wanted? Wanting that didn’t make him a bad man. Another lie he was done with.
“I was waiting for the perfect time to do this.” He took hold of Caitlyn by the upper arms. They were dotted with freckles, he noted as he drew her against his body.
Her big green eyes zeroed in on his face. “Hang perfect.”
“My sentiments exactly,” he said, and he pressed his lips to her slightly parted ones.
Shock ran through her body like a tremor in the earth. But her lips softened, and she tilted her head to the right, bringing their mouths more flush. He tasted something tangy on her lips and sucked her bottom lip into his mouth. She groaned, shrugging free of his hold, only to twine her arms around his back. Their bodies pressed together, from chest to belly, and he put a little distance between them at the base. Too forward for a first kiss. But that was Old Beau, and the new man breaking free inside of him wanted to feel the soft openness of her hips nestled against his hardness and his thighs.
He cupped her lower back, right above the sweet rise of her butt, and pressed them together. He groaned this time, the feel of her softness as sweet as the first song he wrote. Her hand tickled its way up his spine, and her fingers tangled in his hair, cradling his skull in a way that made him want to lift her leg around him and press her into the stone wall.
A lifetime of restraint shattered.
He moved her backward the few steps to the kitchen wall, his hand sweeping under her bare knee and lifting her thigh until it was angled around his waist. Her dress rucked up, and he slid his fingers up the soft skin there. God, he’d been fantasizing about her legs, looking at them every chance he could get. She moaned. His loins seized up, and he tugged her closer, fitting her tighter to his body.
Their mouths changed angles again. Her mouth parted, giving him the access he’d been waiting for. His tongue thrust in, impatient from the wait. She jerked in his arms, and his hand came around to caress her butt, all convention dissolving inside him. She was beautiful and ripe and everything he’d ever wanted to touch and then some. The soft swell of her cheeks had him straining against her, and he put his mouth to her neck, needing to taste her there.
“We should probably…” She grabbed his head and brought it back to her mouth for a starving, openmouthed kiss of teeth, tongues, and wet heat. Then she lurched back and pushed at his chest. He staggered back a couple steps, and it was enough space for her to hustle around him.
She planted herself on the other side of the wooden butcher’s table, a boundary if ever he saw one. Her brown hair was mussed, her rosy lip gloss smudged. Old Beau would have apologized. New Beau only grinned.
“That was well worth the wait and then some,” he found the cheek to say.
She patted her hair back into place, although it didn’t do the job. He could still see his mark on her and that gave him a primal delight. When a man wanted a woman like he wanted her, his mark should be on her.
Narrowing her eyes, she said, “I was about to renegotiate our courting.”
A new emotion coursed through him, one he didn’t recognize at first. It was daring. “Were you now? Come here, honey. I think I want to renegotiate too, for another kiss.”
She plopped her hands on her waist, studying him in the quiet kitchen. The sun was fading into the fields, the blues and purples of sunset blending with the stalks of lavender swaying in the still-hot breeze. “I realized today you’re managing me, only showing me pieces of you from the past, not the man with the ripped shirt and jeans in the here and now. You didn’t have a chip on your shoulder before.”
He shrugged. She wasn’t wrong, but that chip wasn’t anything compared with the burden he’d shouldered his whole damn life.
“My entire world could be ending, and it doesn’t change the fact that I want you.”
“That’s… It warms and unhinges me all at once,” she said, dropping her hands to her sides. “Beau, I want you to share what’s really going on. All the way.”
“I told you I was working some things out,” he s
aid softly. “Give me time.”
“Are you really not going to tell me after we kissed like that? It felt like losing a lifetime of good sense.”
“I know, and I realized it doesn’t make me any less a gentleman.” He held out his hands and then let them fall to his sides.
She only blinked at him. If she were a boat, the wind had left her sails. “Of course it doesn’t. Why would you even think that?”
“Stories I can’t tell you just yet.” He stared at her, noting the fading red imprint of his mouth on her neck.
How was he supposed to tell her he was a bastard? The son of two cheating, lying, no-good people. He couldn’t tell her that yet, not when he still didn’t know what it meant for him.
“Caitlyn, let me be. Please.”
Her neck cracked when she nodded. “Fine. Go on up and shower. Or don’t. Your call.”
The resulting quiet seemed louder than the cacophony of one of his concerts.
“Go on. I can set up dinner.” She turned her back on him, walking to the oven and checking on the clay crock inside.
Leaving like this would break both their hearts. He went up behind her and put his hands around her waist, kissing her gently on the back of her neck. She stilled but didn’t move away. “Be down in a bit.”
He kissed her again, lingering over the scented skin of her neck—fragrant with lavender—before stepping away and walking out of the kitchen.
Chapter 13
Clara surveyed the sad state of their dinner party.
Good heavens, she’d come in the nick of time. Caitlyn’s usual happy chatter had dried up, and she sat mostly silent at the head of the table. And this Beau Masters fellow, sitting next to Ibrahim, was a monosyllabic rock of silence, nothing like the charming man she’d watched on YouTube. What in the world was going on? Caitlyn’s response was clear. She’d been hurt, Clara sensed. When Beau had pulled out Caitlyn’s chair, she’d barely looked at him, which had made him glower even more.
Hargreaves was lucky he’d declined to join them, preferring to keep a separation between himself and his employers at dinnertime. She was going to have to pull a few horses by the teeth to turn things around.