by Penny Reid
Beard In Mind
(Winston Brothers, #4)
Penny Reid
Contents
Beard In Mind
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Epilogue
Acknowledgements and A Note From the Author
About the Author
Other books by Penny Reid
Sneak Peek: Dating-ish (Available Now!)
Beard In Mind
(Winston Brothers, #4)
by Penny Reid
http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
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Copyright © 2017 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
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Caped Publishing
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Made in the United States of America
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eBook Edition
eBook ISBN: 978-1-942874-31-7
Dedication
For my family.
1
“Your assumptions are your windows on the world. Scrub them off every once in a while, or the light won’t come in.”
― Isaac Asimov
*Beau*
People—all people—are blinded by their own expectations.
I know this.
Folks with the highest degree of entitlement and inflated sense of self are the easiest to con, the easiest to exploit. My daddy didn’t teach me much worth knowing, but he did teach me that. And yet, despite knowing this, I adopt the mantle of a blind man from time to time.
Take today, for example.
Sure, I could’ve blamed my horse’s ass assumptions on being tired. I’d been driving three hours, up and out at the crack of dawn. I hadn’t slept much the previous night, though I didn’t regret the cause of my sleeplessness. But lack of sleep wasn’t the reason for my stupidity. My own foolish expectations were at root.
“I owe you one.”
I heard the clink of glasses from the other side of the call, which told me Hank was at the Pink Pony, cleaning up from the night prior.
“You owe me shit.” I lifted my eyebrows and rubbed one eye to cure my drowsiness. Maybe I shouldn’t have been driving and talking over the speaker of my cell phone, but I knew these roads well enough. I could’ve probably navigated them blindfolded.
“No, I do.” The glass clinking ceased and his tone adopted a solemn note. “You know I wouldn’t trust anyone but you, and I really owe you one.”
Hank Weller, my best friend since elementary school and owner of the local strip club, had always been overly conscientious about owing favors. And I’d just done him a favor. He’d wanted a 1956 XK140 matching numbers Jaguar in Nashville. I’d picked it up and transported his new ride back to Green Valley.
It hadn’t been a big deal to me. He was my best friend outside of my twin brother, it gave me an excuse to see a lady I’d been hankering to see, and I liked doing good things for good people. No biggie.
“Let me catch all the big fish on Wednesday and we’ll call it even.” I said this around a silent yawn, my eyes watering.
“I’ll do more than that. As a small token of my appreciation, I left something for you to find when you get to the shop.”
That had me sitting up straight.
“What did you do?”
“You’ll see.”
I heard the grin in his voice. The man never could hide a grin, even when we were kids and even when his telltale grin made for a heap of trouble.
“Is it something that’s going to piss off Cletus?”
Cletus was my older brother, part-owner in the Winston Brothers Auto Shop, and the third in our family of seven kids. Technically, I was number five. The way my momma told it, I’d arrived with a smile on my face just a few seconds prior to my identical twin, Duane. He made his grumpy presence known with an irritated wail.
Usually, I wouldn’t mind Hank pissing off Cletus. Usually, I wouldn’t mind anyone—anyone other than me—pissing off Cletus. My brother was at his most entertaining when pissed off. But I didn’t want him pissed off this morning. Not until after I had a nap and maybe something to eat. Come to think of it, I couldn’t remember the last time I ate . . .
“It shouldn’t piss off Cletus, not directly.”
Not directly.
What the hell did that mean?
A rustling sounded on the other end, like he’d switched the phone from his hand to his shoulder and it scraped against his jaw. “But, listen, you’ll know when you see her.”
“Her?” I almost choked. “Oh no, not again.”
“Enjoy.” I could tell he was grinning wider now, the devil.
“What did you do?” Possibilities ran through my overactive imagination, along with hope and not a small amount of worry.
Maybe he’d figured out my secret, maybe he’d somehow arranged for Darlene to come home. But she hadn’t said anything last night and she’d been fast asleep when I left.
Nah. There was no way she could beat me home.
And Hank didn’t know about Darlene. At least, I didn’t think he knew. I was fairly certain he didn’t know. 82% certain.
No, the her was not Darlene.
“Bye,” was all he said before clicking off.
“Crap.” I hit the steering wheel with my palms, grinding my teeth as my mind jumped to the obvious conclusion.
The last thing I wanted as an expression of gratitude was another one of Hank’s strippers waiting for me at the shop.
Of course, a stripper is preferable to him trying to give you a boat again.
Don’t get me wrong, I liked most of them just fine. But I was trying to leave those days and acquaintances behind me. I’d been working real hard trying to prove myself to Darlene, show her I could be the kind of man she wanted me to be, the kind of man she could be with long-term.
It’s not that I was worried she’d find out from someone else that Hank had sent a stripper to the shop. I would know. Which meant I would have to tell her about it. And hell, that was not going to be a pleasant conversation.
Less than a mile from the auto shop and I was now sitting on a mountain of trepidation. Darlene already didn’t like the fact that Hank and I were buddies. Nor did she like me being friendly with his employees.
But Hank was a good friend. Admittedly, a good friend often driven to exces
s. He’d tried to give me a yacht once, but I nipped that nonsense in the bud and refused to sign the paperwork. Two years ago, he’d given me a Rolex watch worth more than everything else I owned put together. I never wore the thing. Gold was an excellent electrical conductor and it made me nervous.
However, try as I might, I couldn’t get him to stop sending gifts. This would be the fifth time he’d hired a her to welcome me home. Three years ago had been the first. I’d come back from a trip to Ashville to find four strippers, dressed only in bikinis, washing all the cars in the shop’s lot. Being twenty-one and unattached, I hadn’t at all minded his thoughtful gesture. At the time, that is.
Presently, however, the air in my lungs felt like lead.
I pulled the truck and car carrier into the Winston Brothers Auto Shop parking lot, scanning the premises for a sign of Hank’s gift of appreciation. I didn’t spot anything out of sorts. We had a few new cars in the lot, the most notable a 1958 Plymouth Fury. It didn’t belong to anyone in the Valley or Maryville as far as I knew. I made a mental note to ask Duane about it and then climbed down from the truck, closing the door behind me as quietly as possible.
I knew all the ladies at the Pink Pony. In the past, before my recent dates with Darlene, I’d often helped many of them with handyman work around their houses and apartments. As I stretched the soreness from my muscles and walked toward the garage, I debated who the her might be.
Immediately, I crossed Tina Patterson off the list. Tina had been my twin brother’s on-again, off-again girlfriend before Duane and Jessica James had started things up last year. I also eliminated Mae, Roxy, and Hannah. They were too young at nineteen, twenty, and twenty-two respectively. Hank knew I liked my women more mature, both in body type and disposition.
Slowing my steps, I peeked around the Ford parked just inside the garage, spinning the ring that held the keys to the truck and carrier around my index finger. The late summer morning was bright and clear, which meant I was blinded momentarily by the dim interior of the shop. I heard boots shuffling against cement paired with a short grunt.
“Cletus?” I asked tentatively, hoping the grunt belonged to my brother, even though instinct told me the sound hadn’t originated from a man.
Taking a bracing breath, I debated how best to put the stripper off, fairly certain I could spare us both a wasted ten minutes by offering a twenty if we could simply skip the striptease. I decided to suggest grabbing a coffee and doughnut from Daisy’s Nut House instead.
Yeah, one of Daisy’s doughnuts sounded real nice just about now.
My attention snagged on a figure clothed in shop coveralls, bent over the hood of a Chevy I recognized as belonging to Devron Stokes. Despite the baggy attire, her womanly shape was impossible to mistake. At my arrival, she reached for a rag at her pocket and wiped her hands. Straightening, she leisurely turned and faced me.
BAM.
My mouth fell open.
My back stiffened and my eyes widened because, holy shit, the woman was the most strikingly beautiful person I’d ever seen.
Now, I’d seen some beautiful people before, but this lady was altogether different. I mean, the woman defied description. Gorgeous didn’t come close to what this woman was. She was so gorgeous, even dressed in greasy coveralls the sight of her landed like a punch to my ribs. I lost my breath. And when she lifted her eyes, the blunt force of her attention left me stupefied.
I caught my weight on the cab of the truck to my left, my stare moving over her long form.
Tall. Very tall. Maybe six feet or more. Her legs went on and on and on. Her hair was brown, but also streaked with blonde like she spent a considerable amount of time in the sun. It was braided in a long, thick rope hanging over a shoulder. I swallowed, my gaze traveling upward to her neck—long and tan—and chin. Lush pink lips, sharply pronounced cheekbones, large eyes fringed with dark, dark lashes set in a flawlessly formed oval face.
She was the kind of physical perfection that was difficult to look at.
Blinding.
Not helping matters, her stare was flinty, giving her an air of being unapproachable, like everything and everyone was shit on her shoe.
I was unable to temper my expression, saying, “Good Lord,” before I could stop myself.
But damn.
Damn.
“Hello.” Her husky greeting was just as flinty as her glare.
Releasing the air from my lungs, I wrestled with my shock and forced a friendly grin, searching for the right words.
Oh man, that Hank. Hank was a good friend. But this . . . her . . . whoa. This was too much. Where did he find her?
Clearing my throat, I crossed my arms and tried to locate my manners. “Uh, where’s your cake?”
Stillness settled over her, the woman’s eyes sharpening with an unsettling focus, like she was flaying the flesh from my bones.
Blinding.
Damn.
“What?” The single word cracked like a whip in the otherwise silent garage.
“Your cake?” I hazarded a step forward and leaned my shoulder against the side of the Ford. Needing to avoid her dissecting stare, I lowered my gaze to her body. I couldn’t see much, but I could see enough.
I’d bet my GTO that her legs are extraordinary.
Gorgeous or not, stunning or not, it didn’t matter. I might have noticed this woman—because it was impossible not to—but that’s all I was going to do. Notice.
I’d just left Darlene in Nashville. And though she hadn’t admitted as much yet, as far as I was concerned—for all intents and purposes—Darlene Simmons was my woman and I was her man. A pair of extraordinary legs attached to the most beautiful woman in Tennessee didn’t rank when I had my sights set on the long game with a person of substance.
Several quiet moments passed and I brought my attention back to hers. She was glaring at me with wide, glacial eyes. My, oh my, her stare was fierce. If this woman was stripping on the regular down at the Pink Pony, Hank was going to have to charge a higher entrance fee.
Squinting, I tried to guess her age. I couldn’t.
She looked older, mature, beautiful in a womanly way. Perhaps it was her height, because she also seemed young, a touch naïve. I cocked my head to the side, studying the hard set to her jaw and decided the flint in her glare looked like uncertainty.
Maybe she was nervous. Maybe this was her first time stripping. I hoped that meant she’d be easily dissuaded from it.
Giving her an encouraging grin, I teased, “No cake?”
Her jaw ticked and her eyelids lowered to half-mast, but still she remained silent.
“Hmm . . .” I scratched my jaw, choosing my next words carefully and trying my best to ramp up the charm. “Here’s the deal, sweetheart, I’m sure whatever you’ve got under those coveralls is sexy as hell. However, I’m seeing someone, and I don’t want to upset her. Whatever Hank paid you to take your clothes off, I’m willing to double it if you keep your clothes on.”
In my experience, nothing irritated a stripper more than a disinterested customer, except maybe one who was too interested. I didn’t want to offend, and I hoped she’d take my offer at face value.
She blinked. Once. Very, very slowly. “You are Beau.”
I waited for a moment, my grin slipping, before nodding. “That’s right.” Wait, did she think I was Duane?
“I should’ve known.” She shifted her weight to one side, her hip jutting out, and stuffed her hands in her back pockets.
Now I was confused. Why would Hank send a stripper for Duane? “You thought—”
“I thought you were Duane. But I see now that you’re Beau.”
“You see now . . . ?” My tired, hungry, sluggish brain had trouble keeping up.
“Duane’s facial features are symmetrical, your right eye is higher than your left.” She motioned dispassionately to my face, her tone flat.
“Excuse me?” I straightened from the Ford, my fingers coming to my eye.
“And you
r nose is bent. To the left.”
What the hell?
My smile completely slid away as my fingers moved to my nose. “My nose?”
She shrugged, sending me one more glare before turning her attention back to Devron Stoke’s Chevy.
I gaped. At her. Standing there like a dummy asshole touching my bent nose.
Your nose is bent.
Who says that to someone they just met?
But then, as if making rude statements about my face wasn’t enough, she mumbled, “And you’re clearly an idiot.”
My jaw dropped, as did my hands.
What.
A.
Bitch.
A sound of disbelief seasoned with indignation hitched in my throat. Irritation lightened the lead in my lungs, burning it up with an irrepressible flare of resentment.
“Clearly I’m an idiot?”
“You sound like my parrot.” Another mumble.
All thoughts I’d had about not offending this woman vanished, chased off by her nasty words and my own exhaustion.
Finding my wits, I placed my hands on my hips and glared at her profile. “Who the hell are you?” It was a rare moment. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had a spike in temper. I also couldn’t remember a time when a woman complained about my appearance or called me an idiot. Except my sister, but she didn’t count.