by Penny Reid
“Is it decaf?” Cletus sniffed at me, looking down his nose at my coffee. “I don’t want to be up all night.”
“It is,” I confirmed as I filled my brother’s cup.
“Jenn?” Cletus turned back to Jenn. “Do you want any?”
“Yes, please.” She smiled at him, still looking a little nervous, and who could blame her? Cletus clearly didn’t know his own mind, and that made him even more unpredictable than usual.
“How do you take your coffee?” I retrieved the bowl of sugar, planning to make a flirtatious remark about her being sweet.
But then she said, “Black is fine.”
I looked to my brother, seeing he was also surprised.
“You don’t take anything in your coffee?” Cletus asked.
“No. I’m surrounded by sweets all day. I like my coffee black.”
“Huh . . .” I inspected Jenn, rethinking my strategy. The time was now. I needed to say something to wake my brother up from his blindness. So I started with the obvious. “Jennifer Sylvester, you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
This was almost true. The woman had very pretty violet eyes; I’d never seen the color on anyone else. Daisy Payton’s daughters also had beautiful eyes—whiskey colored and looked gold in the sunlight. I’d caught myself admiring Daniella’s eyes—the oldest daughter—at church picnics growing up. But all three of the Payton kids were long gone now, living in New York and Washington, DC the last I heard.
And then there are Shelly’s eyes . . .
Jenn stared at me, her expression patient and unflustered. I wondered briefly if my compliment had offended her. But her reaction wasn’t what I was after.
I looked to Cletus, seeing he was glowering. My brother hurriedly cleared his expression, standing stock still. But I could tell he was agitated.
Well, it’s a start.
“Oh, thank you, Beau.” Jenn nodded politely.
“No, thank you.” I widened my smile, giving her my flirty eyes, a new idea making me say, “You should come with us on Saturday. I’ll drive you.”
“Where are you going?”
“Cletus and Claire made it to the semifinals in a big-deal talent show.” I lifted my chin toward my brother. “Saturday is the last round. There’ll be record labels, the whole nine yards.”
Jenn studied Cletus and I did as well, looking for a reaction. The sneak hid his expression behind a gulp of coffee.
A little flustered, Jenn turned her attention back to me. “I appreciate the invitation, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”
Before I could insist, Cletus cut in, “You wouldn’t be imposing. If you want to come, you should come.”
I blinked at my brother, at his gentle tone of voice, at the dazed smile he was giving her.
Oh good Lord, what an idiot.
“Good.” I nodded, grinning at Jenn and amping up my attack. “It’s a date.”
“It’s not a date,” my brother snapped, now scowling at me.
“Not you, dummy. Me. Jenn and me.” I had to grab a muffin and take a bite to keep from laughing at my brother’s expression.
“Jenn and you?” Cletus looked and sounded mystified.
“That’s right.” I spoke around a bite of muffin, then moaned for effect, turning my eyes to Jenn. “What the hell did you put in these things?” I grabbed another muffin, knowing that would irritate Cletus, and launched another volley. “When we get married, you should make these every day.”
Jenn smirked at me, like she didn’t believe a word out of my mouth but thought I was cute regardless. And that just made me like her more.
Meanwhile, Cletus looked like he was about to have a coronary. “Slow your gourd, Beauford.” He pulled the muffins out of my reach, and his voice rose. “Don’t eat the whole plate, greedy britches.”
“There are at least twenty muffins here, Cletus. Slow your own gourd.” This was a lot of fun, and I could see why Cletus meddled so much.
“I want them to last,” he grumped.
“Or, she could just make more.” I methodically turned my gaze to the pretty blonde and lowered my voice with innuendo. “Because, I have to tell you, Jenn, I’ve never had a muffin this good before.”
“Hey, hey. Switch off the high beams, Beauford Winston.” My brother snapped his fingers in front of my line of sight. “Jennifer isn’t one of your lady prospects.”
I dismissed him with a lift of my eyebrow, knowing that would piss him off, and winked at Jenn. “I was just complimenting her muffin.”
“That’s it.” My brother grabbed the plate off the counter, glared daggers at me, and turned away. He tugged Jenn to the office door.
“Hey! Where are you going?” I called after them.
“You’ve lost the right to these muffins.”
“Cletus,” I shouted at his back, allowing some of my frustration to bleed into my voice, “you can’t have all the muffins.”
“I can and I will,” he hollered over his shoulder stubbornly, making me see red.
Uh, No.
No, no, no.
He needed to choose.
My brother softened his voice to ask, “Jenn, unlock that for me, please?”
Her fingers weren’t quite steady, so it took her a bit to engage the lock.
The delay gave me a chance to challenge, “When you get home, you and I are going to have words.”
A stillness settled over Cletus and I recognized it for what it was. He was furious.
Well, so am I.
He needed to pick one muffin, and stick with that muffin. He didn’t get to lay claim to all the muffins, because that’s not how life worked.
Lifting just his eyes to mine, he glared at me and I glared right back.
“Beauford Fitzgerald Winston.” His voice was a deep rumble. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. But you need to sort it out. I’m giving you a month.”
Elbowing the door ajar, Cletus took Jenn and the muffins straight to her car. I watched from the interior of the office, through the window as he opened the passenger door for her, handed off the plate to her care, and claimed the driver’s side for himself. Ten seconds later, they were gone.
And, as far as I was concerned, so was any claim he had on Shelly Sullivan.
He’d chosen his muffin, now he had to live with that choice. And whether or not she ultimately wanted his sausage was his problem.
The clatter of metal against metal cut through my thoughts, reminding me that I didn’t have the place to myself.
But more importantly, it reminded me that Shelly and I were now alone.
I was moving, out the side door of the office into the garage. Late-afternoon sun filled the space, glinting off alloy steel and nickel-plated tools. I spotted her immediately amidst the shards of light. She stood in front of a toolbox, her intelligent eyes singularly focused on some task.
I was still moving toward her, my feet knowing what to do before my brain made a decision. In a trance, they knew what I wanted before I’d acknowledged it.
She glanced up, did a double take. The slight twitch of her eyebrows, the subtle parting of her lips telling me she found something about me surprising . . . maybe the speed of my gait, maybe the look in my eyes.
Before I could reach her, I dispassionately noted she backed up, but then seemed to catch herself, regaining the step she’d lost and lifting her chin stubbornly. Man, I really loved it when she did that, when she stood her ground, reckless in her bravery.
Crowding her space, I lifted my hands and cupped her jaw, my attention singularly focused on her mouth.
That mouth. Those lips. Her tongue. After torturing myself with dreams, the moment didn’t feel real.
I waited, breathing her air. She shivered, not saying a word. Her fingers came to my wrists, wrapped around them, holding on. And she was breathing hard, like she was fighting a battle I couldn’t see.
I lifted my eyes to hers.
But this time, instead of bracing myself aga
inst the impact of her gaze, I relished in the skipping of my heart, covering her mouth with mine on the second beat.
13
“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind,
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.”
― William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream
* * *
*Beau*
This woman was essential and kissing her was essential. The sounds she made, the way her body moved—straining toward mine—the way her hands slid from my wrists to my waist, pulling me closer by my T-shirt . . . All of it was essential.
But the taste of her, the greedy press of her lips, the hot and hungry stroke of her tongue—that was madness.
I didn’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t. Where essential met madness, that’s where I was.
Somehow, I’d backed her up and had her pressed firmly against the wall while cradling the back of her head, angling her how I wanted, how I needed. She gasped against my mouth, her fingers lifting my shirt, searing my skin, and digging into the muscles at my sides. Her hands were hot and just as greedy as her lips.
We kissed for a long time. We kissed for so long, it went from urgent to incensed, to savoring, to sweet. I trailed love bites from the corner of her mouth to her jaw. I listened to her breath hitch, and then grow even. She struggled to get closer, and once satisfied, she melted in my arms.
A pliant Shelly was an unexpected development, and it fueled my first thought: I need to see her.
Leaving a path of tender kisses from her neck to her cheek—then stealing a few more from her obliging lips—I tilted my head back, opening my eyes.
Hers were still closed. Her chin strained upward, searching for my mouth. At some point, we’d become tangled in each other, our bodies plastered together: one of her legs was wrapped around my thigh; her arms around my neck; one of my hands gripped her hip, the other the back of her head.
I released a breath of wonder, because I was seeing her now, the real her, this starving creature she kept locked up tight. Her body near vibrated with longing, and yet it was as if she’d pushed and pushed until a blast radius had formed around her.
Why had she done that?
Her lashes fluttered, lifted, revealing her striking eyes. Their hazy tranquility arrested me, caused my lungs to seize for a second.
“Hi.” The greeting sounded just as dazed as she looked.
I allowed myself a moment to enjoy her relaxed features, the openness of her gaze, how she looked at me like I might be imaginary—but in a good way, the best way.
“Hi,” I whispered back, placing a light kiss on her nose, and then giving her a soft smile.
Shelly’s gaze dropped to my lips. She stared for two or three seconds, and then flinched abruptly. Sobriety seemed to come over her all at once, and with it—if I was reading her correctly—fear.
Her arms dropped, she disentangled her leg, and I felt where our chests pressed together that her heart was racing.
“Let me go,” she demanded, her voice unsteady.
Confused and reluctant, but still warm from our encounter, I stepped away.
Shelly swayed forward, and then seemed to catch herself. Firmly entrenched in her glacial palace, she straightened, crossed her arms, and shifted her weight from foot to foot.
Her behavior disappointed me, but wasn’t at all surprising. I had just marched in here and kissed the hell out of her without a prelude or invitation.
Why had I done that?
Because I wanted to.
Since when did I do stuff just ’cause I wanted to?
Since five minutes ago.
Clearly, she required a moment to gather her thoughts. I wouldn’t touch her again, though the urge was almost unbearable. Instead, I placed my hands on my hips. Waiting for her to speak, I unconsciously drew my bottom lip into my mouth, tasting her.
We stood like that for maybe ten seconds before she darted around me and jogged out of the garage. I registered too late that her expression was wild with mounting distress. Her motion created an answering momentum in my body; I turned, swaying toward her retreating form as she left.
Clearheadedness finally arrived, dowsing me like a bucket of iced water. My chest was tight with it.
“Fuck.” I gritted my teeth, the curse slipping past before I could catch it.
Really, what the hell had I been thinking?
I wanted to chase her, to bring her back. But instinct told me not to push. The scars on her arm weren’t far from my mind, reminding me that—whatever was going on with her—control was an issue. For her it was necessary. Vital.
Slowly, a form of self-punishment perhaps, I walked to the front of the garage so I could see her drive away. She was still parked in the lot. She’d backed in, her windshield facing the front side of the garage. I couldn’t see her expression clearly in the driver’s seat, just the shape of her.
Her Buick pulled forward out of the space, turned, and turned again onto the main road.
But then she stopped in the middle of it. I scratched my jaw as I watched her loiter there for a good half minute. To my astonishment, she put her car in reverse and returned to the auto shop. She didn’t bother parking her car properly, just left it in the middle of the gravel lot.
Her car idling, she jumped out of the driver’s side door, marched back to me until approximately three feet separated us, and stopped.
“What just happened?”
She was breathing hard. She didn’t look angry. More like, chaotic. Instinct told me to speak softly.
“I kissed you.”
“Why did you kiss me?”
“I wanted to.”
She glared, saying nothing.
I didn’t think about my answer prior to giving it. It was simply the truth and, from what I knew about Shelly Sullivan, she preferred straight-talk. Even so, she seemed to be giving my answer a great deal of deliberation, like my admission was a puzzle.
Once more, we were standing in the garage, facing each other, not touching, just looking. Her labored breathing abated after a minute or so, like she’d searched for and found the control needed to calm down. She retreated into herself. Watching it happen was both frustrating and fascinating, like one of those time-elapsed videos of the seasons—spring became summer, summer became fall, and Shelly became winter.
The need to touch her, thaw this ice, bring back the woman I’d kissed had me swallowing past an intense tightness in my throat.
“What about Cletus?” Her tone was level now, more typical.
“He’s an idiot.” Again, straight-talk.
Her eyes moved between mine. “Cletus is nice.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Do you want Cletus to kiss you?” A surge of resentment hardened my words.
“No.” She shook her head and her gaze dropped to my mouth. “No, I don’t.”
Well now, with her looking at me like that, the urge to touch her went from nearly unbearable to completely intolerable. My attention was arrested by the strands of her hair that had sprung free over the course of the day, curling around her temples and ears. Taking three exceedingly slow steps toward her, I tucked the curls behind her ears. Other than a slight tremor paired with a flickering of her eyelashes, she didn’t move.
“He’s your brother,” she whispered, protesting weakly. “I don’t—I can’t—I don’t want to be—”
“Cletus is ass-over-ankles in love with Jennifer Sylvester.” My fingertips loitering at the curve of her neck, I swept my thumbs along the line of her jaw. A rawness in me soothed, appeased now that some part of me was touching some part of her and she wasn’t running away.
“He is?”
“Yes.” I twisted my lips to the side and decided to clarify my assertion. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”
“I understand why, she’s wonderful. I would like to be her friend.” While she spoke, her attention remained fastened to my mouth, her stare hazy. I vaguely comprehended that she’d said something positive about J
ennifer Sylvester but Shelly’s lips were far too luscious to process other things.
Later. I’ll think on it later.
I wasn’t sure if things were going to be better or worse now that I’d kissed her. I surmised they’d be both: better because now I had the memory; worse because I had no idea if she’d let me do it again.
Either way, I had no regrets.
Confusion? Yep.
Regrets? Nope.
Now I just needed to get her talking.
“So . . . Have you heard the one about the fisherman and the pole?”
Her eyes clouded with confusion. “You’re going to tell me a joke?”
“No. I was just wondering if you’d heard it.”
“I have not heard it.”
“You should. It’s a good one.” I nodded at my assertion.
Shelly lifted her eyes to mine. “Will you tell the joke?”
“Depends. Are you going to be nice to me?”
She searched my gaze, dropping hers to the cement of the garage after a prolonged moment. “Because we kissed?”
“No.” I slid my teeth to the side, wondering what was going on in her head. “Because I don’t want to fight with you.”
Her head still lowered, she took several visible breaths, and then began haltingly, “I don’t know. I have”—she shook her head, and I got the sense she was warring with herself—“I don’t want to be mean to you, Beau. But I don’t want you to get hurt either.”
“Why would I get hurt? You planning on hurting me?”
“No, no, never.”
I studied her downturned face, or what I could see of it, and let my hands drop. “What’s going on with you? Why are you in therapy? Did something happen to you?”
She continued shaking her head. “I was born like this.”
“Like what?”
Shelly lifted her chin, giving her eyes to the sky and saying on a rush, “I have obsessive compulsive disorder.”
Obsessive compulsive disorder.
I’d heard of that.
“You mean OCD?”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes and gathered a large inhale. Then she opened them again and held mine, waiting.