Beard In Mind: (Winston Brothers, #4)

by Penny Reid

  I shouldn’t say Shelly’s side of the bed. It was her bed. So all sides were hers. But the side she’d slept on—just left of center—was empty.

  Meanwhile, I was naked. Except for my smile.

  After what we’d done the night before, I figured my smile should be enough. Nevertheless, I stood and searched for my clothes as I stretched. Then I remembered they were in the living room, so I headed that way. I made quick work of pulling on my jeans and shirt and then spotted my open wallet on the floor by the sofa. Tucking it in my back pocket, I strolled to the kitchen.

  Shelly sat at the kitchen table in front of a laptop, a mug of something in her hand, a teakettle on the table, dressed and showered and ready for work. She was even wearing her boots.

  “What time is it?” I glanced around the kitchen searching for a clock.

  “Almost seven.” She didn’t turn from her laptop. “Have some coffee.”

  “I thought you didn’t drink coffee.”

  “I don’t drink coffee, I’m having tea. But I know you drink coffee.”

  The fact that she’d made coffee especially for me shouldn’t have pleased me so much, but it did.

  “Did you sleep?” I filled a mug and shuffled to her. On my way to the table I spotted Laika and Ivan passed out in the living room. “Your dogs like to sleep.”

  “I took them for a run. We got back half an hour ago.”

  “You already went on a run?” I hovered at her shoulder, not sure if I should look at the computer screen. I spotted the potholders I’d given her, one folded over the handle of the teakettle, the other beneath the copper bottom, protecting the table’s surface from the heat.

  “Nice potholders.”

  “Thank you, they are my favorite potholders.”

  “They are your only potholders.”

  “Why would I need more? Mine are perfect.”

  I couldn’t stop my goofy grin and I decided to give in to my curiosity. “What are you looking at?”

  “Teacups.”

  “Teacups?” I studied the screen. Sure enough, it was wallpapered in pictures of teacups.

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s relaxing.”

  “Hmm . . . skootch.” I claimed the seat next to hers and slid mine close, draping my arm along the back of her chair and kissing her neck before turning my attention to the computer screen.

  We sat that way, sipping coffee and tea, and admiring teacups for a while.

  “Whoa, look at that one.” I pointed at a black and white teacup, which I gathered was rare. All the other teacups we’d seen were colorful. Also, its rim wasn’t circular, but instead shaped in a hexagon, as was its saucer.

  “Yes. It’s a Shelley.”

  “A Shelly? Like you?”

  “Spelled almost the same, except with an ‘e’ between the last ‘l’ and ‘y.’”

  “Ah. Okay.”

  She scrolled through a few more, going slowly as though to make sure I had time to study each one. Several had intricate flowers hand-painted on the insides where the tea would go. Sometimes, instead of flowers, there were scenes, landscapes, or people’s faces. The possibilities were endless, and no two seemed to look the same. I had no idea there were so many different types of teacups.

  “So . . .” I looked between Shelly’s profile and the laptop screen. “You like teacups.”

  “I like to look at them.”

  I noted she still hadn’t looked at me since I’d entered the kitchen.

  “You have a lot? Of teacups?” I searched the kitchen, looking for one of those china cabinets.

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I would worry,” her eyes darted to the side, toward me, and then away, “that they’d break.”

  “So what?” I leaned back a tad, so I could see her face. “So what if one breaks?”

  She glanced at my mouth, not quite frowning, and said nothing.

  I traced my fingertips along the attractive line of her jaw. “If something breaks, we fix it. That’s what we do.”

  “But it wouldn’t—” Shelly paused, swallowed, her attention moving back to her computer screen; her features painted with unmistakable longing as she studied the image of a blue and white teacup. “It wouldn’t be the same . . . if it broke.”

  “So? Why’s everything need to stay the same? Change can be good.”

  Her eyes came to mine finally, hitting me like twin missiles just below my rib cage. I took a deep breath to power through my body’s now familiar reaction to the weight of her regard.

  Softening my voice, I leaned closer. “You can’t be worried about breaking things all the time, Shelly. Things are gunna get broke whether you want them to or not. And if you’re tiptoeing around, not buying teacups out of fear that they might someday break, then you’ll never know the joy of—of—”

  “Of?”

  I gave her my most serious of looks. “You’ll never know the joy of drinking tea from a real, bona fide, fancy-as-shit teacup.”

  Now she was pressing her lips together and—good Lord—there was no mistaking the fact that she was trying not to laugh. An answering grin had claimed my mouth before I could catch it, before I even realized I was doing it.

  This was nice.

  No, this was great.

  Walking her dogs, eating dinner together, dancing around her little cabin and reading to each other until we passed out. Making love all night—especially the making love all night—waking up, seeing her first thing, drinking coffee, and looking at teacups.

  Moments of quiet ordinary, made extraordinary by sharing them with the woman I love.

  This was what I wanted. My stomach dropped at the thought—not with dread, but with apprehension. The moment of clarity, that I was falling in love with Shelly, and that it was entirely too soon to be in love with her, hadn’t diminished since yesterday. If anything, the certainty had taken root and grown, swelling into a conviction. And with the conviction came a verdict.

  I was so screwed.

  And so I hid behind a gulp of coffee and a banal comment. “You have no teacups?”

  “No, but I have mugs.” She clinked our mugs together, still smiling at me, stealing my breath and capturing my heart. Again.

  I had to clear my throat and look away before remarking, “Not quite the same thing, though.”

  “No,” she agreed quietly. “It isn’t the same thing at all.”

  * * *

  I rushed through a shower and quickly dressed in the same clothes I’d worn the previous day, deciding to change at the shop instead of messing with going home first. We arrived at work within moments of each other. She drove her Buick, I drove my GTO. Shelly was already dressed in coveralls, so she opened the shop while I changed on the second floor.

  When I came downstairs, I found her in the front office, just finishing up a phone call on the landline. She hung up as I entered, and then promptly crossed to me and handed me a key ring.

  “What’s this?”

  “These are the keys to my place, in case you need to come or go while I’m not there.”

  I liked how she took for granted that I’d be spending the next few nights with her. And I was grateful. I wasn’t ready to go home yet. Being with her, in her little cabin of possibilities, was absolutely where I wanted to be.

  We swapped smiles—mine large, hers small—and I couldn’t help myself. I stepped into her space, keeping my hands behind my back, and brushed my lips against hers.

  Then I nibbled on her lip.

  Then I covered her mouth with a coaxing kiss.

  Then I leaned away.

  She followed my retreat with her eyes, her stare like a hawk tracking a meal.

  “You’re a good kisser.” It sounded like an accusation.

  I shrugged, giving her a satisfied smile. “I practice.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “Oh?”

  “Yes. With my pillow. And a watermelon that one time.”

  Shelly�
��s shoulders started to shake before she allowed her laughter to show with a grin, and all the while she shook her head at me. “I love that you make me laugh.”

  “Good. Because I love making you laugh.” Unable to help myself, I traced my fingertips along her hairline, to her temple, then behind her ear. “By the way, I can’t believe I’ve never asked you this.”

  “What?” She curled her hand around mine and brought it to her lips, kissing my knuckles, softly, slowly, one at a time.

  It was such an affectionate gesture, I could only stare at her while she did it, unable to complete my thought.

  “Beau?”

  “Sorry, yes.” I cleared my throat, shaking myself. “Uh, phone.”

  “Phone?”

  “You don’t have a cell phone?”

  “No. I . . . I can’t.” She held my hand between both of hers.

  “Okay. No worries. Do you have a home phone?”

  “Yes.” She entwined the fingers of her right hand with mine, then reached for the pen and paper on the main counter with her left. “I’ll write it down for you.”

  The sound of tire on gravel had both of us turning our heads toward the lot. Duane had just pulled up and was parking his Road Runner next to my GTO.

  I frowned at the sight of him as he exited his car, because he was scowling at my car. Then he turned his glare to the garage, as though searching for something.

  Or someone.

  A ball of guilt hovered at the top of my chest, and I straightened my spine to try and ease it.

  “You should talk to your brother.”

  Shelly’s statement had me looking at her.

  She was studying me with warmth and concern. “He’s angry at you and you love him. So his anger has to bother you on some level.”

  “You think I should tell him? About Christine?”

  “I have no idea. I don’t fully understand what’s going on with that situation. But I do trust you. You should trust yourself.”

  I gave her a grateful smile and squeezed her hand before letting it go. Turning for the side door, I walked through the garage and waited for him at the entrance. His scowl intensified as soon as he saw me, and as soon as he was three feet away, he stopped.

  “Hello, Beauford.”

  “Duane.”

  His jaw ticked. “You need something?”

  “I guess I need to apologize, again, for avoiding you. I’ve been dealing with some shit and I’m trying to get it sorted. So, I’m sorry.”

  He blinked once, slowly. “Something wrong?”

  “Yes. Something is wrong.”

  “What?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  My twin released a slow sigh and he glanced over my shoulder, shaking his head. “I see.”

  “No. You don’t. It’s not like that. I have things going on—with Shelly, with myself—and it’s not that I don’t want to tell you, it’s that I’m just not ready to talk about it. Make sense?”

  Duane eyeballed me, his scowl melting into a thoughtful frown. After a long moment he nodded, his voice quiet as he said, “Yeah. That makes sense.”

  “Good.”

  Duane continued to stare at me, wearing his thinking shit over face, and then abruptly, he hit my shoulder lightly with a closed fist. “You’re growing up, Beau.”

  Now I was glaring at him. “Shut up, dummy.”

  “My baby is growing up.”

  “I will break your face.”

  “You have a smokin’ hot girlfriend, and—”

  “Who’s a better mechanic than you.”

  “No arguments here. She’s a better mechanic than any of us.”

  “She might be a better driver than you, too.”

  Duane’s scowl was back. “Now don’t be mean.”

  That made me laugh. “I’m not being mean, I’m being honest.”

  “Sometimes they’re the same thing.” Duane crossed his arms.

  “Well, you would know, grumpy britches.”

  My brother fought a smile, fought and failed. “I think these are your pants.”

  That made me laugh harder, which made him laugh, sorta. And we laughed for a while. Him shaking his head at me, barely grinning; and me, completely giving myself over to it.

  After a bit, Duane crossed his arms and looked out over the shop parking lot. He scratched the back of his head, taking a deep breath.

  “Promise me you’ll call me. Promise me I’ll hear from you.”

  I didn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

  His eyes still fastened to the parking lot, he nodded once. Then he turned to the shop and strolled inside.

  27

  “I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix.”

  ― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventure of the Mazarin Stone

  * * *

  *Shelly*

  “Tell me about your progress.” Dr. West’s tone was light and conversational. I suspected this was to hide her concern.

  I wished she didn’t try to hide it. I appreciated her concern. The ERP plan sucked ass.

  Of course, I shouldn’t say that. Just like she shouldn’t show her concern.

  “It’s going . . . well, I think. I am doing the meditations every day, but they’re very difficult.”

  “You knew they would be.”

  “Yes, I did. But they’re not getting any easier.”

  She wrote something down in her notes. “What percentage are you? Versus our session last week.”

  “We had me at ninety percent before last week. Now I’m more like sixty or seventy percent.”

  “That’s very good.”

  “But I’ve been there all week.”

  “It will get easier. You know this.”

  “I do.” I heaved a tired sigh, rubbing my eyebrows because they suddenly felt itchy. “But for now it’s difficult. I thought I’d be further along by now.”

  “Should we have Beau come in next Friday? Do another prolonged exercise with a person instead of having you meditate?”

  “No. He’s going through a lot right now.”

  “Is he okay?”

  I glanced to the air purifier. It was turned off. “His brother is getting married next week. But maybe the week after. I’ll ask him.”

  Dr. West nodded, glancing at her notes, and then frowned. “Wait. Won’t you be in Chicago that week?”

  My knee started bouncing. I made it stop.

  “Shelly?”

  “I’m not ready.”

  I’d already called Quinn and left a message on his voicemail.

  “Oh?” She didn’t look surprised, just curious.

  “I need more time.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “I want to be better.” My knee started bouncing again, and this time I let it. “I don’t want to get up there and not be able to hold my nephew. It’ll disappoint them, it’ll disappoint Janie. I won’t be ready in nine days.”

  “But you said your brother would understand.”

  “He will, but that doesn’t mean he won’t be disappointed. I just”—I huffed, and stared at the white wall behind her—“I don’t want to see them until I’m better.”

  “You are better.”

  “Better than this.”

  She contemplated me for several seconds before saying, “Okay. That’s your choice. But I will make a suggestion.”

  “Please.” My leg stopped bouncing on its own, like my ankle had run out of fuel to power the repetitive movement.

  “Pick a date, and stick to it, even if you’re not ready to initiate touch. If you wait, you will miss out. I’m sure your family would agree. At a certain point, it’s better to go as you are than to wait until you’re who you want to be.”

  I nodded noncommittally, uncertain if I agreed with her. Beau’s biological mother had come to him just as she was—a user, a manipulator, a disappointment—and I knew Beau wished she’d stayed away.

  My intentions were good, but how much did that matter if my current limitations hu
rt my brother?

  “How are things with Beau?”

  I straightened in my seat at the subject change. It was not unwelcome and I smiled before I could stop myself. Of course I can’t stop the smile, it’s Beau we’re talking about.

  “Really, really good.” For some reason I couldn’t hold her gaze as I said this. Also, I was abruptly hot. Deciding my description had been deficient, I corrected myself, “Actually, things are incredible. I don’t think miraculous is an exaggeration.”

  My therapist was also smiling. Her lips were pressed together, as though to keep the smile from growing too big. I decided she looked amused, and pleased, and happy.

  “I’m very happy for you.”

  “Thanks.” I studied my hands as heat crawled up my neck to my cheeks. These hands had touched him. A lot. I’d touched his body so much this past week, my breath didn’t hitch with pangs of fear anymore—not the bad kind of fear. The anxiety I felt when we touched was all about anticipating good.

  He was so good.

  “I have to ask, have you two been intimate?”

  Images of us in the kitchen this morning flashed through my mind. He’d woken up early and cleared off every counter, leaving all surfaces bare. Free of distraction. Then he’d set me on a sheet he’d placed over the kitchen table, spread my legs, and brought me to orgasm four times. The first had been with his fingers, the second with his mouth, and the third and fourth had been with his penis.

  I really appreciated his penis. Sometimes—especially when I was coming—it was my second favorite thing about him.

  “We’ve been intimate nine times if the metric you’re using is intercourse. But seventeen times if the metric is the number of times I’ve orgasmed.”

  Her lips parted and she looked a little stunned. But then she seemed to catch herself and snapped her mouth shut, her manner growing more clinical. “When did the intimacy start?”

  “Technically, October twenty-fourth. That was one orgasm with no intercourse. But we started having sex in earnest this last Tuesday, very early in the morning.”

  “Would you say things between you and Beau are progressing too quickly, too slowly, or at an appropriate pace?”