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.

Copyright © 2017 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.

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.

Caped Publishing

Made in the United States of America

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 excess. 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 your 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.

So. Yeah. There’s that.

Without deigning to look at me, she tossed out, “Shelly.”

“Shelly who?” My eyes flickered over the movements of her hands. “And why’re you working on Devron Stoke’s Chevy?”

“I’m removing the transmission to rebuild it.” She said this with a note of impatience, like I was wasting her time.

A low growl of exasperation came from my chest because of this bad-mannered woman and her non-answers.

“Listen, lady, if you know I’m Beau, then you know I own this here shop. So again, who the hell are you? And why’re you working on this car? And who gave you permission to be in here?”

Finally, her eyes cut to mine. And just like the first time she looked at me, my wits scattered for a split second. Luckily, she’d pissed me off enough that my anger prevailed.

Straightening once more, she pressed her full lips together. They were too big to form a flat line, instead, they thinned a trifle.

“I am busy. If you want answers, talk to Cletus.” She spoke slowly, like she truly believed I was an idiot.

Dammit, Cletus.

He better not have hired someone without talking to me.

“I will,” I growled, then turned from this vile person and prepared to give my brother an earful.

There was no way.

No. Way. In. Hell.

No way this woman was working at the shop.

Nope.

Never going to happen.

2

“The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend.”

― Robertson Davies, Tempest-Tost

*Beau*

“WHO THE HELL is that woman and why is she using my socket wrench?” I demanded as I burst through the door of the second-floor office, finding Cletus staring at the computer screen.

Without looking up from his work, he responded in an infuriatingly even tone, “That’s not your socket wrench, it belongs to the shop.”

Seething, I lowered my voice. “Who is she?”

“She’s our new mechanic. Started yesterday.”

Our new . . . she what?

“What?”

Cletus swiveled in his chair to face me, bracketed his mouth with his hands, and lifted his voice to a near shout. “She’s our new mechanic and she started yesterday.”

“Dammit, Cletus. Quit your hollering. I heard you just fine. What I don’t comprehend is how it’s possible for us to have a new mechanic without me being consulted.”

His eyebrows pinched together as he inspected me. “You weren’t here.”

“So?”

“Beau, I can’t very well consult with you on matters when you are absent.”

“That’s bullshit.” My temper rose anew. “This shop is as much mine as it is yours.”

“Duane is leaving, Beau. He and Jess go off on their adventures in November.”

“I know that.” And I didn’t need another reminder. I understood his reasons, yet I wasn’t exactly thrilled about Duane leaving.

But I’d be damned if Duane’s replacement was going to be that nightmare downstairs.

“Then you know we need a new mechanic to take his place. We already have too much work between the three of us. How do you think it would be if you and I tried to manage on our own? The magic of math tells me we wouldn’t be able to keep up.”

“You can’t go finding a replacement for Duane without me getting a say.”

Cletus huffed, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s start over. Good morning, Beau. You look tired.”

“Did you hear me?”

“Why do you look tired? Didn’t you sleep last night? Have you eaten?”

Gritting my teeth, I breathed out through my nose.

My brother pointed at me. “You have a lady in Nashville keeping you up and not feeding you? Or maybe you didn’t feed her?”

He could guess all he wanted, but I wasn’t ready to confirm my involvement with Darlene, not with Cletus or anyone else for that matter. Not until she and I were on the same page.

Duane had his Jessica James. And now I figured I had my Darlene Simmons. Duane had pined for Jess since he was about fifteen or sixteen. Maybe a little older. I’d considered his single-mindedness shortsighted at the time. What on earth could be so remarkable about one woman? They all had the same parts, didn’t they?

Seeing Duane with Jess had sparked my curiosity. Going after Darlene had been the result, my attempt at getting serious. I was certain, as I put in the time and effort, I’d start feeling for her what Duane was feeling for Jess. But I wasn’t about to admit as much to Cletus. It wasn’t any of his business, the sneak.

“Whether or not I’ve slept, or with who, isn’t pertinent.”

“With whom—assuming it wasn’t an orgy—and it is pertinent, because you just came flying in here in a fit of temper. I’ve known you your whole life and I’ve only seen you in a fit of temper seven times, and most of those times were because you were hungry and needed a nap.” Cletus reached into a file drawer at his left, withdrew a protein bar, and held it out to me. “You know you get hangry if you don’t eat.”

I glared at him, then at the protein bar, and then at him again. He was right. I was hungry. I crossed to him in four steps and snatched the offered food from his hand.

“I might be hungry and tired, but that’s not why I’m mad. That woman,” I pointed to the door with the protein bar, “is not working here. I won’t allow it.”

My brother’s beard twitched near one corner of his mouth. “She’s an incredibly talented mechanic.”

“I don’t care if she’s Henry Ford’s great grandniece, she ain’t staying.”

“She’s not related to Henry Ford, as far as I know. Shelly is Quinn’s sister.”

“Who?” I stripped the wrapper away from the protein bar and my stomach growled loudly. I would’ve preferred a doughnut from Daisy’s, but this would have to do.

“Shelly—the talented mechanic you had the pleasure of meeting downstairs—is Quinn’s sister. You know Janie? Ashley’s tall friend from Chicago? With the red hair and the alarmingly thorough knowledge of trivia?”

Cletus was referring to our sister Ashley’s friend from her knitting group. There were seven women in the group, Ashley being one of them. Janie was married to a real big fella, security expert or something like that, by the name of Quinn Sullivan. All the ladies from Ashley’s knitting group had traveled to Tennessee last year for our momma’s funeral, and Quinn had accompanied his wife.

But that had been almost a year ago. It was a time I didn’t like to dwell on, so I didn’t. Unfortunately, the one-year anniversary of our mother’s death was coming up in just over two weeks. I was dreading the day.

And apparently this Shelly woman, downstairs with her hands all over my socket wrench, was Quinn’s sister. As I took another bite of the protein bar, I chewed on this information. I’d only met the guy a few times, but the family resemblance between Quinn and Shelly was strong now I knew the connection.

Quinn was six-four maybe, and his sister was at least six foot. They shared the same eye color—ice blue—and similarly sharp facial features. He’d had this watchful way about him, like he had secrets. And he looked at people like he knew all of theirs.

“Well that’s just great,” I grumbled, taking another bite of the bar.

“I thought so.” Cletus’s reply was cheerful and he nodded his head like everything was settled. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I have work to do and you need a nap.”

“No, I will not excuse you.” I inserted myself between my brother and the computer. “Just ’cause she’s related to a friend of Ashley’s doesn’t mean she gets a free ride.”

My brother crossed his arms and glared at me, leaning back farther in his chair. “Beau, what is wrong with you? Why don’t you like Miss Shelly Sullivan?”

“She’s rude.” I said this louder than intended, fire of frustration still in my veins.

“She’s a little quiet and standoffish, I’ll give you that. But I enjoy her economy of speech.”

“Oh no, she wasn’t quiet with me. She was rude.”

“What did she say?”

“She . . .” I slid my teeth to the side, not much wanting to admit that she’d made comments about my right eye and nose being uneven.

There’s no use pretending otherwise, I knew I was good-looking. I wasn’t Shelly Sullivan good-looking, but I knew how to work a smile and turn on the charm to achieve a goal. I’d never considered myself particularly vain. I didn’t spend hours in front of a mirror. Nor did I spend more than five minutes a day thinking about my appearance, usually just the time required to brush my teeth, trim my beard, and pick out clothes, which wasn’t hard since I worked at the shop five days a week.

This woman didn’t know me at all, and there she was pointing out my flaws.

Rude.

How would she like it if I’d done the same to her?

Except . . .

I swallowed on that thought, because the woman didn’t have any flaws. Well, no physical flaws in any case.

“What did she say?” he repeated, his tone and expression telling me I was treading on his patience.

“She said I was an idiot.”

Cletus flinched back a smidge, blinking his surprise. “She said that?”

“Yeah. She said that.”

He looked at me for a long moment, his eyes growing sharp. “Well, what did you do before she called you an idiot?”

I rubbed my neck, avoiding my brother’s gaze, swallowing again, hoping I wouldn’t have to answer.

“Beauford Fitzgerald Winston,” his voice deepened as he used my full name, “what did you say to the lady?”

Releasing a heavy sigh, I turned from Cletus and walked to the door. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“Louder, please. I’m not Duane. I can’t hear you when you mumble and I can’t read your mind.”

“It was a misunderstanding. You know I picked that car up for Hank? The Jag? Well, Hank said he’d left a present for me at the shop, a . . . ‘her.’”

“Oh good Lord.” From the corner of my eye I saw Cletus throw his hands in the air and jump to his feet. “You thought he sent one of the women in his employ to give you a show? Well, he did not.” My brother reached for an item in the corner of the office and thrust it at me. “He bought you a fishing pole. A really nice fishing pole, one of those three thousand dollar bamboo dealios. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble catching fish on Wednesday—if you can figure out how to use this thing—but you might have a time apologizing to our new mechanic today for mistaking her for a stripper.” He paused, waiting for me to meet his glare before continuing harshly, “And you will apologize. Or else.”

“DID YOU APOLOGIZE?”

I caught myself before I snapped at my friend, instead taking a short pull from my beer before answering. “I tried.”

Hank grinned, glancing at Duane who was also grinning. Well, Duane’s version of a grin, which was more like a small smirk.

Both Hank’s and Duane’s smiles were at my expense. Usually I wouldn’t mind, and I hadn’t expected any different when I launched into my story, but I’d hoped they’d agree with me that the woman was a menace.

They hadn’t.

“He did try to apologize, he really did. I was there.” Duane’s smirk widened into a true smile. “And she flat-out ignored him. Pretended he didn’t even speak.”

Simmering anger reignited at the memory, making the beer on my tongue taste stale. “I don’t see why I needed to apologize in the first place. Ain’t nothing wrong with being a stripper, is there?”

“Firstly, I think someone needs to acknowledge how unusual this entire situation is.” Hank, sitting next to me in the booth, moved his hand in a circular motion, indicating to my whole person.

We were at Genie’s Country Western Bar the Wednesday after my initial run-in with Miss Shelly Sullivan. Genie’s was the best place to go in the Valley if you wanted a beer, a dance, and no trouble.

The biker gangs usually steered clear of Genie’s. They had their own hangouts. Genie’s was widely considered the Switzerland of Green Valley and the surrounding areas, neutral territory. If they did show up, it was only two or three fellas at a time, not a giant herd of them looking for a fight.

“I second that.” Duane craned his neck, looking toward the entrance. “But nothing about Shelly Sullivan is ordinary, as far as I can tell.”

I knew Duane kept looking at the door hoping to spot Jess. She wasn’t late yet, but my twin always got fidgety just before seeing his woman.

My lips curved into a smile, but it was one of frustration. “What are y’all talking about?”

“Well now, let me see. Let’s start with the fact that this woman didn’t immediately fall victim to your bullshit charm.”

I snorted, shaking my head at Hank. He was always complaining about me and Jethro, said we made terrible wingmen because of our “bullshit charm.”

But before I could speak, Duane said, “See now, you got it wrong. Nothing about Beau’s charm is bullshit. That’s just the way the man is made. And you can’t fault the ladies, either. In our momma’s womb, he got my share of good humor as well as his.”

“How convenient for you.” I flashed my brother a meaningful look, and knew he was reading my thoughts because he gave me a guilty one in return.

He was right and he was wrong. Between the two of us, I may have exhibited all the outward signs of good humor, but that’s because one of us had to. We couldn’t both be surly little shits all the time. I supposed being nice was just like anything else done consistently over a long period of time: it became a habit.

Missing our unspoken communication, Hank lifted his chin toward Duane. “Then what did you get in your mother’s womb?”

“All the meanness, selfishness, and recklessness I reckon,” he replied easily, then continued without malice or any trace of resentment, “which is why I agree with Hank about this situation being unprecedented. I’ve never met a person who didn’t like you best—especially at first and especially a woman—and I’ve never seen you hold a grudge before.” Duane shrugged, looking toward the door again.

He was right about the first part, as most women did like me best. Likely because it’s hard to get to know someone who never spoke, but easy to like someone who always smiled.

“Yeah, that’s the other part of this mystery. This woman pissed you off.” Hank craned his neck toward the bar, likely looking for another round of drinks. “I’ve never seen you actually angry with someone before. And you’re still irritated, what, two days later. You didn’t even blink an eye when Mrs. Townsen hit your GTO in the church parking lot with her daughter’s old Oldsmobile.”

“It was an accident.” I waved off this example. Mrs. Townsen shouldn’t have been driving, she’d been unfit since totaling her Cadillac a few years ago, but she didn’t mean any harm.

“That senile old lady wrecking your pride and joy isn’t a blip on your radar, but remarking on your bent nose is a war crime? Good to know. Hey Patty.” Hank handed over our empties to our waitress, who happened to be Genie’s daughter, and accepted the new beers with a flirty grin.

She ignored him.

“Hey Beau.” She gave me a wink. “My momma wanted me to let you know these are on the house.”

“What? Why?” Duane’s consternation at this news was obvious and I fought a chuckle. Only my twin would be put out by someone wanting to buy his drinks.

“’Cause your brother is a saint, that’s why.” She said this without breaking eye contact with me.

“He ain’t no saint,” Hank grumbled, though he accepted the free drink.

“Thanks for all your help, Beau.” Patty tucked her tray under her chin and hugged it close to her chest.

“No problem.” I waved off her thanks. “Anytime.”

“I might take you up on that.” Her voice dropped a half octave and her grin grew more flirtatious as she backed away from the table, giving me a meaningful eyebrow lift just before she turned and walked away.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Hank kicked me under the table. “Patty? Really?”

I drank my beer and quietly enjoyed Hank’s frustration.

Firstly, I’d known he had a thing for Patty for a while, at least a year. Secondly, I knew—according to Darlene—Patty would never give him the time of day as long as he owned that strip club. And lastly, I knew Patty’s intentions toward me were harmless because Darlene and Patty were good friends.

Darlene and I weren’t technically exclusive yet, but still. Patty was a nice person, and she knew I was seeing her friend.

“I can’t get two words out of her, and here you are, turning down what she’s offering for free,” he lamented flatly. “What did you do, anyway? Save her cat?”

“No. That was Jess,” Duane mumbled.

That made me laugh. “Jess was eight, Duane. Eight. All I did was climb a tree and get her cat.” And she’s yours now in any case.

“That’s right!” Hank snapped his fingers then pointed at Duane. “I forgot about that. Didn’t Jess have a thing for Beau before you two hooked up?”

“We didn’t hook up, Hank,” Duane snapped.

Hank lifted a hand, palm out, as though he surrendered. “Fine. Before you two pledged your troth. Is that better?”

Duane grumbled something I didn’t catch, then shrugged. “Yeah. So what? The past is in the past.” My brother glowered at me as he said this.

“Oh good Lord, Duane. What was I supposed to do? Not get the damn cat? You didn’t even like her then. You used to call her Freckles, remember that?”

“I still call her Freckles.”

“No, you don’t. You call her Princess,” I said, not about to lose an opportunity to correct my brother about his recent domestication, mostly because I was envious of it.

Hank pointed at me with his beer. “So, let me get this straight. You saved Jess’s cat when she was eight, and she had a thing for you after that?” Before I could decide how to answer, he turned to Duane. “And you’re okay with that?”

“Hank, let me tell you something.” Duane’s voice took on an instructional air that cracked me up, likely because it sounded like an imitation of our brother Cletus. “If you’re looking to pledge your troth to a woman within sixty miles of Green Valley, you might as well assume she’s had a thing for my brother at some point in her life.” Duane tapped the neck of his beer against Hank’s. “Welcome to the club.”

“I’m the founding member of the club, Duane.” Hank’s tone was dry and sour.

“And what club would this be?” I tapped my bottle against both of theirs just to be obnoxious.

“The Beau gets all the girls club. And, speaking of which, what’d you do that has Patty bringing you free drinks?” Hank gave me a pointed look.

“I didn’t do anything for Patty, not directly. Genie wanted to get rid of two old refrigerators, but couldn’t find anyone to come pick them up. I took them off her hands last week. No big deal.”

What I didn’t say, because it didn’t require saying, was that no matter how nice Patty was—and sweet, and pretty—the moment Hank stated his interest in the woman, she became off limits. Just like Jess had been off limits since Duane and I were teenagers.

It was unspoken, but I’d expect the same from them, if or when I ever told them about Darlene. Or—if things didn’t work out with Darlene—anyone else I might be interested in courting.

If there is anyone else . . . I scowled at the thought, uncertain of, and unsettled by its origins. Of course there will be someone else if things don’t work out with Darlene. Plenty of fish in the sea.

“What’d you do with them? How’d you get rid of the fridges?”

“Oh, I know,” Duane answered, like he was just now putting two and two together. “Those were the refrigerators you gave to Reverend Seymour today, right? The ones you fixed up at the shop this week?”

I nodded, surprised he’d noticed. He’d been busy with Jess, preparing for his big trip and leaving all of us. I hardly saw him at all.

Glancing over my brother’s head to the dance floor, a flash of long red hair caught my attention and raised my hopes. When I realized it wasn’t Darlene, I swallowed a gulp of my beer and my disappointment.

Typical for a late summer night with nice weather, the place was crowded with locals. Duane and I had left together after work, leaving Cletus and Shelly at the shop to finish up.

I’d hoped Darlene would be able to make it back to the Valley this weekend, but she’d texted me earlier in the day that she couldn’t. She was busy. Two years older than me, she was in her third year of medical school and her schedule was crazy.

I understood.

Nevertheless, I hadn’t been able to shake off my disappointment since receiving her message.

Not helping matters or my mood, Shelly Sullivan had ignored all my attempts at making peace. I wouldn’t say I’d gotten used to the woman yet. More like I was starting to tolerate her, but just barely. She hadn’t spoken more than three words to me in two days. On the bright side, ignoring me meant she hadn’t made any more comments about how grotesque she considered my appearance or how stupid she thought I was.

I let my eyes linger on the woman with red hair. She was taller than Darlene and her curls were a fiery red, not strawberry-blonde. Unexpectedly, the woman turned, caught me staring at her. Recognizing her as Christine St. Claire—old lady of Razor Dennings, the president of the Iron Wraiths motorcycle club—I immediately averted my gaze. I didn’t want any trouble.

“You know that’s tax deductible, right? Donating to the church? I hope you got a receipt.” Hank was always quick to point out when something could be written off. Take his boat, for example. He’d written it off as a business expense because he used it to take customers fishing on Bandit Lake.

“I did. I gave the receipt to Genie when we got here.” I kept my stare fixed on Hank as a slight whisper of apprehension tickled my neck.

I sensed Christine St. Claire's eyes still on me and I braced myself. The woman was equal parts crazy and dangerous, or so my daddy used to say when we were kids. And he’d know, because he was equal parts crazy and dangerous, too.

My mother and father didn’t agree often, but I knew for a fact she didn’t like the woman much either. She’d always kept Duane and I close to her skirts at the Iron Wraith’s family days and picnics, giving Christine and the Wraith’s MC president a wide berth.

“No matter what she says, you never let her take you, okay? And always keep an eye on Duane,” Momma would say. “You’re older, he’s your responsibility. I’m counting on you. You keep him safe. Make sure he doesn’t go anywhere with that woman.”

“You gave the tax receipt to Genie?” Hank had been about to take another drink of his beer, but stopped, the bottle suspended from his fingers, his tone edged with disbelief.

“Yeah, they’re her refrigerators, aren’t they?” I rubbed my neck.

“But you fixed them up.” Hank set the beer back on the table. “You went through all the trouble of moving those things, fixing them up, and taking them to the church. And then you give her the donation receipt?”

“Yep.” I ignored Hank’s stare and searched my mind for a subject change. “We still going fishing next Wednesday? Cletus wants to come.”

“We always go fishing on Wednesday. The only reason we didn’t go this week was because I had to be in town. And stop trying to change the subject.” He shook his head, sounding and looking like he considered this topic highly amusing. “You just proved my point.”

“What point? What are we even talking about?” I sighed tiredly, glancing to the side and noting with relief that Christine and her entourage were leaving the bar.

“I’m not surprised much by what you did for Genie. But framed in that context, why’re you still pissed off at that woman mechanic?”

“It’s ’cause she’s real pretty.” Duane scratched his jaw thoughtfully, peering at me.

I opened my mouth to object—not because I didn’t think she was pretty, but because that’s not why I was pissed off—but Hank cut in, “What do you mean, real pretty? How pretty is she?”

“Like, fancy supermodel pretty.”

“Oh man, I’m going to have to check this girl out.”

“And what about Patty?” I gave Hank a pointed look.

“Nothing wrong with looking, Beauford.” He smiled around a drink of his beer.

“She’s not a girl.” Duane took a pull from his beer, and then added, “She’s older than us. I think she’s at least thirty.”

“That doesn’t matter to me, and it certainly doesn’t matter to Beau.” Hank lifted his chin toward me. “You know he likes his women older.”

“Have at her.” I waved my friend off. “And good luck.”

Duane’s eyes grew unfocused, like he was debating weighty thoughts. “She’s almost too pretty, you know?”

“Too pretty?” Hank shook his head, his eyes moving from me to Duane. “No such thing.”

“Yeah, there is,” I said flatly. “You know, like when someone has a talent, like they’re too good at football, or they’re too smart? All they focus on about themselves is how smart they are? They’re nothing but smart? Same thing goes for people who are too pretty. Her talent is what she looks like.”

“She’s good at fixing cars.” Duane pointed his beer at me before taking a gulp.

“So, she’s real vain?” Hank addressed this question to me, but Duane answered.

“No. She’s not vain at all.” My brother looked puzzled as he said this. “Not as far as I can tell, anyway. She gets covered in dirt, grease, and sweat like the rest of us, and doesn’t seem to mind. She’s just . . . too pretty. It’s hard to look at her.”

I knew exactly what Duane meant, she was hard to look at. Her beauty was too harsh, too flagrant. Even though I didn’t like the woman, meeting her eye still sent my wits straight out of my brain.

Hank continued to look confused. “So, what’s she like otherwise? Is she nice?”

Duane shrugged. “Not particularly. She’s businesslike, to the point. Cletus calls her efficient.”

“Duane and Cletus would know.” I indicated to my brother with my beer. “She’ll talk to them, but she still doesn’t speak to me.”

“So, Miss Too Pretty ignoring you has your boxers in a bunch?” Hank looked like he was stifling a laugh.

“Like I said, it has nothing to do with her looks. And she can keep on ignoring me. I don’t care about that. But you’d be irritated too if someone you didn’t know told you your face was distorted.”

“She didn’t say your face was distorted, dummy.” Duane rolled his eyes.

I pointed at my brother. “She said your face was perfectly symmetrical and my face was wonky. And that—plus I’m an idiot—is how she could tell us apart.”

Hank barked a laugh.

I glowered at my friend. “And I’m the one who needed to apologize?”

“Now see, I don’t think you needed to apologize for mistaking her for a stripper. I think you needed to apologize for suggesting she take off her clothes. There’s the difference.” Duane nodded at his own words.

“Technically, I didn’t suggest she take off her clothes. I suggested she keep them on.”

Hank rubbed his chin. “You shouldn’t have made any reference to her clothes at all, especially since you’ll be working with her for the foreseeable future. That’s just unprofessional.”

“Unprofessional?” I couldn’t believe the words out of my friend’s mouth, especially considering his practice of sending strippers to welcome me home was what caused this mess in the first place.

“Don’t look at me like that. I work in a strip club; you work in an auto shop. Of course I have to talk to my employees about their costumes and such.” Hank gave me a keen look as he brought the beer to his mouth and said before taking a sip, “The only stripping you should be discussing with this woman is salvaging for car parts.”

3

“I will not let anyone walk through my mind with their dirty feet.”

― Mahatma Gandhi

*Beau*

“HEY. IT’S ME. BEAU.” I glanced at the back lot of the auto shop, rubbing my neck, not sure what to say and finally settling on, “When you get this, give me a call back . . . bye.”

Lowering the phone from my ear, I examined the screen. I hadn’t heard from Darlene except for the single text yesterday when she told me she wouldn’t make it to her parents’ house for the weekend.

I was not a fan of uncertainty. I didn’t much like surprises—the good kind or the bad kind—and now I was discovering that an exclusive relationship—or potentially exclusive relationship—between two people apparently came with a truckload of uncertainty.

A strange and persistent pinch in my lungs had me taking a deep breath as I tucked my phone in my back pocket. Not paying particular attention to my surroundings, I strolled into the garage and back to Mrs. McClure’s Honda Accord. She’d dutifully brought it in for the 240,000 mile service, and I was in the middle of changing her timing belt.

Next up was the air conditioner for Naomi Winters’s Corolla, then Mae Evans’s bent flywheel, Joseph Fletcher’s radiator, and so on.

And then finally, hopefully, when all the real work was done, I’d be able to work on the shop’s new 1958 Plymouth Fury, the one I’d spotted in the parking lot earlier in the week but didn’t recognize. Someone in Knoxville had come by out of the blue while I was in Nashville and sold it to Duane, needing the cash.

It was a matching numbers car, a real beauty of a ride, and I couldn’t wait to get my hands on her. A matching numbers car is the term we classic automobile aficionados use to describe cars with original major components, or major components that match one another. Matching number cars are extremely rare, especially sixty-year-old Plymouths with less than sixty thousand miles on them.

I had some ideas on how to fix the problem without introducing any new parts.

Distracted, I didn’t immediately catch the sound of voices until one of the speakers shouted, and it sounded angry. Sitting up, I leaned around the propped hood of the Honda and scanned the front of the garage. I spotted Shelly first, standing ramrod straight with her arms crossed, her chin tilted defiantly, and then Drill—a senior full member of the Iron Wraiths motorcycle club—in front of her, hollering so hard his face was red.

“. . . do you think you are, you crazy bitch? Do you know who you’re talking to?”

Now, I’d had similar thoughts about Miss Shelly Sullivan on Monday upon first making her acquaintance. But I was admittedly hungry and tired at the time. Shame on me. She was my employee and my coworker; more than that, she was a human being.

Besides, calling someone a name in your head in the heat of a hangry moment is a lot different from screaming it at their place of work.

I jogged to them and heard Shelly say, “I don’t need to know who you are to comprehend you're a waste of blood and organs. If you were any more inbred, you’d be pastrami.”

“What? Pastrami?”

“You know, ‘in bread’ like pastrami. In a sandwich.” She said this slowly, like he was dumb as dirt.

I winced at that, especially at her delivery. I was also amused by the insult. The woman was as clever as she was cold. Yet, being cold didn’t mean she deserved to be harassed by Drill.

“Now, wait a minute,” I called, stepping between them and trying to force them apart. Drill took three steps backward, the vein on his forehead throbbing. Shelly, however, didn’t move an inch. I felt her body directly behind mine, stubbornly holding her ground.

Drill was a real big fella, bald and beefy, not someone I particularly wanted to fight. But I knew him to be reasonable, for the most part. I had hope I’d be able to diffuse the situation.

“Hey there, Drill.” I reached out my hand, moving my entire body in front of Shelly to block his view.

The big man blinked at me, like it took him a moment to see past his own anger and bring me into focus. At last, he accepted my handshake.

“Beau,” he said tightly.

Releasing his hand, I placed both of mine on my hips. “What can I do for you?”

His stare darted past, his features turning dark. “First I’d like to know why y’all hired this fucking harp—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” I lifted my hands between us and shook my head. I could still sense Shelly behind me because she’d just taken a deep breath and released it. I felt the air on my neck and the brush of her chest against my back. “Now, wait a minute. I don’t know what the lady—”

“Lady?” Drill snorted, speaking through clenched teeth. “That ain’t no lady.”

“Okay, okay. Let’s just stop right there.” I gave Drill my most practiced smile, the one I used on Cletus when he got into a tizzy, and turned to Shelly. She still hadn’t moved. I was forced to take a step back in order to avoid stepping on her toes. “Uh, Miss Sullivan? Could you give us a minute?”

The sight of the woman’s glare—which, as usual, gave my brain a quick hiccup—communicated volumes. I half-expected Drill to burst into flames behind me.

Slowly, slowly she shifted her eyes to mine and, thank the Lord, a good measure of her fury dissipated. If I hadn’t known any better, I would have said her gaze softened. She blinked at me, swallowed, and nodded her head once.

Without a word or sparing another glance for Drill, she turned and unhurriedly strolled into the garage.

I waited until she was about twenty feet away before turning back to Drill. “All right, you want to tell me what happened?”

“That fucking—”

I narrowed my eyes on the big man, holding up a hand and quickly shook my head. “See now, that lady works here. She is in my employ, and I can’t have you speaking that way about her, or Duane, or Cletus for that matter.” I paused for effect, shrugging, “Okay, maybe Cletus.”

The joke worked and Drill released a short laugh, rubbing his face with a meaty palm. “Hell, Beau. Where’d you find her?”

“What happened?” I tried again, quieter.

Drill and I weren’t exactly friends, but we were friendly acquaintances. My family’s history with the Wraiths was long and twisted, and keeping the peace with the local biker gang meant sometimes swallowing our pride when the matter wasn’t life or death.

He paused, giving me a cryptic look, before grumbling, “It don’t matter.”

“It better matter,” I said evenly, not understanding why I was pushing the issue. For some inexplicable reason, a flare of protectiveness for Miss Shelly Sullivan had me adding, “’Cause what I saw sure as hell mattered to me. I’d hate to think you’re going around screaming profanities at random women.”

Drill’s lip curled into a sneer. “You can’t have a woman looking like that, working in a place like this, and not expect someone to notice.”

“What. Did. You. Do?”

“Fine, fine. All right? I might have startled her a little.” He gestured wildly to nothing in particular. “I saw her bent over that bike and—damn, Beau. Have you seen those legs? Hell. And that ass. And, Christ, those eyes. I’ve never—”

“Drill,” I snapped, giving the bigger man a reprimanding glare.

He held his hands up. “I swear, I didn’t touch her. Alls I said was that she had a nice ass and I called her sweetheart. That’s it. And you’d think I’d called her mother a whore.”

“What’d she say?” Now I was just curious.

He hesitated for a moment, then admitted, “She said something about me being as sharp as a bowling ball.”

I lowered my chin to my chest, trying my best not to laugh.

“And there was more.” His gaze dropped to the ground and his eyes widened, as though he was recalling all her insults. “She was real mean.”

I believed him, about everything.

But he was a six-foot-four biker gang heavyweight. And he was near pouting because someone had been mean to him.

“Okay.” I sighed, glancing beyond Drill to the horizon. I needed to think.

On the one hand, it wasn’t right or appropriate for him to comment on his admiration for Miss Sullivan’s backside. On the other hand, this was Drill. He was by far the most even-tempered and fair-minded of the Wraiths. If it had been any of the others, Shelly would have been knocked around before I’d have had a chance to intervene.

“Listen . . .” I paused, still debating how to proceed. “You coming fishing with us on Wednesday?”

Drill eyeballed me, and then nodded once. “That’s right. Hank wanted me to bring Catfish and Twilight.”

“Good. That’s good.” I rubbed my forehead tiredly. “Why’d you drop by today? You need me to look at your bike?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Drill took a step away and kicked at the gravel of the drive, not meeting my eyes. “Razor’s old lady wants a meeting with you.”

I reared back, convinced I’d misheard him. “Say what?”

“Christine.” He said her name with a hushed kind of reverence, like he was talking about the boogey man. Or, in this case, boogey woman. “She wants a meeting.”

“Why?”

“She didn’t say.” Drill licked his lips and I knew this was a nervous habit of his. “Just that I wasn’t to ask Duane, only you.”

I studied the bigger man, quickly debating what this could possibly be about, and finally deciding her request for a meeting had to do with using my skills as a mechanic to man their chop shop. And honestly, this baffled me.

About a year ago, the Wraiths had approached Duane with a threat, telling him that he and I needed to disassemble their stolen cars—but only Duane and me, not Cletus. They had evidence against our oldest brother, Jethro, and if Duane and I didn’t agree to their demands, they were prepared to send Jethro to prison.

In the end, Cletus and his sneaky machinations saved the day.

Now, I presumed, they were after more of the same.

I grimaced at Drill. Not angry. Just a smidge irritated. “We settled this last year. I ain’t working for y’all.”

Drill was shaking his head before I finished. “No. Nothing like that. Between you and me, Christine may be crazy, but she was there when Cletus showed his hand. She knows that evidence against Jethro is worthless. This is about something else.”

“What could it possibly be about? Claire?” Claire being Christine and Razor’s only child. Claire was good friends with both Jethro and Cletus. She’d moved away from Green Valley about a month ago to take a teaching position in the big city, but she and Cletus were set to play in a music competition together in October.

Drill shrugged, his features arranged in a mask of helplessness. “I’d tell you if I knew. But, you know how she is.”

“Actually, I don’t.” I poked the inside of my cheek with my tongue. “I’ve never spoken to the woman.”

“Whether you want to or not, that’s about to change.” He gave me quick once-over tinged with what looked like sympathy. “What Razor’s old lady wants, Razor’s old lady gets.”

AFTER I PROMISED to think on the meeting with Christine St. Claire, Drill left, saying he’d give me two weeks to think about it. I’d talked him into a month.

Now, I dawdled.

I wasn’t much of a dawdler. Usually, I was a doer. But I’d rather have a root canal than speak to Shelly one-on-one about the events of the morning. It was Duane’s day off, and Cletus was in the office. I deliberated whether or not to brief him on the situation and let him handle it.

In the end, I wasn’t the one who did the seeking. Still dawdling by the entrance to the garage, Shelly strolled over. Like before, her steps were unhurried, self-assured.

I braced—instinctively—all my muscles tensing, and stared at her sideways as she neared. Duane had been right, she was hard to look at directly. She should’ve been on the arm of some billionaire in Hollywood or Paris, or walking on a runway someplace. People didn’t look like her in real life.

Jethro’s fiancée, Sienna, was the most attractive woman I’d seen up to now, until this woman mechanic. But Sienna wasn’t aloof. She smiled easily, told jokes, was kind to everyone, and that made her approachable. And Sienna being Sienna made us all forget she was gorgeous on the outside, ’cause her heart eclipsed her exterior.

Whereas I didn’t think I’d ever be able to forget Shelly’s cold beauty. It was like looking at someone through a wall of ice. It was all I could see.

“Is he gone?” The weight of her stare felt more physical than before, yet somehow less evocative.

“Yeah, about that . . .” I exhaled silently, preparing to say what needed to be said. “He shouldn’t have spoken to you in that way, and I’m sorry it happened. I had a talk with him and it won’t happen again.”

Shelly shoved her fingers into her back pockets. She was wearing cut-off jean shorts instead of the coveralls, which showcased her long, bronze, smooth legs. Part of me wanted to suggest she stick to the coveralls from now on, to avoid unwanted comments from customers.

But then, somewhere in the back of my mind I heard the voice of my momma say, “You don’t blame the chicken when a fox gets in the hen house ”

Now, Shelly was no chicken. And Drill was no fox. But the analogy still fit. Plus, she wouldn’t be able to hide behind coveralls. She was striking no matter what she wore.

“Is that it?” she asked. Unless I was imagining things, her shoulders seemed to relax a smidge.

“That’s it.”

She lifted her chin, inspecting me. I got the sense she was trying to determine if I was being truthful, which in turn made me wonder why this woman was so distrustful.

As we were exchanging stares, I spotted Mr. McClure—the fire chief—pull into the gravel lot in my peripheral vision. Inwardly I cursed. Thanks to the Drill’s big mouth, I was running behind with Mrs. McClure’s timing belt.

Abruptly, Shelly announced, “If I wanted commentary on my ass, I would go to a proctologist.”

My smile felt more like a grimace at this point. I tried to smooth it into something resembling genuine. “Of course.”

“I want to fix cars.”

“Sounds good.”

I must not have been giving her the answers she wanted, because her jaw grew tight and her stare fierce. But before she said anything else, Mr. McClure called out a greeting.

“Hey, son. Hot enough for you?”

I turned my attention to the fire chief and gave him a wave, which quickly turned into a handshake as soon as he was close enough. “Morning, sir. I’m not quite finished with your lady’s car. I should have messaged you. Sorry about that.”

“Oh, ain’t no bother. I can wait.” The older man shrugged, turning his attention to Shelly. Giving her a genteel smile, as was his way, he held out his hand. “Hello, there. I’m Carter McClure. Who might you be?”

I glanced at Shelly, waiting for her to accept the fire chief’s handshake.

And then I waited some more.

And then continued to wait.

With dawning horror, I watched as she glared at Mr. McClure—one of the kindest, most generous, and well-meaning folks on the face of the earth—and then glared at his hand.

Without saying a word, she turned and walked away.

“I DON’T LIKE HER,” I was hollering even before I had the door completely open, allowing it to bang against the wall as I entered the office.

As usual, Cletus didn’t look up from whatever was so damn fascinating on his computer screen.

“Cletus? Did you hear me? I don’t like her. She can’t work here.”

He continued to click stuff on his screen then finally, finally, gave me his attention. “It doesn’t matter if you like her or not, Beau. What matters is whether Shelly Sullivan is a good mechanic. She is a good mechanic. Furthermore, thus, as such, vis–à–vis, and so forth. Fill in the blank.”

I tried—Lord, how I tried—to even my tone. “She might be a decent mechanic. But she’s as prickly as a porcupine.”

“No, Beau. She’s not a decent mechanic. She’s a great mechanic.”

I opened my mouth to—I don’t even know because he was right, she was a great mechanic—and Cletus talked over me. “Duane is leaving before Thanksgiving. We have too much work as it is. We need the help. Now leave me be. I need to finish this up before my meeting with Drew.”

As though everything was all settled, Cletus turned away, facing the computer screen.

I stared at him, seething, endeavoring to mind my temper. I swallowed the surge of fury threatening to choke me, taking a deep breath for good measure. I knew my brother. No amount of yelling on my part would make him listen. Likely he’d just dig his heels in.

Without looking away from his work, he snapped, “I’ll kindly ask you to stop trying to penetrate my brain with those laser beams you call eyes.”

“I’m not done talking about this.”

Huffing loudly, he turned his chair to face me. “Why don’t we talk about something else, like the preparations for Jethro’s bachelor party? Did you finish the scavenger hunt?”

“Yes, I did. Two weeks ago. Stop changing the subject.”

“Fine then.” He set his teeth. “Go ahead and talk about Shelly.”

“She’s rude. Not just to me. She’s rude to the customers.”

“Why’s she talking to customers? That’s your job.”

“What do you want me to do? Hide her under a car? She’s impossible to miss, Cletus. She looks like one of those . . . those . . . those models from the magazines.”

“Which magazines are these?” Cletus’s tone was dry and heavy with implied meaning because, Yes. Fine. Okay? I like car magazines and I like looking at the models in them.

Satisfied?

I tossed my hands up and then settled them on my hips. “You know what I mean. People catch sight of her, they want to talk to her.”

“You mean men catch sight of her and want to talk to her.”

“Yes. Fine. Men. Men want to talk to her. And then she insults them. Do you really think that’s a good business strategy? Hiring a gorgeous woman to insult our male customers?”

“No. No, I do not.” His tone was serious but I didn’t miss the telltale twitch of his mouth.

The sneaky bastard thought this was funny.

“Oh, is this funny?”

He didn’t respond, but he was laughing.

“Are you laughing?”

“Nope,” he said, still laughing.

It was the wrong thing for him to do. The simmering anger, the pinch in my lungs regarding Darlene, my frustrations, they all chose that moment to boil over. Before I knew what I was doing, I knocked the container of writing utensils and the stacks of papers off the file cabinet with a growl.

Finally, he stopped laughing. And when I faced him, his eyes were crackling fire at me.

“You’re going to pick that mess up, Beau Fitzgerald Winston.”

I was too angry, too pissed off, and maybe too proud to do as he ordered.

However, I wasn’t too far gone to realize that this was Cletus I was addressing. If anyone could make my life a nightmare, it was him. Instead of capitulating to his demands, I jabbed a finger in the direction of the chaos and seethed, “I will pick it up when I’m good and ready to pick it up.”

Then I turned, slamming the door after me as I marched down the stairs, almost colliding with Drew Runous at the entrance to the stairwell. Muttering a short apology, I darted past him, out of the garage to the back lot where I could pace and calm down.

Cletus didn’t want to fire the woman? Fine.

Fine.

That was just fine.

But hell if I was going to work with her. Or talk to her. Or look at her.

As far as I was concerned, she and her rude—perfect—ass didn’t exist.

4

“Reality exists in the human mind, and nowhere else.”

― George Orwell, 1984

*Shelly*

“I’M HAVING INVASIVE SEXUAL THOUGHTS.”

“Tell me.” Two words.

I took a breath and silently counted to ten before speaking again. “Do you think it’s the new medication?”

Dr. West shook her head. “I don’t know, Shelly. Describe these thoughts you’ve been having. Then we can figure out if it’s the meds or if something else is going on.” Four words. Six words. Sixteen words.

I bit my tongue, not hard, just enough to keep from informing Dr. West that she was consistently speaking in sentences with an even number of words. I’d promised myself that I wasn’t going to count.

But here I was, counting.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

Instead of drawing her attention to the number of words in her sentences, I cleared my throat and tried not to think about it, not counting to ten this time. “Has this happened to any of your other patients?”

“Not with fluoxetine, but this is your first time on an antidepressant. Describe what’s been happening.” Twelve words. Four words.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

“I . . . I think about one of my coworkers. Often. In inappropriate ways.” I glanced over Dr. West’s head to the blank white wall behind her.

She didn’t have any paintings on her office walls. She’d explained during our first in-person session six weeks ago that her patients—the type of patients she treated—became easily distracted by decorations.

No paintings. No magazines. No clutter. Just her chair, a chair for her patient, and a coffee table between us. The only other object in the room was an air purifier in the corner.

“You have to be more specific.” Six words.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

I brought my attention back to Dr. West and her gentle expression. It had been that gentle expression staring back at me from the pages of a magazine last year that had convinced me to finally do this.

More accurately, it had been Dr. West’s gentle expression and the fact that my brother’s wife had just discovered she was pregnant with their first child.

My nephew had been born a few weeks ago. I hadn’t visited. I couldn’t hold him. I couldn’t. I wanted to, desperately, but every time I thought about it . . .

What if? What if he gets hurt? What if you’re the reason something happens? What if?

“Shelly?” she prompted.

I’d taken too long to answer.

Filling my lungs with filtered air, I endeavored to be completely honest without going into too much unnecessary detail regarding my thoughts about Beau. I’d learned over the course of my life that providing too much detail or being too expressive often disconcerted people.

“I think about his smile. He tells jokes. And he’s friendly. He goes out of his way to help people.”

“How long have you known him?” Six words.

“Just two weeks.”

“And you see him how often?” Six words.

“Almost every day.”

“Okay, so why do you think your thoughts are invasive or sexual?” Twelve words.

I rubbed my forehead, reprimanding myself for counting. Just stop. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

“I think about his hands. I think about what he looks like with no clothes on. I think about him taking my clothes off. I think about us kissing. Him touching me.”

“And then?” Two words.

“That’s as far as I’ve gotten.”

“Really, Shelly?” Two words.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

“What? Should I have brought diagrams?”

She allowed herself a small smile and I knew she thought my question funny. Dr. West hadn’t smiled at all when we’d begun our face-to-face sessions over Skype last year, and I’d liked that about her. Smiles between strangers are a show, a mask, misdirection, manipulative.

Or I used to think so.

Before Beau Winston.

“No worries about inflicting physical pain? Hurting him?” Six words. Two words.

“No. Never.”

“Do you feel fear? When you imagine him touching you?” Four words. Six words.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

“No. Not at all.” I told my heart to slow down. She’s not doing it on purpose.

She stared at me, considering, the small smile still in place. “Do you think, maybe, you’re just attracted to this guy? Your coworker?” Ten words. Two words.

I couldn’t take it anymore. “Why are you speaking in even sentences?”

“What’s that?” Two words.

“You did it again, Doctor. Every one of your sentences has an even number of words. You know I prefer sentences with an odd number. Is this the initiation of a secret ERP plan? Are you testing my endurance?” By the time I finished speaking I was out of breath.

And enormously disappointed in myself.

I didn’t drop my gaze, though the heat of embarrassment crawled up my neck and over my cheeks. And that was fine. I was used to being embarrassed. At this point in my life, being an embarrassment was my normal.

Dr. West stared at me for four seconds, and then said, “I’m sorry, Shelly. Is this better?” She spoke deliberately, slowly, like she was planning what to say, counting her words in her head.

I hated that she had to do that. I hated that it worked. I hated that I was already feeling better, calmer.

I glared at her because I couldn’t glare at myself. A surge of impatience flooded through me and I whispered, “You have to fix me.”

“Therapy isn’t about ‘fixing,’ Shelly. We’re building strategies to help redirect your existing responses. You know that. You are showing good progress. But you . . .” she paused, and I could see she was trying to keep a mental tally of how many words she’d spoken, “have lived with this disorder your whole life, and . . . you have made room for it.” Five words. Nine words. Three words. Five words. Seventeen words.

“I want to hold Desmond,” I pleaded. “Hug my brother. See my parents. I need to tell them the truth about what I did to them. Please.”

The pleading had begun three sessions ago. I’d broken down and cried in her office. I’d cried and cried. It was the first time I’d cried since childhood.

We’d been discussing my brother, Quinn. I hadn’t hugged him in years, since before our oldest brother’s funeral. Since I’d started lying to him all the time. Liar defined me more than any other word.

I missed him.

I missed both my brothers.

And I missed my parents.

And I wanted to hold my nephew.

And I want to hug my sister-in-law and thank her for loving my brother so fiercely.

But I didn’t deserve any of them, not after what I’d done.

Not yet.

Maybe never.

My chest ached at the thought.

Since my crying session, I’d felt off-balance, sensitive. I’d been feeling too much. Part of me wondered if it was a side effect of the medication. Dr. West said I’d had a breakthrough. I didn’t feel confident in her explanation.

“This is about keeping Quinn from your parents, correct?” Dr. West flipped to the back of her notes. “After your older brother died?” Nine words. Five words.

“Yes.”

“When your mother called you and asked you to reach out to Quinn. But then you . . . were afraid he would leave you in Chicago.” Thirteen words. Eleven words.

My stomach hurt at the memory so I folded my arms over my abdomen. “Yes. I didn’t want Quinn to go back to Boston. I didn’t want to be alone again.”

“You told her that he did . . . not want to have anything to do with them. With your parents.” Fifteen words. Three words.

You don’t deserve them. They deserve better. So much, so much, so much better.

I winced, my heart and mind racing, and I lowered my gaze to her shirt. It was blue. But not aqua, not navy, not royal.

“What are you thinking about?”

“Your shirt, what color blue is that?”

“Shelly, please focus. I know discussing this situation—what happened to your family after your older brother died and the decisions you made—is very difficult for you. But the time is going to come when you’ll have to tell the truth and distracting yourself won’t be an option. You need to take responsibility for lying to Quinn. And your parents.” Three words. Twenty-five words. Twenty-one words. Nine words. Three words.

I nodded, forcing myself to focus and confront my anxiety. “I want to apologize, make things right.”

“Then you will.” She sounded so sure.

And I was having trouble breathing. “He’ll hate me.”

“He might, and yet you still have to take responsibility for your actions.” Thirteen words.

“I promise,” I gave her my eyes, “I haven’t lied to you.”

“I know, Shelly.” Her expression was patient.

“And I haven’t lied to anyone in over a year.”

“But you’ve been avoiding your brother Quinn for two years, and your sister-in-law for months.”

I swallowed past a lump in my throat. “I’m almost ready. I just need a little more time. I need to be better.”

Dr. West considered me, then continued speaking in her measured pace. “Your disorder, it has grown. We will diminish its hold on you. But this will take patience. Last year was the first time you have tried to overcome your OCD. The first time you have sought treatment in your entire life. There’s still a lot of work to be done. But I know you can do it.” Five words. Seven words. Five words. Thirteen words. Eleven words. Nine words. Seven words.

Her soft brown eyes moved over me, searching. “I don’t want to bring this up again if it’ll upset you, but the option still remains to check yourself into a facility. We could then address your touch aversion in a safe setting where you’ll be monitored.”

“No.” A stabbing fear shot through me, hitting my chest like a thunderbolt, and I struggled to keep my voice even.

“It would be intense, but I still believe it’s the safest and most efficient way—”

“Where I’ll be forced to touch strangers? Where they can touch me? No.” I shook my head vehemently.

“Your compulsions limit what can be done in the office setting. Without supervision, the ERP plan we’ve designed, when you’re ready, may not—”

“Then I’ll work harder on my own.” Determination firmed my voice.

My therapist pressed her lips together and nodded grimly, jotting something down in her notes. “Are you writing in your journal, Shelly?”

“Yes.” Thinking about my journal made my hands relax.

Dr. West had discouraged the keeping of a diary. Rather early on in our sessions, when I still lived in Illinois and we spoke over Skype, she’d asked me to keep a journal where I listed three things I was thankful for every day. She said it would help with my feelings of anxiety. She’d been right.

“Good. And you’re meditating?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. How is work? I mean, how are you feeling about the statues?”

“I’ve cast the copper structures. I am missing some of the silver. I have orders coming in next week.” I studied my therapist as I began to relax, and I wondered if she brought up my art because she actually wanted to know, or because she knew it would calm me.

“One of your worries about taking medication was that you would lose your ability to be creative. Are you experiencing any difficulty?”

I took a moment to reflect on her question. Had I lost my creative energy? “I don’t know. I did the sketches before I started on the fluoxetine. Now I’m following those plans. I’m more focused than I’ve been in the past, less distracted, so I’m ahead of schedule. But as to whether my creativity has been inhibited by the medication, I suppose I won’t know until I receive a new commission.”

“Okay, fair enough.” She wrote something down in her notes. “Is there anything else you’d like to discuss today?”

I want to talk about Beau again.

I bit my tongue, struggling against the impulse.

I wanted her to help me stop thinking about him. I wanted to stop noticing how kind he was, how thoughtful, how generous. I hated how easily he’d been able to apologize to me last week, and how sincere he’d been. I believed him when he said he was sorry. I also wanted to discuss how he looked at me, like he actually saw me. Even when I frustrated him, I felt like he still saw me.

That’s not possible. He didn’t know me, not at all. If he knew you, he would run in the other direction.

But still, I wanted to pick apart every detail of every conversation we’d ever had.

Therefore, I tried for a smile, and said, “Nothing more today.”

I wasn’t in Tennessee to think about Beau Winston. I was in Tennessee to make myself better, so I could return to Chicago and be the person my brother, Janie, Desmond, and my parents deserved.

Hopefully, by my session next week, these obsessive thoughts about Beau Winston would be a distant memory.

5

“Quiet people have the loudest minds.”

― Stephen Hawking

*Beau*

CLETUS BEING RIGHT about Shelly’s skills didn’t negate the fact that I was also right. She was bad for business.

“What are you going to do when I leave in November?” Duane had stopped me as we left church, a week and a half after Shelly Sullivan’s rude treatment of Mr. McClure. I’d been avoiding the woman since.

Saying nothing to her had been easy. She hardly ever spoke to me or anyone. When she did speak to me, it was always to ask where something was located. Yet, despite her silence, I never forgot she was there.

When I chewed the fat with customers, when my brothers stopped by, when I listened to music while I worked, I felt her watching me. Just to make sure I wasn’t crazy, every once in a while I’d glance up and catch her looking, that glare of hers sending me off kilter for two beats of my heart. The woman made no attempt to disguise her scrutiny.

Her presence rankled like a sand burr in my boxers.

“What can I do?” I shrugged, well beyond exasperated. “Cletus won’t listen to me, says I’m biased. Meanwhile, she’s glaring at babies.”

Ms. Julianne MacIntyre had brought her two grandkids along to pick up her car. Shelly had taken one look at the children—the baby in particular—and darted in the opposite direction. And the baby wasn’t cranky, smelly, or ugly either. He was darn cute.

“I tried talking to Cletus last week.” Duane scratched his beard.

“I know.”

Cletus had instructed Duane to put his concerns in the suggestion box. Of note, Cletus had labeled the shredder in the upstairs office suggestion box a year ago when Duane had suggested half days on Fridays.

“What about hiring a front office person?” Duane lowered the volume of his voice. “Maybe Cletus’ll concede to that, and that would keep folks out of the garage. We could say it’s a safety issue.”

After witnessing Shelly’s treatment of a few customers, Duane had grown as concerned as I was. His worry eased some of my unrest. But at the same time, it irritated me. He was about to go on his grand adventure; the shop wasn’t really his priority anymore.

No. This problem was mine to solve.

And it was a big problem. Every time a customer walked into the garage, I had to stop what I was doing and sprint to the front. If folks encountered our new mechanic, they left in a tizzy, swearing to never return.

Shelly didn’t shake hands with anyone. That’s a big no-no in our part of the world, especially when a handshake is offered. She seemed incapable of small talk. If she didn’t offend a person, she creeped them out. And when she did talk, it was to make an insulting—albeit totally valid—comment.

When Devron Stokes came by to pick up his Chevy, she told the man he didn’t know how to drive a manual transmission and that’s why his blew out prematurely. She suggested he take driving lessons or ride a bike.

He was not amused.

Shelly had managed to rebuild his transmission by engineering and casting replacement parts on her own, saving the man a boatload of money, and us a ton of time.

See what I mean?

Talented.

We’d all been super impressed. If she hadn’t been mean, I might’ve asked her to teach me. But she was mean. Thus, I didn’t ask.

Case in point, when Mrs. Simmons brought her car in with a note from her husband with just “710” written on it, Shelly turned it upside down, pointed to the scrawled handwriting, and said, “It says oil, not 710.”

In this case, it wasn’t what Shelly said that was the problem, it was how she said it.

When Mrs. Simmons—who happened to be Darlene’s momma—responded with, “Watch your tone, missy. I’ve a mind to teach your smart mouth a thing or two.”

Shelly’s glare sharpened. Clearly she didn’t like Mrs. Simmons’s tone either, and her response made the older woman turn bright red. “You planning on teaching me how to speak idiot?”

Not helping matters, Duane unsuccessfully stifled a laugh at these words, drawing Mrs. Simmons’s ire. Duane never laughed.

Since Cletus wouldn’t do anything about the woman, Duane and I had worked out a system to keep Shelly hidden from view. That meant one of us were present in the shop at all times, just to be sure, and productivity had suffered.

Scratching my neck, I glanced at Cletus. He was across the church lot, chatting with Judge Payton and Carter McClure. My peculiar brother liked to play shuffleboard with the old folks at the senior center every Sunday and I’d volunteered to drive him over there today.

Or rather, he’d volunteered me to drive him, saying I needed exposure to wisdom, and sports without balls, whatever that meant. And I’d agreed, because I wanted to press the Shelly issue.

“I’ll figure something out.” I shrugged.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Let me help.”

I shook my head. “There’s nothing for you to do.”

“I’m not leaving for a few more weeks, maybe I can—”

“Forget about it. I’m driving Cletus to the senior center, let me bring up the idea of a front office person on the way over.”

“I don’t get it, it’s like he doesn’t even notice how rude she’s being.” Duane’s face scrunched with dissatisfaction.

“Maybe he doesn’t care.”

“He’d care if he took the time to notice. He’s definitely fixating on something.”

I nodded my agreement. We’d learned over the years to leave Cletus be when he was on one of his fixation rampages, but this thing with Shelly was time-sensitive. At this rate, we wouldn’t have any customers left in a few months.

My brother eyed me. “Do you think it has to do with what Jethro said the other night?”

“What?” I didn’t know what he meant at first, but then I remembered our recent gathering at the newly renovated carriage house. “Oh, you mean about Cletus having a lady friend?”

“Yeah.”

Jethro had hinted that Cletus was preoccupied with a woman, but I couldn’t get out of my oldest brother who the woman was.

On the one hand, I didn’t like the idea of Cletus being distracted because of a woman. He was the only one—other than me—who hadn’t made big changes in his life over the last year. But on the other hand, when or if the identity of Cletus’s lady was revealed, we’d all be able to meddle with Cletus like he’d been meddling with us. And that was a cause I could get behind.

“I don’t know,” I said distractedly, fiddling with my keys.

“I think Jethro was right.”

Something about the way he’d said the words caught my attention. “Do you know who she is?”

Rather than answering the question, Duane lifted his chin toward Drew Runous. “If Cletus doesn’t listen, you might need to go to Drew.”

In addition to being our sister’s intended—though they weren’t yet officially engaged—Drew was a part owner—a silent partner—in the Winston Brothers Auto Shop. He’d bankrolled the upfront costs. But he was very hands-off, trusting Cletus with the business side, and Duane and me with the getting stuff done side.

“Don’t worry about it, Duane.”

“Promise you’ll go to Drew.”

“Fine. If it comes to it, I’ll talk to Drew.”

As soon as I made the promise, Duane’s stern expression cleared.

“Do you want me to come with you? To the senior center? Maybe if we both talked to Cletus, and he was trapped . . .”

Smiling at my twin, I shook my head. “Nah. You need to drive Jess home. And, besides, I think Roscoe was looking forward to spending some time with y’all.”

Our youngest brother, Roscoe, was in town from vet school because this week marked the one-year anniversary of our mother’s death. Ashley had sent a group text message earlier in the week, saying, Dinner on Tuesday the 4th at home. Please be there or I’ll be forced to wax your beard from your face. You know I will… XOXO Ash

So, in addition to everything else going wrong recently, I had that to look forward to.

“We need to go.” Cletus’s firm demand cut through our discussion and we both glanced at our older brother as he approached. He walked past without pausing, clearly expecting me to follow.

Duane and I shared an eye-roll, but I detected a hint of amusement in his expression. Or maybe it was nostalgia.

And it struck me in that moment how quickly Duane’s departure was approaching. We basically had six weeks left and then he’d be gone for a long, long, long time.

“It’s almost shuffleboard time, Beau,” Cletus called back to me, waving me forward like my lack of movement was a direct affront to his person. “Quit making eyes at your mirror image.”

“Are you sure you want to leave all this?” I asked Duane as I pulled my keys from my pocket.

“Oh, I’ll be back.” My brother glanced over his shoulder at the sound of Jessica’s laughter, and when he turned to me again, his expression was a little smug and a little hazy. “But maybe not for a while.”

PULLING INTO THE senior center parking lot, Cletus pointed to a space by the shuffleboard court. “I want to arrive before Judge Payton. He always takes the southernmost court and I want that court.”

My brother hadn’t been in a talking mood on the drive over and I knew better than to bring up hiring a receptionist given his disposition. We drove in silence, with Cletus staring silently out the passenger window.

We’d have to butter him up first. Maybe have Duane make blueberry pancakes, or pretend like we enjoyed his foul coffee. Then, we’d spring the idea on him.

I navigated to the spot he’d indicated, and that’s when I noticed Mrs. Cooper’s Cadillac parked awkwardly, taking up three spaces in a mostly empty part of the lot.

Cletus jumped out of my GTO as soon as it stopped, grabbing his shuffleboard stick—or whatever it was called—from the backseat. “Come on. You can come play, too. We’ll bond.”

As I stood from my car, I motioned to Mrs. Cooper’s Caddy. “Look at that. What do you think is going on there?”

Cletus didn’t get a chance to answer, because the lady in question appeared. “Oh, thank goodness. The Winston boys.” She sounded frantic.

“Mrs. Cooper.” Cletus performed a perfunctory bow at the waist, then darted around her. “Beau is ready to be of assistance.”

“Uh, sure. How can I help?” I tracked my brother, glaring at his hasty retreat. He faced me at the last minute, just before walking through the gate leading to the courts, and gave me a salute.

Sneak.

“It’s my Cadillac, dear. It’s smoking and making strange sounds. Can you take a look?” She already had her keys out and was walking toward the classic automobile.

“Of course.” I gave her a friendly grin and was happy to see some of the worry between her eyebrows ease.

Now, I’ve known Mrs. Cooper my whole life. She used to be in my momma’s poetry group at the library and my momma loved the lady. But it wasn’t until I was nineteen, and Mrs. Cooper pinched my backside and winked at me, that I understood what my brother Billy meant when he’d called the woman a cougar.

Keeping this in mind, I gestured for the lady—eighty years old if she was a day—to precede me to the car. First, because it was good manners and my mother raised me right. And second, because she was impressively agile for her age. Hell, she was impressively agile for a thirty-year-old. I didn’t want to get pinched.

Giving me a saucy grin, Mrs. Cooper sashayed toward her car, waiting for me to fall into step next to her.

“Ladies first?” she asked.

“Come on now, Mrs. Cooper,” I grinned at her, “you’re no lady.”

She laughed, clearly thrilled, and her melodic laughter put me in a good mood.

“Then you should go first.” She motioned for me to precede her.

“Nope.” I shook my head, giving her a wink. “Beauty before youth.”

She liked that answer, too. Her smile persisted, as though pleased with me and the world, while I checked under her hood.

Thankfully, the problem with her car was obvious upon inspection.

“I’m afraid you’ve got an oil leak.”

“Oh. Is that very bad?”

“Not terrible. It’s a slow leak, but not very slow. I can patch it in the short-term and refill the oil as a temporary solution. We’ll have to tow your car to the shop today. I can’t work on it here. Then I’ll order the part and get you fixed up by the end of next week if you can bring her back in.”

“That’s fine.” Mrs. Cooper flashed me a big, grateful smile, her hands fiddling with the long strand of pearls at her neck.

Course of action decided, I escorted Mrs. Cooper to the shuffleboard courts, informed Cletus of the plan, and drove the GTO to the shop.

On the way, my alarm went off on my phone, a reminder to send Darlene a text message. Turning off the alarm, I noticed I had a missed call and a text message from Drill. He was hounding me about setting up a meeting with Christine St. Claire.

Ignoring his messages, I fired off a quick, Thinking of you, how’s your day? Let me know if you have time for a call later to Darlene as I walked across the gravel lot to the garage, tucking my phone in my pocket when I was done. Darlene didn’t usually text back right away, and she never called, so there was no use waiting for her response.

What to do about Darlene had been on my mind. We’d texted sporadically since our weekend together over two weeks ago, but we hadn’t spoken on the phone. More and more, whenever I thought about things with her, I was confused rather than irritated by her apparent lack of interest in speaking to me. Her text messages were always playful, sometimes overtly suggestive, but she never volunteered anything real about herself.

I’d set myself daily reminders to send her a message, thinking that maybe—if I increased my frequency of contact—she’d take things between us more seriously and make time.

Unlocking and entering through the front office, thoughts of Darlene dissipated, replaced with a mental tally of how many quarts of oil I had on hand for Mrs. Cooper’s Cadillac. I navigated to the interior of the garage and up the steps to the second-floor workspace. We had a row of lockers on the far wall where we each kept coveralls, a change of clothes and such.

Working quickly, I unbuttoned my dress shirt, unbuckled my belt, unzipped my pants, and removed my Sunday clothes. I was lamenting the fact that I didn’t have an extra pair of boots when I saw the door open in my side vision.

I assumed it was Duane. It never entered my mind that Shelly Sullivan could be the one walking in.

But that’s who it was.

I did a double take and gave the woman a startled frown. For her part, she appeared to be equally startled, her lips parting, her gaze growing wide as it moved over me.

My brain needed two beats of my heart to recover from meeting her gaze—as usual—and then another five to realize she hadn’t moved. She was still staring. Specifically, she was staring at my torso and her attention was moving lower.

My frown deepened as I glanced down, wondering what in tarnation this belligerent individual considered fascinating about my black boxers. Finding nothing amiss, I returned my glare to her, ready to ask what her problem was.

But the words died on my tongue as I studied her face. Her cheeks and neck red and rosy with a blush, she blinked quickly, several times. Plainly embarrassed, she hadn’t come to her senses enough to avert her gaze, but it was obvious she was trying.

A jolt of awareness, or something akin to it, caused me to tense.

I hadn’t forgotten that Shelly Sullivan was a woman, but her being female had ceased to matter the day we met. She’d become an irritant—a thorn in my side, a pain in my neck—not a flesh-and-blood woman with eyes for noticing a man.

And then, suddenly, she did move, casting her eyes to the floor. I watched as she struggled to swallow, her jaw set like she was determined to . . . Lord, if I knew.

Unable to help myself, I silently scrutinized this strange creature. She closed the door behind her with precise movements. Her chest expanded and she lifted her chin, avoiding my gaze and crossing to her locker.

I leaned against mine, crossing my arms and cocking my head to the side, brazenly studying her. She was strange. I knew people. Intrinsically, without much thinking about it, I knew what made them tick. I knew how to charm them, make them happy, and make them feel special.

My read on Miss Sullivan as an arrogant and vain human-porcupine hybrid had been reinforced with every single interaction since we’d met. And I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Shelly Sullivan disliked me just as much as I disliked her. Yet, her appreciation for my body had been clear as day—both a moment ago based on how she was looking at me, and now based on how she was pretending I didn’t exist—and that was entirely unexpected.

While I inspected her, she opened her locker, took out a pair of coveralls, draped them over the locker door, and then whipped her dress over her head.

I took that as my cue to avert my eyes.

Which I did.

Because I’m a gentleman.

But not before I comprehended a flash of black lace and flawless, bronze skin stretched over her long, beautiful form.

My neck heated. I felt her eyes on me, or I thought I did, but I didn’t check to confirm. Not only was I a gentleman, but I had intentions for another lady. Noticing Miss Sullivan as anything other than an irritant was both problematic and inappropriate.

Nevertheless, I did notice her.

And then some.

Hot everywhere, my body restless, I used that hot restlessness to hasten my progress. Try as I might, I couldn’t turn my mind from wondering whether she always wore lacy underwear beneath her coveralls. And, if so, why? Or for whom?

She didn’t say a word and neither did I. We dressed in tandem, both facing the interior of our lockers, not more than four feet from each other. All the while I was plagued with increasingly inconvenient thoughts about this woman I couldn’t stand.

I finished before she did, slamming my locker shut harder than intended after grabbing my work boots. Seeing no need for small talk, especially since I’d never seen the woman suffer small talk, I left, waiting until I was in the downstairs office to pull on my shoes.

A deep breath was required, followed by another. My mind in chaos, I told it to hush, reminding myself I was in a hurry.

If I didn’t want to spend all Sunday working on Mrs. Cooper’s Cadillac, I needed to get moving, and I couldn’t afford pointless contemplations about Shelly Sullivan slowing me down.

MRS. COOPER DECIDED to ride along on my return trip to the shop. She brought her notebook—for writing poetry—and I didn’t mind the company. I liked that she wrote poetry. It reminded me of my momma and my sister, both of whom shared a love for reading and writing poetry.

“Thank you for giving up your Sunday for me.” Mrs. Cooper held my arm as we traversed the gravel lot.

“It’s nothing at all. You know I like to help.” I disentangled her hand to open the roller door, careful to keep my backside out of her reach. We were on the cusp of real autumn weather. It wasn’t hot, I just didn’t want Mrs. Cooper sitting in the garage without some ventilation.

“Your momma raised you right.” I could hear the smile in her voice and my suspicion was confirmed as I turned around, having lifted the door on its track. “Your momma could be a pistol when she needed to be. But that wasn’t her. At heart, she was a sensitive soul.”

Both my momma and sister could hold their own, and often showed a tough face to the world. I liked their sensitive sides the best. Ready with a hug, a soft touch, a secret hope to share. A precarious balance between sweet and sassy, I was convinced women of their quality were one in a million.

Granted, I loved them. I might’ve been biased.

Try as I might, I couldn’t return the older woman’s smile. The corners of my mouth turned downward and I admitted before I could catch the words, “I miss her.”

Mrs. Cooper tsked, the curve of her lips and the twinkle in her eyes turning soft, almost maternal. “Of course you do.”

“I wish she would’ve . . . left my daddy sooner.” Again, I was speaking without thinking, but why censor myself? Mrs. Cooper had known me a long time—my entire life in fact—and it was a relief that she didn’t require a smile from me in that moment.

I supposed that’s what I was looking for in Darlene, someone I wouldn’t need to smile with all the time.

Eventually we’d get there.

Maybe.

If she’d return your calls.

“Some folks would say your momma was too free with her regard, too forgiving. And they might be right.”

“They are right, she was.”

“But, Beau, if she’d been any different, she wouldn’t have been herself.” She reached for my hand, squeezing it. “And then Roscoe wouldn’t be here, or Ashley, or Cletus.”

“Or me and Duane,” I added, conceding her point.

Abruptly, her eyes widened, searching mine, and her smile wavered. When she spoke, she did so haltingly. “Uh . . . yes. Of course. Well, you wouldn’t be who you are, that’s for certain.”

Her response struck me as strange, and I was about to question her further when a cacophony of profanities cut through the moment.

Glancing over my shoulder, I searched for the voice—a voice that wasn’t quite human—as it went from referring to my momma in unpleasant terms to telling me what I should go do to myself. And, as though once weren’t enough, it told me what I should go do to myself several times.

Over and over.

Facing the garage fully, I searched for the spewer of the obscenities. The rattle of metal against metal, plus something that resembled the flapping our chickens made when they thought they could fly, sounded from the left side of the garage.

Squinting in the dim light, the perpetrator came sharply into focus, and I made eye contact with the source of the lewd suggestions.

It was a parrot, perched on a Pontiac. And he—or she—was glaring at me through one eye.

And then it screeched, “Darin, you asshole!”

“What in the hell . . .”

“Hell! Hell! Hell! Hell! Go to hell!”

“Oh my!” Mrs. Cooper clamped her hand over her mouth and I settled an arm around her waist, wanting to protect her from . . . I wasn’t sure.

The demon parrot?

The fowl’s foulness?

Movement toward the back of the garage caught my notice. Shelly Sullivan—fully clothed in coveralls and work boots—was jogging toward us, her long hair loose around her shoulders. For all the ruckus she was making it sounded like she had ten legs.

“Oh, Beau. Look at the dogs.” Mrs. Cooper grinned, pointing at two mammoth beasts, black as midnight.

Sure, those could have been dogs. To me, they looked more like galloping bears with their tongues hanging out.

On instinct, I pulled Mrs. Cooper closer, shielding her with my side when it became clear the “dogs” were running right for us. In their exuberance to greet strangers, the canines had absolutely no compunction about jumping up on folks.

I wasn’t a small guy. I was six two, just shy of two hundred pounds, most of it muscle. But as two sets of gigantic paws landed on my back and side, I was glad I’d set my feet apart and braced for impact. Mrs. Cooper would’ve surely fallen and broken something if I hadn’t been there, and that had me fuming.

“Laika, Ivan, come!” Shelly’s command was followed by a sharp whistle.

Ignoring her, the huge canines bounced, pouncing again. One of them licked my neck, the other my cheek, and I grunted under the force of their second jump, setting my teeth and sending a disapproving glare to Shelly.

Yeah, my heart faltered two beats as our eyes met, like always. But I was too busy protecting the little old lady in my arms to think much of it. Especially since that little old lady was squealing with laughter.

Finally, she reached for their collars, pulling them away and kneeling to wrap staying arms around their barrel chests. “Shh. Calm down now.”

“My, oh my,” Mrs. Cooper said, still clinging to me as she peeked around my body. “My heart hasn’t had a workout like that since Jake Templeton was my mailman.”

I did not want to know what that meant.

“What’s the breed?” I asked, glaring at my coworker. “Grizzly?”

For a split second, and likely my imagination, I thought I saw the side of Shelly’s mouth tick up. But just as fast, all trace of amusement disappeared. Dear Lord. If she smiled . . . that could be catastrophic to anyone in its path.

“They’re a newfie-mastiff mix.”

“Are you sure they’re not part sasquatch?” Mrs. Cooper laughed, apparently delighted and coming completely around me. “Can I pet them?”

“I don’t think Beau would like that.” Shelly’s eyes flickered to mine and then away, her arms straining where she held the animals. I couldn’t help but notice, Shelly didn’t seem to have a problem holding two big, dirty dogs. And yet, she couldn’t be bothered to shake hands with a human.

“Ta! Don’t mind him. He’s just protective of me.” My momma’s friend winked at me, adding in a loud whisper, “He’s my boyfriend.”

Shelly’s eyebrows jumped a tick on her forehead and she looked to me as though for confirmation.

I nodded, giving Mrs. Cooper the devilish grin I knew thrilled her. “That’s right. But I’m just one of her many admirers.”

“Oh now.” Mrs. Cooper giggled, smacking me lightly on the bicep. Her hand lingering a bit too long while she squeezed my upper arm, adding appreciatively, “You’ve been working out, Beauford.”

I squinted at the old bird and was about to tease her when the real bird in the garage chose that moment to blurt out, “Darin! You asshole!”

Glancing at the parrot where it still perched on the Pontiac, I grimaced. “What’s the bird’s name?”

I heard Shelly clear her throat before saying, “It used to be Darin.”

This revelation earned her a long, curious look, the moment stretching while Shelly met my stare silently, swallowing twice while I studied her.

The bird was the first to speak. “Cocks are for closers.”

Mrs. Cooper barked a laugh at that, drawing my attention to her big smile. “He has a very colorful vocabulary, does he not?”

“But I renamed him Oliver.” Shelly lifted her chin, her eyes growing flinty. “He’s a rescue.”

My companion studied Shelly for a tick before saying kindly, “Well, I think he’s wonderful. And where are my manners? I am Mrs. Annabell Cooper, but you can call me Bell.”

Luckily, the older woman didn’t extend a hand for a shake, likely because Shelly’s arms were still full of energetic dog. Even so, I tensed in readiness for one of her insults.

Again, Shelly’s eyes darted to mine and then away, coming to rest on Mrs. Cooper’s shoes. “Nice to meet you, Bell.”

Uh . . . what?

You could’ve knocked me over with a feather.

I’m sure I was gaping at the woman. Truth be told, I was full-on befuddled. And I couldn’t say how long I stared at Shelly, either. All I knew was, as she returned my stare with her trademark lack of expression, I was ensnared by the realization that her irises weren’t just blue, she had a beauty mark on her left cheek, her bottom lip was larger than her top, and her hair didn’t have streaks of blonde, but rather streaks of gold.

I was struck dumb. As such, it took me a while to realize Mrs. Cooper was filling the silence.

“. . . towed my Caddy—that’s it there, on the back of the truck—it has an oil leak but he says I should be able to drive home with it today, though I might have to come back next week to get it sorted. Isn’t that nice?”

I was having all sorts of crazy thoughts.

Maybe she’s not that bad.

Maybe I’ve misjudged Shelly Sullivan.

Maybe Cletus is right.

Maybe we just started out on the wrong foot.

But then the woman turned her icicle eyes to Mrs. Cooper and said, “You’re very old. You should not be driving.”

“Ah, yes,” I exhaled, rolling my eyes as I mumbled, “there she is.”

And all was right in the universe once more.

“Pardon?” Mrs. Cooper looked between us, visibly confused.

“I said, maybe you shouldn’t be driving. You’re very—”

“That’s enough,” I bit out, sending Shelly a glare most people couldn’t misinterpret.

Not to be ignored, Oliver chimed in, “Cocks are for closers. Bend over, fuckface!”

I released a humorless laugh, sighing again, and turning from the royal pain in my ass. “It’s crowded in here today, Mrs. Cooper. How about I get you settled in the front office? We have coffee, or would you like tea?”

I led my momma’s friend from the garage while Oliver’s obscene suggestions followed us. Yeah, I would need to speak with Shelly about the parrot.

“I’ll take mint tea, if you have it.”

If she thinks she’ll be bringing that loud-mouthed parrot into the garage during regular work hours, she has another thing coming.

“But if you don’t have mint, I’m fine with decaf coffee.”

And I swear, if Cletus gives me shit about this, I’ll quit. I’ll cash out and quit and open my own shop.

Mrs. Cooper tugged on my arm, bringing us both to a stop and forcing my attention to her.

“Beau.”

“Yes? Mint tea, right?”

Mrs. Cooper studied me, her smile more a press of lips than a grin. “You know what I like best about growing older?”

“What’s that?” I blinked at her, trying to focus on what she was saying. My mind was elsewhere, concocting scenarios that would lead to the eventual firing of Miss Shelly Sullivan.

“Before a person even opens their mouth to speak,” Mrs. Cooper’s grin widened, “I already know whether or not they’re an asshole.”

A giant smile split my face and I laughed. “I’m sorry about Shelly, ma’am. She’s not—”

“Honey, that woman isn’t an asshole.” Mrs. Cooper took a step toward me, gathering one of my hands in hers and making sure I was giving her my eyes before she continued. “She’s afraid. Lashing out. Maybe even wounded. I guarantee . . .” The older woman looked to the side, drawing my attention along her line of sight.

Shelly was scratching one of her dogs behind the ears. She kissed the mammoth beast and leaned close, whispering words in its ear as she patted its head. The dog ate it up, licking her face, its tail wagging wildly.

She smiled.

And the sight of her smile blinded me. It was brilliant.

“I guarantee there’s more to that one than meets the eye.”

6

“Those who cannot change their minds cannot change anything.”

― George Bernard Shaw

*Beau*

“WHAT ARE YOU doing out here?”

Glancing over my shoulder, I found my sister hovering in the doorway. I was sitting on the porch steps, facing the acreage at the back of our family’s property.

Well, Jethro’s property.

Our oldest brother, Jethro, had inherited the homestead last year, a big old sprawling farmhouse set on fifteen acres, backing up to the Great Smoky Mountains National Forest. A field of wildflowers separated our land from the yellow buckeyes, red maples, basswoods, white ash, and black birches, all of which were clinging stubbornly to their summer colors.

Fall hadn’t arrived. It wasn’t chilly. The air was temperate and dry. A light breeze touched the field, enough to gently rustle the flowers yet not strong enough to steal their petals. Nonetheless, I was cold.

I’d placed my hands between my legs as I stared up at the stars. It had been cold this time last year, colder than was typical. I remembered despite my fierce desire to forget, because this was the anniversary of our mother’s death.

None of us had called it an anniversary dinner, nor had anyone explicitly brought up the fact that today was the day. But that’s what it was. Conversation over dinner had been subdued. To lighten the mood, I’d taken it upon myself to tell some dirty jokes. Sienna and Jessica then took the ball and ran with it, lifting everyone’s spirits.

Jennifer Sylvester—a bit of a local celebrity known for her award-winning banana cakes—had shown up unexpectedly just after dinner. She’d brought a cake (not a banana cake) as well as other various and sundry baked goods.

The unannounced interruption gave everyone something else to occupy their thoughts, and I’d been able to slip out of the family room undetected. Until now.

“Hey, Ash. I’m just looking at the stars and listening to the bugs.” I gave her a welcoming grin and patted the wood next to me. “Plenty of room if you want to sit.”

She was backlit by the kitchen. Even though I couldn’t see her expression, I sensed she was hesitating.

Eventually, she closed the door behind her. “Why’re you avoiding everybody?”

“I’m not.”

“Really? Because it feels like you are.” She crossed to me and sat, wrapping her arms around her drawn-up legs.

“Because I came out here for fresh air?”

“No. Because other than telling jokes at dinner and introducing Jennifer Sylvester to everyone, you haven’t said more than three words.”

My eyes were on the sky, but I could feel my sister’s stare moving over my profile. I considered a lighthearted remark to make her feel better. Instead, I said nothing. I hoped she’d assume it was the anniversary of our mother’s death that had me quiet.

And that wouldn’t be a lie, because the day had been difficult. I couldn’t stop remembering the last time I’d kissed my mother. Or how we’d gathered around her hospital bed in the den a few nights before she died; we told terrible jokes about chickens and roosters, and that was the last time she’d laughed. And then the moment I saw Ashley’s face and knew Momma was gone, I remembered that, too.

But it wasn’t only the memories that had driven me outside.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I shook my head, reaching for her and tucking her under my arm. She rested her head on my shoulder and cuddled close to my side.

I didn’t know what to say. The pinch in my lungs had grown over the last few weeks, making me feel like I had one of those thick rubber bands around my chest.

“I wish you’d talk to me, Beau. I’m a good listener and I promise I’m good at keeping secrets.”

Maybe it was due to her warmth seeping into my side, easing some of the cold and tightness in my chest, but without thinking too much about it, I said, “I don’t know what to do about a woman.”

And then I grimaced because as soon as the words left my mouth, an image of Shelly Sullivan flashed behind my mind’s eye. And that didn’t make a lick of sense. Shelly wasn’t the woman on my mind.

Or rather, she’d been on my mind, but she wasn’t who I was referring to.

Does she have friends in town? Does she have more pets besides the foul-mouthed demon bird and the hounds from hell? What does she do after she goes home from the shop? Is she alone? Is she lonely?

Ashley shifted a little, lifting her chin to look up at me. “Who is she?”

Shoving aside the bombardment of never ending questions about Shelly Sullivan, I forced my mind to the woman I should’ve been thinking about. “You know Darlene Simmons?”

“What? Why? No! No way.” My sister stiffened, pulling away and shaking her head adamantly, continuing in a higher pitch, “Of course I know Darlene, Beau. She was in my grade and made my life a living hell in high school. Please don’t tell me you’re hooking up with Darlene Simmons?”

The band around my chest tightened and I rubbed my face. I hadn’t known Darlene had mistreated Ashley during high school. I’d been more interested in teasing my sister than protecting her from hurts when we were growing up.

“I’m sorry, Ash. I didn’t know you and Darlene had a history.”

“No. I’m sorry.” She held up her hands between us. “I’m being a dummy. It was high school and I should let it go.” Despite her words, my sister still sounded irritated.

“Well, I like her. We’re not just hooking up.”

Ashley groaned and then caught herself, swallowing the end of it. But before she could say anything, I corrected myself.

“Actually, I guess we are just hooking up.” I stared out at the field, the shadows of wildflowers against the inky darkness of the forest beyond. “I told her I want to be exclusive and she said she needs time to think about it.”

“When was that?”

“A few weeks ago.” I rubbed my jaw.

My sister stared at me, saying nothing. The buzz of cicadas and chirps of crickets rose to fill the silence.

Finally, she sighed. “I’m sorry, you caught me unawares. Let me back up for a sec.” Wrapping her arm around mine she squeezed. “Okay, so. Tell me why you like Darlene Simmons.”

“She’s smart.”

“Okay. What else?”

“Did you know she’s in med school?”

“You like her because she’s in med school?”

I shrugged. “Not really, but it does mean she’s focused. Mature. Has a plan for her life.”

Ashley snorted lightly. “Just ’cause someone is a medical doctor doesn’t mean they’re mature.”

Bumping her shoulder with mine I gave her a little grin. “You know what I mean.”

She grumbled something I didn’t catch, then asked, “What’s her specialty? Or has she chosen one?”

“She’s applied for a program in anesthesiology.”

My sister’s reaction to this news was to stare forward with her lips rolled between her teeth. She did this when she was struggling against an unkind impulse.

After a moment, she asked in a meticulously even tone. “Okay, she’s smart. What else do you like?”

I shrugged, realizing I hadn’t given the subject much thought before now. “I’ve known her for a long time, and she likes me. She asked me out a few times this last year, whenever she visited her folks in town.”

“So, you like that she likes you?”

“I guess so.”

Ashley’s eyebrows did a weird thing on her forehead. “But what do you have in common?”

I struggled with that one, lamely saying, “She likes my car,” and then I winced because that sounded even worse out loud than it had in my head.

Damn.

“Beau.”

Taking a deep breath, I turned a rueful smile on my sister. “Ashley.”

She mimicked my grin, cupping my jaw and shaking her head at me like she thought I was cute. “Do you really like this woman? Really?”

“She’s . . . fine.”

My sister sputtered a laugh. “What is going on? As far as I’m aware, this would be the first time you’ve wanted to be exclusive with anyone, right?”

I nodded, turning my attention to my hands. “If you don’t count my ten or so girlfriends in middle and high school, then yes. That is correct.”

Contrary to popular belief around town, I wasn’t one to sleep around. At all.

Yeah, I flirted. I always had a date when I needed one. But other than my last two girlfriends in high school, I hadn’t had sex with anyone.

Darlene and I had messed around on our dates in Green Valley and when I visited her in Nashville, but I’d been holding out on moving to the next step until she gave me assurances.

Andrea Poole was the last, and for good reason.

Duane and Billy were the only ones who knew the story about Andrea, about what had happened between us, and I wasn’t of a mind to discuss the details with Ash.

“I’m not counting your girlfriends in high school, because you were just a kid and were never serious about those girls. Then why, as a man, are you settling for someone who is merely fine? You should be with someone amazing.”

When I said nothing, she added, “You know you can have your pick of anybody.”

I rolled my eyes at my sister’s statement, sighing, which just caused her to shove my shoulder. “Don’t huff at me, Beau. You know it’s true. Everywhere we go in this town—and out of it for that matter—all the ladies swoon over your smiles.” Tucking her folded hands under her chin, she batted her long, dark eyelashes at me.

“Quit it, Ash.” Duane and Hank’s teasing was one thing, but coming from my sister those statements made me tetchy.

Girls liked me, this was true. But I didn’t want a girl, I wanted a woman. I wanted what Jethro had, what Duane had, and what Drew had with my sister.

She laughed at my expression, shoving my shoulder again. “Why Darlene?”

Out of nowhere, and before I knew what I was saying, I blurted, “What if there is no one else?”

“What?”

“I’m stuck.” I swallowed on the last word, my neck hot with the admission.

Ashley flinched. “You’re stuck?”

“Jethro has Sienna. They’re perfect together, getting married, have a baby on the way. He’s moved out to the carriage house. Things are happening. And then there’s Billy. He’s been promoted twice this last year and people are talking about a run for state senate. We hardly see him because he’s too busy. And then you and Drew have each other, and it’s like you were made for each other. You moving back here last year, living together, you’ll probably get married next year.” This last part came out sounding like an accusation and I didn’t know why.

And I didn’t know why my heart was beating fast, or why the rubber band around my chest had tightened, making breathing difficult.

“Honey—”

“Duane has Jess, and she’s all he ever wanted. They’re leaving—he’s leaving—before Thanksgiving.” I needed to clear my throat before I could continue and I shifted my attention to my hands. “His entire world has changed, opened up, and he has what he’s always wanted. I want to be happy for him. And then Roscoe,” I gestured to the house behind us, “graduated college. He’s going to vet school. He’s grown up, moving on with his life.”

Ashley covered my hands with hers. “Oh, Beau.”

I cleared my throat again and reminded myself I wasn’t angry with Ashley. I wasn’t angry with the rest of my family either, for living life, for finding their soulmates, for moving forward.

When I spoke next, I made sure to keep my voice even and returned my eyes to Ashley. “Cletus is the only one—other than me—who hasn’t changed. Except, you’ve noticed, right? He’s been different. He’s fixating on something. Jethro thinks it’s a woman. Sure, he’s being sneaky, playing the banjo Friday nights at the jam session and shuffleboard on Sunday, same as before. But how long is that going to last?”

A kind smile stole over her lips and behind her eyes. “Keep in mind, Cletus doesn’t much like change. When he changes, it’ll be kicking and screaming the whole way.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t be happy to hear that, but I am.” I huffed a laugh, shaking my head and giving my gaze back to the sky. “I’m not opposed to change. I’m ready for things to change. I guess I hate being the only one stuck.”

“But settling for someone, or pushing for more with a person you don’t have strong feelings for, isn’t the way to go about getting a jump-start on living life.”

“It’s like y’all are . . .” leaving me behind.

“What?”

I turned my palm up, captured my sister’s hand in mine and swallowed, unable to complete the thought. Ashley slowly sucked in a breath—the way she did when she was preparing to lecture me about something—but footsteps approaching from the side of the house derailed her.

We both turned, squinting at the darkness just beyond the ring of light provided by the porch lights. Our youngest sibling emerged. His attention was on the ground and he was wearing a distracted scowl.

“Roscoe?”

He stopped short at the sound of his name, wide eyes meeting Ashley’s, and then mine.

“Oh. Hey. Didn’t know y’all were out here.” He took a half-step back.

Ashley and I swapped a quick glance. She looked as suspicious and curious as I was.

“Where were you?”

“Huh?”

“Huh?” Ashley echoed, teasing him. This was classic Roscoe, pretending he didn’t hear or understand a question in order to delay answering it.

“It’s a simple question.” I grinned at our brother. “Do you need me to provide you with some multiple-choice options?”

Roscoe glared at me, but I could tell he was working to cover a smile.

He was our little brother, but he’d been taller than both Duane and me—and Cletus, and Ashley—since about fourteen. He was now the tallest, his height having eclipsed Jethro’s three years ago. His face was a younger, less world-weary version of Billy’s, but his rascally, good-natured disposition was the direct opposite of Billy’s stoic and oftentimes jaded temperament.

And this difference was understandable. We’d all worked to protect Roscoe from our father’s violence, and Billy had been the shield that saved all of us.

“Let’s see, option A: you were hunting snipe.” I rubbed my chin.

His glare intensified.

“Okay, option B: you were making love to a sheep.”

“Shut up, dummy.” Roscoe climbed the steps and sat next to Ashley.

“Option C: a sheep was making love to you?”

Ashley snort-laughed and Roscoe ignored me, skootching real close. As soon as Ashley was squeezed between us, he wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

“Roscoe! You have the entire step to sit on. Get off me.” She tried to shove him off, laughing at his antics.

“I want hugs.” He rested his big head on her little shoulder, like he used to do when they were little. He’d sit on her lap and she’d read him a book, or help him finger paint, or rock him to sleep.

Ashley really was the best.

Inspired by my brother, I wrapped my arms around her and placed my head on her shoulder as well.

“Oh good Lord,” she huffed. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she’d rolled her eyes. “Fine. Fine.” Her arms came up and encircled each of us, squeezing then rubbing our backs. “You’re a bunch of big babies.”

I took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of her perfume mixed with the aroma of apple pie and coffee. Of Ashley. Of a soft place I could count on. Of a person I loved.

I was so glad she’d decided to come home.

Why was it you never realized how much you would miss someone until they’d left?

7

“Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.”

― Edgar Allan Poe

*Beau*

ASH WAS RIGHT.

I was going to call things off with Darlene. I didn’t have strong feelings for her. I’d been using her, though I hadn’t realized until the talk with my sister. She wasn’t sure about being exclusive, and she’d been right.

Duane was fond of saying that the best thing about having Darrell Winston as a father was knowing what not to do.

“What would Darrell do? Once you figure it out, do the opposite,” he’d say.

That included being honorable, even when it was uncomfortable, even when it was inconvenient.

After thinking it over for a few days, I called Darlene Friday afternoon before my lunch break. I’d been working on a tricky engine rebuild all morning and decided my mood wasn’t going to improve as long as I had this hanging over me.

Darlene didn’t pick up, but then she never did when I called. I texted:

BEAU: Let me know when you can talk

I HADN’T EVEN TUCKED my phone away when it vibrated.

DARLENE: What’s up?

STARING DUMBLY at her unexpectedly quick reply, I figured she must’ve been someplace where she couldn’t talk but could text.

BEAU: Just let me know when you’re free for a phone call.

Darlene: Just text

Beau: It’s not something to text about

Darlene: Oh! U want phone sex?

BEFORE I COULD RESPOND, she sent through a picture of herself. Naked.

I choked on air, quickly responding.

BEAU: Don’t send any more pictures. I need to speak with you.

WHAT THE HELL? Had she just taken that picture? Or did she have nudes of herself on her phone? If so, I had to applaud her efficiency. Maybe I should hook up Darlene and Cletus.

DARLENE: Only answer ur call if u send naked pix

Beau: We need to talk.

Darlene: Naked pix first

Darlene: Don’t be such a prude

SCOWLING AT HER WORDS, I decided I should’ve saved the conversation for after lunch. I was more irritated by her messages than I had a right to be and that was likely due to being hungry.

BEAU: Just let me know when you have time for a call.

I TURNED MY SCREEN OFF, preparing to tuck the phone in my pocket, when it vibrated again. This time her number was flashing on the screen.

She was calling?

I answered.

Darlene spoke before I could. “What are you wearing?” I heard the light splashing of water, like she was in a swimming pool.

“Where are you?”

“I’m taking a bath.”

My irritation grew tenfold. “Then why didn’t you answer when I called?”

“Because I didn’t know you wanted phone sex,” she responded sweetly. “You know how sexy I think you are, what your body does to me. Send me a picture.”

“But you don’t pick up just to talk?”

“Come on, Beau.” I could hear the eye-roll in her voice. “What is there for us to talk about? You want to tell me about an interesting oil change?” She laughed at her own joke and my lungs filled with fire.

Unfuckingbelievable.

Well, clearly she didn’t have a high opinion of me. No worries there.

“I didn’t call for phone sex, Darlene.”

“Oh . . . Fine. Then what do you want?” She sounded irritated, as if she was . . . sulking. What the hell?

I didn’t laugh, but her shitty attitude was enough to ease any guilt I’d been harboring about what I had to do.

“I’m ending whatever this is we’re doing. I didn’t want to do this over text message, that’s why I insisted on the call. So, that’s it. Goodbye.”

“What?” I heard the sound of lapping water in the background, like she’d moved suddenly, and she made a strangled sound. “You’re not serious. Of course you want to see me again.”

“Nope. I’m serious.” And that was the truth.

I may not have been going to medical school like her, or vet school like Roscoe, or be senior vice president in charge of everything like Billy, but I wasn’t an idiot, and I wasn’t going to put up with being treated like one.

I listened as she gathered an audible inhale just before screeching, “You bastard!” followed by several key phrases that would’ve made Shelly’s profane parrot blush.

Moving the phone to my other ear, I released another tired breath as she ranted. Unfortunately, she kept on ranting, calling me every name under the sun, and some names I was pretty sure were only supposed to be used at night.

For my part, I didn’t understand why she was so upset. We’d barely spoken in weeks. She couldn’t even be bothered to pick up her phone. So why make a big stink now? Was it because of the naked picture? Or had I hurt her pride by calling things off?

I pulled the phone from my ear and checked the time while she continued her one-sided conniption fit. If this didn’t wrap up soon, I was going to miss lunch. Usually, the good manners drilled into me by my momma and Grandma Oliver demanded that I wait for a pause in conversation, allowing me to end the call as politely as possible.

But standing there, staring at the minutes tick by, I was all out of good manners. I didn’t want to waste another second on this deranged woman.

I hung up.

I turned off my phone—all the way off—and I tucked it in my back pocket. Then I wove through the cluttered garage, heading for my car in the front lot.

“Hey Beau,” Duane called as I passed, catching my attention.

I hadn’t noticed him there. I stopped abruptly, finding my twin poking his head out from under the hood of a Nissan.

“What’s up?” I asked as movement on the other side of the hood caught my attention.

Shelly.

I ground my jaw as our gazes connected and braced myself for the inevitable scattering of wits. It happened, but wasn’t as severe as normal. Maybe I was growing used to her attention since she took her blatant eyeful of me on Sunday. Or maybe my current irritation had made me impervious to Shelly Sullivan’s stare of doom.

“Where’re you going? Are you getting lunch?” Duane wiped his hands on a rag at his pocket.

“Yep. You want anything?”

His eyes skimmed over me, drilling into mine. I could see it was on the tip of his tongue to ask what was wrong. I shook my head subtly, knowing he read the meaning in my stare.

We’ll talk about it later.

“No, thanks.” He waved me off. “Jess is bringing me something. Just let me know when you get back for—uh—coverage. Also, Shelly has her Friday appointment this afternoon and has to leave early.”

That's right, Shelly's Friday appointment. They made Friday afternoons more bearable.

“Fine.” I moved to continue heading toward the parking lot, but an invisible weight held me back, had me stopping again, sighing, and glancing at Shelly. Just because she was rude didn’t give me license to be rude in return.

The woman still watched me, which was no surprise.

“Hey,” I called to her.

“Hi,” she responded immediately, almost too fast, like she’d been waiting for me to speak to her.

“Are you hungry? Do you want me to pick you up anything?”

She hesitated, or maybe she stopped herself from speaking, staring at me for several seconds before finally saying, “No, thank you.”

“Fine.” I nodded once.

That done, I turned from them both and stalked to my car, deciding to drive up the road to Daisy’s.

Hopefully, my sour mood would settle as soon as I had something in my stomach.

MY FOUL MOOD did not settle, and this was because—after waiting forty minutes for my order—Naomi Winters accidentally bumped into me outside of Daisy’s Nut House, causing me to drop my lunch all over the gravel lot. In truth, I broke her fall. She’d tripped over a cement parking marker.

I helped the woman right herself and escorted her into the busy restaurant. Once I made sure she was settled, I went out to the lot and cleaned up the mess. Out of time, I drove back to the shop both empty-handed and empty-stomached.

Placing another to-go order wasn’t an option. I knew Duane wouldn’t take his lunch until I returned; it wasn’t his fault I’d had a crappy day. Plus, I was fairly certain Cletus had hidden more protein bars in the file cabinet.

No biggie—I thought, as I endeavored to shrug off the events of the afternoon—I can make do.

And I would have made do, and everything would have been just fine.

Except—as I pulled up—I spotted Shelly Sullivan leaning over the engine I’d been working on before lunch. By the time I parked, I was wading through rage fueled by my earlier nasty confrontation with Darlene, plain-old bad luck, and hunger.

After getting yelled at by Darlene for fifteen minutes and dropping my lunch all over the parking lot, the last thing I wanted to do was talk to Shelly Sullivan. But I didn’t really have a choice.

“What are you doing?” I struggled to keep my tone even.

She glanced over her shoulder, giving me her profile and not meeting my eyes. “The distributor cap is rotating, which is making the pistons lose timing.”

“I know that.”

“I think if you welded a piece here,” she motioned to the engine, “that would keep the distributor from moving.”

Glaring at the woman, I poked my tongue at the inside of my cheek as I tried to quiet my temper. I spoke only when I was certain I wouldn’t raise my voice. “No, thank you.”

“I can engineer the piece for you.”

“No, thank you.”

“I have a welding studio.”

“No. Thank you,” I said through clenched teeth.

Shelly studied me, pressing her lips together and swallowing. At length, I went to move around her, considering the matter closed.

She said to my back, “I can help.”

Without turning and without thinking, I growled in response, “I don’t want your help.”

She persisted stubbornly, grabbing my sleeve and tugging me around. “Stop being idiotic.”

I shook off her hand and shoved my face in hers; she’d picked the wrong day to call me idiotic. “I’d rather be an idiot than a narcissistic pariah!”

At that she recoiled. It was one of the rare times since meeting the woman weeks ago that her expression was something other than aloof. Her eyes flashed with hurt and she winced, shocking the hell out of me. The sight surprised me to such an extent, my temper deflated instantly and a stab of guilt stole my breath, landed like a punch to my ribs.

Acting on instinct, I reached for her.

“Don’t touch me.” She evaded my grip, twisting away as Duane and Cletus jogged over.

“What in tarnation is going on?” Cletus inserted himself between us and pushed against my shoulders to edge me back.

Shelly’s gaze flickered to mine then to the floor, lowering to the cement of the garage. “Nothing.”

“No. Not nothing. Someone is going to tell me what happened,” Cletus wagged an accusing finger at us, “or else.”

I pulled my hand through my hair, biting back a curse and the urge to apologize. I would apologize, just not yet. Not until after I ate something and could guarantee I wouldn’t lose my temper again.

“Or else what?” Duane asked Cletus, his eyes on Shelly. “You going to keep us here all night?”

Cletus’s scowl intensified. Suddenly, he looked as frustrated as I’d felt just seconds ago and he snapped at Duane. “As nice as that sounds, I can’t rightly entertain you all evening, Du-ane. I’ve got something important to tend to at the jam session.”

“Something? Or someone?” Duane smirked, crossing his arms.

Cletus stared at my twin for several long seconds, giving me a chance to study Shelly. She’d shifted a few steps to the side and was presently less than three feet to my right. Her eyes were still on the ground and it looked like her jaw was clenched. The rest of her body was rigid and unmoving, except her hands.

The woman was pressing her thumbnail into the tender skin of her wrist, leaving red, semi-circular indentations in a neat line, one right after another.

I squinted at the skin on the interior of her forearm because there was something else; little white scars, one-inch lines, tidy rows of them, starting halfway down from the bend of her elbow and continuing all the way up as far as I could see.

Cuts. Those are scars of healed cuts.

Abruptly, she yanked the sleeve of her shirt, covering her arm and drawing my attention back to her face. I’d been caught staring. She was glaring at me again. Just like always, my thoughts scattered as soon as our eyes met.

And just like always—well, almost always—the impenetrable barricade between her and the world was firmly in place. Shelly Sullivan’s emotions were once more safely hidden behind a frozen façade.

8

“When we have suffered a long time, we have great difficulty in believing in good fortune.”

― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

*Shelly*

“HOW MANY HAIL MARYS are you saying these days?”

“Fifty-three.” I squirmed, because the number was actually fifty-four.

“That’s great news.” Dr. West smiled, as though to congratulate me.

This was in reference to a long-standing compulsion of mine to say a Hail Mary every night before bed for every person I knew, or was related to, or could remember meeting. I had a composition notebook with people’s names. If I didn’t pray for them, my obsessive thoughts told me that the person would die.

Before starting therapy seven months ago, I’d start the Hail Marys at 5:00 PM and finish just after 10:00 PM. Now I was finishing in an hour.

Dr. West was right. I’d improved. I’d trimmed the list down to just fifty-four. Fifty-four people I couldn’t not pray for.

I knew, I knew these thoughts were ridiculous. I knew it. I wasn’t crazy, I wasn’t. I didn’t believe my obsessive thoughts were actually true.

They’re irrational.

And yet . . . I couldn’t escape the persistent voice in my head that sometimes whispered, and sometimes screamed, and sometimes made me feel like I was covered in bee stings, What if it is true? What if someone dies because of you? What if? . . . Better be safe than sorry.

“That is good.” Her smile was gone, but her expression was gentle. I really liked her. She reminded me of my sister-in-law. Maybe not as charming, but just as honest, supportive, and straightforward.

Nevertheless, anxiety built a skyscraper in my chest until I couldn’t stand the pressure and I had to admit the truth. “It’s actually fifty-four. I was unkind to the local fire chief, so I added his name to the list.” I exhaled my relief at my confession.

“You were unkind?”

“He seemed really nice, but I just couldn’t shake his hand. It upset him.” I upset him. And I’d upset Beau as well. “I thought about sending him an anonymous fruit basket. Except I thought, what if he’s allergic to fruit? That’s like sending an anonymous death threat. Instead, I added him to the list.”

She gave me an encouraging smile. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Fifty-four is still really good.”

“You are right. But . . .”

“What?”

“I have a nephew who I can’t think about without worrying that I’m going to hurt him.”

“You’re not going to hurt him, Shelly.”

“But what if I do? What if my touching him causes something—”

“No.”

I pressed my thumbnail into the skin of my wrist, making an indentation.

If the marks are there, the baby will be okay.

“What are you thinking about?”

I shook my head, not wanting to answer, taking solace in the fresh half-moons on my skin.

“Are you marking yourself, Shelly?” Her voice was quieter than it had been a moment ago.

I had to answer. That was part of the deal we’d made when she agreed to take me as a patient. I’d promised to be honest.

“Yes.” I nodded, not looking at her. “With my nail.”

“Why?”

“The lines will keep the baby safe.” As soon as the words left my mouth I winced. I sounded completely crazy when I spoke these thoughts out loud.

“Do you believe that, honestly?” Dr. West was still speaking deliberately this week, presumably still counting most of her sentences to make sure they contained an odd-number of words.

“No. Yes. No.” Closing my eyes, I rubbed my forehead. I was exhausted. Tired of this. Tired of being this way. “I do not believe it. I know pressing my nails into my skin will not keep Desmond safe. I’m being stupid.”

“You’re not stupid. You know you’re not stupid. But you must be patient with yourself.” Three. Five. Seven.

Opening my eyes, I studied my therapist, my stomach a knot of remorse and frustration. “I’m sorry I need you to speak in odd-word numbered sentences.”

“It’s all right. I know you will not focus on me otherwise. Not yet, anyway.” She waved away my apology, her eyes sharpening. “Can we talk about your coworker again? The one you brought up last week. What’s his name?”

I swallowed, fighting the urge to remain silent.

I didn’t want to talk about him.

And yet, just like last time, I did want to talk about him. He made everything better. And worse. Chaotic. He made me feel . . . a lot.

I promised. I promised. I promised.

“Beau.”

“Tell me about Beau, please.” She scribbled something in her notes.

I shook my head.

“Please.”

I promised. I promised. I promised.

“He’s a mechanic.”

“You’re coworkers, Shelly?”

“Yes.”

I knew she’d added my name to the end of her question to ensure each of her sentences contained an odd number of words. I appreciated that. I appreciated her.

She wants to help. She wants to help. She wants to help.

“What does Beau look like?”

Instead of answering, I asked, “We’re working on how to stop obsessive thoughts?”

“Yes.”

“Then help me to stop.”

“Thinking about Beau?”

“Yes.”

She smiled weakly. “Shelly.”

“Your tone is very sympathetic.” I smirked at her, the curve of my mouth feeling rusty from disuse.

Her smile widened. “I hate to break it to you, but your thoughts about Beau don’t sound like a part of your OCD. That’s not how OCD works. Obsessive thoughts are completely irrational, they have no basis in reality and that’s why we never look for a root cause. They’re meant to be ignored, and eventually, you’ll be able to ignore most of them. Whereas, it seems like, based on how you described Beau a week ago, these thoughts and feelings you are having are completely rational. He sounds wonderful.”

I’d been so focused on her statements and readying my response to them, I forgot to count her words.

“They’re not rational. Beau has an identical twin. And I don’t have the same thoughts about him.”

Dr. West’s expression didn’t change. “What’s his name?”

“Duane.”

“And what is he like? Is he similar to Beau?”

“They’re almost identical, except Beau’s face looks older, wiser. Beau has laugh lines, wrinkles—does that make sense?”

“Yes. But other than what Duane looks like, what is he like? Does he smile, like Beau?”

“No. He never smiles.”

She nodded, looking to her notes and writing something down. “Is he always helping people? Is he friendly?”

“No. Duane is not particularly friendly.”

“Does he joke around . . . Shelly?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Do you think maybe it’s not just what Beau looks like that has you attracted to him? Maybe the strength of your attraction is because you like Beau? As a person?”

I glanced over her head again to the blank wall.

“You’ve been with men before? Yes?”

“Yes.”

“Haven’t you ever met someone—other than Beau—and had difficulty pushing them from your thoughts?”

“No.” I hadn’t hesitated in my answer, though it wasn’t strictly true. There had been other people I couldn’t stop thinking about. But not in the way Dr. West meant, not like Beau. So I added, “Not like Beau.”

“You have dated?”

I shifted my gaze back to my therapist, sliding my teeth to the side.

“Not really dated.” Once again, I didn’t lie, yet my response wasn’t entirely accurate either. I debated what to do, uncertain whether it was necessary to clarify that I’d gone on dates, but never because I liked the person.

“You’ve been intimate?” She started thumbing through her notes on our previous conversations.

“Yes. I’ve been intimate with lots of men.”

“And no one has occupied your thoughts like,” she paused, glancing at her first page of notes, “like Beau has?”

“I like sex, but I don’t like people.”

“That’s not true. You like people. You fear being close to people. Most of your fears, your obsessive thoughts and therefore compulsions, center around unintentionally hurting others. You have grown used to pushing people away—pushing people away is the compulsion—because you think it’s safer for them to keep their distance—concerns for their safety is the obsessive thought. People are not the problem. Your irrational obsessions, your worries about hurting people are the problem.”

“So, what do I do about Beau?”

She shrugged. “Ask him out.”

“Out?” My voice cracked and I was seized by panic. But this panic felt strange, different than my usual anxiety.

“To a meal. Ask him to have coffee, or dinner.”

“Eat food together?”

“Yes. Food. Together.”

“No, I can’t.” My voice cracked again.

“Why?”

“I think he might have a girlfriend.”

“You think, Shelly? Or you know?” Dr. West peered at me, and I understood that she thought I was making up an imaginary love interest for Beau.

“I think so.”

“But you don’t know so?”

“It doesn’t matter. He knows about . . .” He saw my arm.

I scratched the raised lines even though they didn’t itch, recalling the look in his eyes—equal parts fascinated and horrified—earlier in the afternoon. My stomach had dropped and pitched. It did the same now, like I was plummeting from the highest arc of a roller coaster.

“What? Beau knows what?”

“He speaks in even sentences,” I blurted.

Her lips twitched and then she promptly rolled them between her teeth, her eyes growing suspiciously bright. I got the sense she was trying not to laugh.

A year ago, just that small gesture would have made me shut down and check out.

But not now.

Now I had an odd desire to hear her laugh, and laugh with her.

“And I can’t tell him,” I gestured widely to the air. “I can’t tell him that I need him to speak in sentences with an odd number of words. Then he’ll know I’m crazy.” He already knows.

“You’re not crazy.” She said this firmly, pinning me with her gaze. “You need to stop referring to yourself or thinking of yourself in that way. Calling yourself crazy is giving up. You are in control, of your obsessions, of your compulsions, because you know they’re irrational. And you want to change.”

“But what if he wants to touch me?” The thought was both terrifying and thrilling.

“You have been intimate before.”

“I don’t want anything bad to happen to him.”

“That is an irrational thought. Now, say it.”

“Believing something bad will happen to Beau if I touch him is an irrational thought,” I said dutifully, breathing through the surge of fear. Irrational fear.

“Have you considered that there’s someone out there who might not consider these things about you crazy? That someone might take the time to understand your disorder, take the time to understand and therefore appreciate you?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“Is that why you haven’t told anyone about the cutting? Or about your aversion for touching others? Because you don’t think they would understand?”

I glared at my therapist, irritated that she was making me discuss this. “Do you know how many times a day—over the course of my life—I’ve asked myself, ‘Why do I have to be so crazy all the time?’”

“You’re not—”

“I couldn’t figure out how to put it into words or admit it to myself, what I was doing. What I needed. It’s easy to make excuses and lie to yourself when you are already lying to everyone else. But I have always known—always felt—how embarrassing it is, to be this way. To admit that I can’t touch people without wanting to cut myself, to keep them safe from me, just in case. Because though you say I am not crazy, I know how I sound.”

Dr. West’s expression was thoughtful; she gave me the impression of someone trying to plan their next chess move.

Eventually, she said, “I urge you to consider the possibility that people exist who will not judge you for your disorder, but rather will see and value the strength required to master your compulsions.”

“I do not want to tell anyone.” Especially not Beau.

“What are you afraid of?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“You tell me.”

I ran my fingertip along the raised scars of my forearm. “How he looks at me, it’ll change.”

“How he looks at you?”

“Like I’m normal.” Like I’m whole.

She sighed, sounding frustrated, giving into a rare moment of emotion. “Do you trust B— this man?”

“I don’t trust anyone, Doctor.”

“But do you think he would knowingly hurt you?”

I didn’t answer right away. Instead, I thought about the question, thought about Beau and what I knew about him, what I’d observed over the last several weeks. He was nice to everyone. Everyone. Even when they didn’t deserve it.

He went out of his way to help people. He had an extraordinary work ethic; staying late to fix a last-minute emergency or coming in on the weekends; calling all over Tennessee and the Carolinas trying to find a rare car part.

And I thought about his expression after he’d called me a narcissistic pariah. I didn’t blame him, not after I’d treated him and others poorly. I hated that I’d treated him poorly, that I’d ignored him, that I couldn’t shake anyone’s hand.

But the depth of his remorse after the words left his mouth, how he’d reached for me, revealed much of his nature. Beau Winston was impossible to dislike.

After substantive deliberation, a certainty I rarely felt settled deep in my bones, and I spoke the truth. “I don’t think Beau Winston would purposefully hurt anyone.”

9

“Educating the mind without educating the heart is no education at all.”

― Aristotle

*Beau*

I DID A lot of googling on Friday night instead of going to the jam session.

Cutting.

Specifically, why people do it.

The search results returned a whole lot of scary stuff, and basically added up to the fact that folks cut themselves as a way to gain a sense of control. Often because at some point in their life, control was taken away without their permission. Which didn’t make much sense to me.

But okay.

Sure.

I didn’t sleep well that night. I kept seeing Shelly’s scars, her face after I’d yelled at her, kept picturing the woman slicing into herself, lying in a hospital bed in our library downstairs. I called her name. She looked up from her bleeding arm. Instead of being Shelly, it was my mother, and she couldn’t reach the morphine button.

And then I woke up with a racing heart, feeling sick. The nightmare was reminiscent of the weeks leading up to my momma’s death. I shoved it away.

Sleep was elusive from that point forward.

After much debate, I decided to talk the situation over with Duane, even though I’d scaled back asking my twin for advice these last few months. I needed to get used to his absence, grow accustomed to making decisions without considering his thoughts first. But this situation with Shelly seemed serious. Thus, I decided to make an exception.

I’d also thought about asking his opinion on Christine St. Claire’s request for a meeting, but decided against it. The thing with Christine was something I’d ultimately resolved to settle on my own. Drill had been texting and calling every other day over the last week. He’d originally said I had a month to think the matter over. Apparently, he’d lied.

Intent on the coffee I could smell coming from downstairs, I closed the door to the room I shared with Duane, careful to be quiet. Even though he and Jess were planning on traveling the world together come November, they hadn’t moved in together. She still lived with her parents, and he still lived with us.

Nevertheless, sometimes Duane slept at the house, sometimes he didn’t. I didn’t know where he slept when he wasn’t at the house, and I saw no reason to ask.

None of my business.

Then I saw Cletus strolling down the hall toward his room. He was in a towel and his hair was damp. Which meant he’d just showered. Which was unusual. Cletus preferred to shower at night, saying he didn’t want to slumber with the dirt from the day.

I stared at his door, now closed, for several minutes, deliberating.

Did Cletus know about Shelly’s scars? Was that why he was forgiving of her rudeness? What else did he know about Shelly and not seen fit to share?

And why was he showering early in the morning? Why was he even up? Cletus was never up early.

Was it for this woman? The one he’d been fixating on? And who was she anyway? He’d been acting squirrelly since . . . since . . .

I blinked.

A shadow of a thought inserted itself in my brain, growing, until it emerged as a fully formed suspicion.

The timing fit. Cletus wasn’t big on forgiving, but he was forgiving of her . . . of Shelly. Hell, one might even say he was partial to her, in a sense, and insomuch as Cletus was capable of being partial to anyone.

Damn.

My feet were moving, carrying me to his door before I’d made up my mind, trying to leave behind the sour turn to my stomach as I thought of Cletus and Shelly. Together.

I knocked, deciding that my sense of discontent was about wanting my brother to be happy. What if he didn’t know about the scars? What if he was half in love already and he didn’t know? What then?

Not waiting for him to answer, I stuck my head in his room, and spoke around the spike of discomfort in my chest. “Hey, Cletus. I was thinking about—”

I was unable to continue, because the sight of my brother in suit pants and a fancy new suit shirt was so confusing, I wondered briefly if today was Sunday.

Meanwhile, Cletus was looking at me funny. Like he’d been caught, or he felt guilty about something.

“What?” He glanced down at himself then back to me.

“Today isn’t Sunday,” I said, 99% sure it wasn’t Sunday. Not unless I’d slept through Saturday.

“I know that.”

“Then why’re you dressed up?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” I walked into his room and stood behind my brother as he inspected himself in the mirror.

He was dressed up. He’d put effort and thought into his clothes and Cletus never put effort and thought into his clothes. On Sundays he always wore black pants and a white shirt. He called it his Sunday uniform.

Cletus was dressing fancy for someone.

The discomfort in my chest swelled tenfold and became dread. “Who are you going to see?”

He shrugged. “No one.”

“Is it Shelly?” I asked, unable to stop myself. “Are you two involved?”

Cletus shrugged. “I’m not involved with Shelly. At least, not yet.”

A shock of something unpleasant raced through me, causing me to tense, stand straighter. Hoping to cover the unexpected reaction, I crossed my arms and worked to keep my voice even. “What does that mean?”

“It means, eventually, I’ll see to her. She and I are suited.”

Oh. Hell.

The rubber band around my ribcage squeezed, making breathing a chore.

Damn.

I stared unseeingly at nothing in the mirror. Cletus had been with women, but he’d never admitted to being interested in a person or brought any of his lady friends around the house. This was a big deal.

He turned and walked past me to his bed, sitting on the edge, and put on his shoes.

Still facing the mirror and looking at nothing in particular, I asked, “You think you two are suited?”

“Yep.”

“How long have you, uh, felt this way?”

And also, slightly off topic, why does the idea of Cletus and Shelly together make me feel like shit?

“Since I met her and determined ours would be an ideally placid union. Why?”

“Because I—”

Shit shit shit.

What could I say?

If he knew about the scars, then me bringing it up wouldn’t go over well. It might even upset him, and no one wanted Cletus upset. Life was hell for everybody when Cletus was upset.

But if he didn’t know about the scars, and I told him, well . . . it wouldn’t make a lick of difference. When Cletus made his mind up, there was no changing it. But then he’d definitely get upset.

And besides, was it my place? To tell him? Was it even a big deal? Eventually, he’d find out when they . . . they . . .

Damn.

Now I really felt like shit. And I’d waited too long to answer. Cletus’s stare was heavy and I needed to speak before he grew suspicious.

Tugging my hand through my hair, I said the first thing I could think of that wasn’t a lie. “I would have made an effort to be nicer, if I’d known you were interested.”

That was true. I would have, for Cletus. Just like I would’ve done anything for any member of my family.

“Beau, you should be nicer regardless of my feelings on the subject. You’re nice to everybody else. You know what Momma used to say: ‘If you don't want someone to get your goat, don't let them know where it’s tied.’”

I nodded absentmindedly, yet the sharp discomfort in my lungs kept me from drawing a full breath.

“Is there something going on with you?”

I met my brother’s searching glare in the mirror, realizing that I’d been standing in the middle of his room, staring at nothing in the mirror for too long. Seeing he looked concerned, I pasted a smile on my face, just a small one.

This didn’t seem to satisfy him.

After a time I shook my head. “Nope. Nothing is going on with me.”

His eyes narrowed, telling me he was doubtful.

“Stop it, Cletus.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop trying to peer into my mind.” Forcing a wider smile, I shoved my hands into my pockets.

“I would never do that, Beau. Your mind is a depraved and dissolute place. I would fear for my eternal soul should I manage a glimpse inside.”

I didn’t have to force anything as my grin grew, but decided to leave before he could question me further.

Turning from the mirror, I said, “That’s right,” as I began strolling out of his room, keeping my steps unhurried, my tone light. “And don’t you forget it.”

“WHAT DO YOU KNOW ABOUT SHELLY?”

Duane sent me a look, the question clearly catching him off guard.

We were once again at Genie’s, but this time it was a Saturday night. The place was packed.

Luckily, Patty still seemed pleased with me, which made me wonder whether Darlene hadn’t yet told Patty about our split. Regardless, when we arrived, she’d been all smiles and escorted us to an empty booth marked reserved and had just left to bring us a round of beers. It felt like real VIP treatment.

Duane and I had just arrived; Jess was due any minute, as was Hank. That meant I only had a few minutes with Duane to discuss the topic of our coworker.

My twin gave his head a subtle shake and searched my expression. “Not much,” he said finally, not disguising his irritation, like the answer was obvious and he didn’t like being forced to vocalize it.

“She talks to you.” I leaned forward, not wanting to yell over the music.

“Yeah. But not much.”

“Come on, y’all work on stuff together all the time. Surely, she must’ve talked about herself.”

“We’re not sharing our feelings, Beau. We’re working on cars. I know she’s left-handed, she prefers right-handed tools, she’s mean to strangers, and she seems to be able to engineer car parts from scratch.”

“Fine. You don’t know much, and you don’t ask. But have you noticed—” I glanced around the bar quickly, to make sure no one was looking, before motioning to my forearm.

His eyes followed the movement, his eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “What?”

“Her arms.”

“What about her arms?”

“She has scars along the interior of her forearms.”

Duane stared at me for a beat, blinking once before asking, “So?”

“They’re self-inflicted.”

That got his attention. Duane’s eyes widened and darted to my arm again, as though he might find wounds there.

Patty arrived while Duane and I traded stares, dropping off our beers and giving me a wink—which I answered with a polite smile. She soon rushed away, called to another table.

Duane leaned forward, ignoring his beer. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I don’t see how they could be anything else. They’re tidy. An inch long, about a quarter of an inch apart. They look like they’ve been made with a razor or a sharp knife.”

Duane’s eyes flared at the word razor and I knew what—or rather, who—he was thinking about. Razor Dennings, the Iron Wraith’s president, had earned his name by cutting on people.

I quickly shook my head, but Duane spoke before I could. “Are you sure she didn’t get them from someone else?”

“I guess she might’ve, but they follow the classic pattern of cutting.”

“Classic pattern of cutting?” he sputtered, rearing back. “What are you? An expert on self-harm?”

“Don’t be a dummy. I googled it after I spotted the scars on her arm. And when she saw me looking, she covered it real fast.”

“Huh.” Duane crossed his arms on the table, his expression thoughtful, then asked doubtfully, “Then . . . she’s crazy?”

I grunted. “Just ’cause she cut herself doesn’t make her crazy.”

“Really? Sane people cut themselves?”

“Define sane.”

“You know what I mean.”

“You wrecked your mint-condition Road Runner last year at the dirt races. On purpose. Are you sane?”

“Don’t get your feathers ruffled, Beauford.” Duane rolled his eyes, glancing toward the bar. “I’m just saying, she doesn’t seem crazy.”

“Oh yeah? How do crazy people seem?”

His eyes cut to mine and his expression intensified. “Out of it, I guess. Out of touch. Messy. Emotional. She’s not messy at all. Have you noticed she’s been reorganizing the entire garage? Everything has a place. It’s nice. And, emotional? No. Other than hollering at you yesterday, she doesn’t seem to have any emotions at all.”

“Face it, Duane. We’re not acquainted with anyone who has a mental illness. At least, not that we know of.”

“Not unless you count our father.” Duane’s jaw ticked, his eyelids drooping to half-mast. “He’s definitely messy, out of touch, emotional.”

“His mental illness is called being an asshole.”

“I think that actually is a mental illness, if you want to get technical. Called narcissism, or narcissistic personality syndrome, or being a sociopath. Ashley’s friend knows. Isn’t she a psychiatrist?”

“Which one?”

“Sandra, I think? The redhead. From Texas. The one that made Cletus cry last year before Momma died.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right.” I filed that piece of information away, just in case I needed to ask questions about Shelly, how we should deal with her, make sure we didn’t do something to accidentally push her off the deep end.

“Besides, Shelly doesn’t remind me of Darrell. She’s not . . . bad. She’s just really rude.” I chuckled a little, realizing—very reluctantly—that on some level I enjoyed her rudeness. I liked her clever comebacks.

She reminded me of Duane in a lot of ways, but to an extreme degree. Honest, clever, with zero patience for bullshit. But Duane shook peoples’ hands, and knew when to keep his opinions to himself, neither of which Shelly had seemed to master.

“She doesn’t remind me of him either.” Duane’s mouth twisted to the side, he seemed to be thinking matters over. “I’m guessing you haven’t talked to Cletus yet?”

“No. Not really. Not about this.” I motioned to my arm, then grabbed my beer, taking several gulps until it was gone.

I was still unsettled by Cletus’s declaration about he and Shelly being suited. I couldn’t figure out why his interest in the woman tormented, but it did. It rankled. And not grasping why Cletus’s designs on Shelly bothered me, I’d been even more irritated.

“I don’t think Cletus knows about the cutting. If he knew, he’d be meddling.” Duane sighed. “Also, Jethro said something about Cletus being sweet on Shelly, but I don’t think that’s true either.”

This last part had me sitting straighter. “What did Jethro say?”

“Like I said, I think Jethro is full of it. And I don’t think Shelly is crazy either, if that’s the point of this conversation.”

“It’s not.”

“Then what? What are you proposing? Are you afraid she’s going to hurt somebody?”

“Not somebody.” I shook my head, a knot of dissatisfaction in my stomach, because I wasn’t sure what I was proposing, or why I was bringing this up. I wasn’t a gossip, and usually I was good at minding my own business.

But I couldn’t, not this time.

“What are you worried about?”

“I guess I’m worried—” that she’s still hurting herself.

“That she’s a danger to herself?” Duane guessed correctly.

“I don’t know,” I hedged, looking over Duane’s head as I searched for Patty. We needed another round. In my searching, I saw both Hank and Jess hovering by the door. “They’re here.”

Duane glanced over his shoulder while I lifted my hand in the air until they saw us.

Rushing to finish the conversation before they made it to the table, I leaned forward and lowered my voice. “But I know what I saw, and how she won’t touch anyone, won’t even shake hands with people. Plus she’s all by herself here, isn’t she? Her brother is in Chicago. Shouldn’t someone be keeping an eye on her? Checking on her?”

Duane gave me a once over. “I thought you didn’t like her.”

“I don’t.”

“Why do you care?”

I glared at my brother.

He shook his head at me. “You can’t go around saving everybody, Beau.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? Because I’m leaving soon—”

“Yes, Duane. I know you’re leaving. You never shut up about it.”

“—I won’t be here to talk sense into you. If I didn’t keep you grounded, you’d be giving folks the shirt off your back and the boxers off your ass. Remember what Grandma Oliver used to say: don’t set yourself on fire trying to keep other people warm.”

I snorted, rolling my eyes.

“You’re too damn nice.”

“Only because you’re too damn mean.”

He tilted his head side to side, like he was thinking on my words. “Yeah. Maybe. I guess that means, when I go, you’ll have to learn how to say no. ’Cause I won’t be around to do it for you.”

“Don’t you fret, I won’t count on you for anything.” I pasted on a convincing smile just as Jess and Hank made it to the table, feeling Duane’s scowl on the side of my face the whole time.

“How’d you score a booth?” Hank slid in next to me, craning his neck, presumably to find Patty so he could place an order.

Duane stood, a grin in place as he greeted Jess and motioned for her to slide into the booth first. She whispered something in his ear. He laughed, his sour mood and my nasty words forgotten. They kissed. Held hands. Sat real close.

Ugh.

They were nauseating.

I needed another beer. As my eyes did a sweep of the bar, I stopped short, doing a double take, and then stared.

Shelly Sullivan had just walked in.

10

“Enough about my beauty,” Buttercup said. “Everybody always talks about how beautiful I am. I’ve got a mind, Westley. Talk about that.”

― William Goldman, The Princess Bride

*Beau*

MY HEART LODGED in my throat, obstructing my ability to breathe. Or think.

The sight of her was like being sucker-punched in the stomach, slapped across the face, and receiving a sexy stroke in the groin simultaneously. Too much to sort through.

“Holy shit.” Hank nudged my shoulder. “Who is that?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.

She was wearing a black tank top with thin straps and no bra. Maybe it was ungentlemanly of me to notice, but I noticed. Holy shit, did I notice. I think even Reverend Seymour’s wife would have noticed.

The shirt was a little too short for her long torso, baring a sliver of toned midriff. Her hair was thick, messy, and long, cascading down her back, tumbling over her shoulders, looking like she’d just taken it out of a braid. Her blue jeans were tight and were tucked into worn, brown cowboy boots.

Shelly hovered by the entrance, her fingers haphazardly tucked in her jeans pockets while her cold glare surveyed the interior.

In the end, it didn’t matter that I couldn’t speak, because Duane answered Hank’s question. “That’s Shelly,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Holy shit,” Hank repeated, still sounding dazed and amazed. “You weren’t exaggerating. She’s beautiful.”

Yeah, she was beautiful. She was also smart, clever, a brilliant mechanic. And . . . complicated. And mean.

I shouldn’t forget mean. Super, super mean.

I tore my eyes away and worked on putting them back in my head.

“Holy shit is right,” Jess said unexpectedly, drawing our attention. She was twisted in the booth, leaning forward to see past Duane. “She looks like somebody, somebody famous. Who does she look like?”

“She should be famous, looking like that.” Hank was near drooling.

“No, I’m telling you. She looks like someone.” Jess’s gaze grew foggy and she was clearly trying to place Shelly, as though she’d seen her someplace before. “Anyway, that’s the most gorgeous lady I’ve ever seen.”

“Then you need to look in the mirror.” Duane scowled at Jess, pushing her hair off her shoulder.

She slid her wide eyes to my brother and gave him an incredulous look. “Honey, I know you’re hot for me, and I love that about you. But I’m not blind. That woman is—”

“Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Duane placed his face in front of Jessica’s, stealing a quick kiss and earning him a smile.

“Where the hell did she come from?” Hank sat up straighter, leaning to one side, presumably to keep Shelly in his line of sight. “I mean, other than my fantasies.”

I scoffed, sliding my teeth to the side and finding my voice. “Then go talk to her.” I couldn’t help it, the words were bitter.

Duane squinted at me. Jess did as well.

But Hank couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from Shelly. “I think I might.”

My brother reached forward, placing a staying hand on Hank’s wrist. “Don’t.”

“Why?”

Duane released Hank and looked to me for help. I shrugged, gritting my teeth, not sure if I wanted to laugh or yell. I couldn’t be bothered to do either, because my heart was racing for no reason.

“Beau.” Without tearing his stare from Shelly as she strolled to the bar, Hank tugged on my shirtsleeve. “Introduce me.”

Duane shook his head. “You’re making a mistake. Leave her alone.”

“Come on now.” Hank finally turned to my brother. “No woman comes into a bar looking like that and doesn’t want some male attention.”

“Or female attention,” Jess muttered, fiddling with her coaster.

Duane made a strangled sound and Jess grinned. “What? I’m just saying, I agree with Hank. You dress for the job you want. And she’s dressed like she wants to have a good time. If she wanted to be inconspicuous, she’d dress inconspicuously. Right?”

“Yeah, but she didn’t choose her body, did she? Or her hair, or eyes, or height, or face.” My comments drew all eyes to me. I wasn’t sure what my point was. “I don’t think it matters what she wears, she’s never going to be inconspicuous. Hell, she’d get hit on daily at the shop if Duane and I didn’t hide her from customers, and she just wears coveralls there.”

Jessica studied me, quickly glancing at Shelly and then back to the table, like she was a little embarrassed. “I guess those clothes do look comfortable.”

A cold knot formed in my stomach, predicated on the realization that I hardly knew the woman. But I’d been making assumptions about Shelly Sullivan for the last several weeks based on her appearance.

Suddenly, I was desperate for another beer. Cletus had been right all along. I needed to apologize to Shelly for how I’d treated her—how and what I’d assumed—when we’d first met, and everything that came after.

Taking a deep breath, I shoved at Hank’s shoulder. “I’ll introduce you.”

Jess squinted at me. “But you just said—”

“She’s here by herself, isn’t she?” My eyes moved to Duane as I continued. “She’s all alone in this town. We’re the only people she knows.”

A whisper of a smile tugged at Duane’s mouth and he nodded once. “I guess someone should look after her.”

“I guess so.” I agreed as Hank stood and I skootched to the end of the booth. “Can I get y’all anything to drink?”

“I’ll take a margarita.” Jess covered Duane’s hand with her own on the table. “You really are the nicest person, Beau.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I grumped, giving her a small smile and motioning for Hank to follow me. “Come on, dummy.”

“Right behind you.” The eagerness in my friend’s voice grated.

I kept my steps slow, instructing Hank as we walked. “Unless you want her to cut your balls off, don’t flirt. She hates it when people flirt.”

“No wonder she hates you.” Hank chuckled.

I gave him a flat look out of the corner of my eye, then turned my attention back to Shelly. She was already surrounded and I shook my head, feeling sorry for the poor bastards. But also feeling sorry for her. She couldn’t help what she looked like any more than I could, any more than anybody could. Here the world was piling their expectations on her. That must’ve been exhausting.

“Also,” I continued, “don’t try to touch her or shake her hand. She doesn’t shake hands.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Huh.” Hank was quiet for a beat while he considered this information. “Good to know.”

The band on stage finished a song and the dancers on the floor clapped, hooted, and hollered their appreciation. We passed a few people we knew. Kimmy Jones asked me to dance, as did Natalie Mason and Kelly, Naomi Winters’s niece. I teased and made promises to circle back later, citing Duane’s impending departure and wanting to spend time with my brother as my reason to beg off.

By the time we made it to the bar, the band was off the stage for their break and recorded music was playing through the speakers. The noise level was greatly reduced, which meant we heard the tail end of Shelly’s interaction with Duke Boone, one of Billy’s subordinates at Payton Mills.

Duke looked upset, but it was obviously for effect, to elicit sympathy. “You despise me, don't you?” he said, clutching his chest dramatically.

“If I gave you any thought, I probably would,” she responded coldly and I heard Hank make a short sound of surprise.

I wasn’t surprised by her insult. Nor was I surprised when Duke’s affected expression grew confused, then annoyed. But when Duke’s eyes dropped to Shelly’s chest and lingered, the spark of antagonism at the base of my neck took me by surprise.

“Wow. And here I was just trying to be sociable, sweetheart,” Duke drawled, leaning closer to her.

I pushed through Shelly’s admirers—most of whom I recognized as reasonable fellas—and stepped up next to her at the bar. They seemed to give way easily, I suspected more interested in watching Duke crash and burn than ready to throw their own hat in the ring. She was facing forward, not looking at or noticing me, not looking at Duke.

“You are as bright as a black hole and twice as dense.” She said this under her breath, but I heard it. As did everybody else.

Duke stiffened, looking truly offended. “Hey. Don’t let my modesty fool you.”

“You have a lot to be modest about.”

Hank made a strangled laughing sound, as did a number of other folks, and that’s when Duke’s face flushed red with anger.

And that was my cue to diffuse the situation

“Hey Shelly.” I braced for her gaze, affixing a politely disinterested expression on my face, and I was glad I did.

Her eyes sliced to mine.

My stomach dropped.

My heart skipped two beats.

As though startled by my presence, Shelly blinked once.

She then turned completely toward me, giving Duke her back while she rested an elbow on the bar to her right. “Hi. How are you?”

If her words hadn’t surprised me, the way her gaze moved over my face would have. Almost like she was nervous. Like I made her nervous.

Maybe because she knows I’ve seen her scars.

“Uh, can’t complain.” I nodded good-naturedly, smiling, hoping to dispel some of her anxiety. Her attention dropped to my mouth and her eyes became hazy. Or hungry. Maybe both.

Her hungry look didn’t give me the earlier sucker punch, or the slap in the face. Just the sexy stroke to my groin.

Well . . . shit.

Unsure what to do with that development, I cleared my throat and indicated with my head toward Hank. “This is Hank.”

“Hi. Nice to meet you.” Unsmiling, Hank inclined his head, his tone tight.

With visible reluctance, her gaze cut to his and narrowed infinitesimally. I got the sense she was waiting for him to do or say something.

When he didn’t, her expression relaxed and she looked to me; if I was reading her right she looked appreciative. “You prepared him?”

I lifted my shoulders, feeling proud of myself for some reason. “Maybe.”

The side of her mouth curved and I held my breath, wondering if she would actually smile.

But then Duke gripped her by the upper arm and tugged. “Hello? I’m not done talking to you.”

“Don’t touch me,” Shelly hissed, twisting out of his grip.

“I’ll do whatever the hell—”

I slipped around Shelly, careful not to touch her, and stepped between them. “Hey Duke. Nice weather we’re having.”

“Back off, Beau.” Duke glared at me, the muscle at his temple jumping.

“Don’t want to talk about the weather?” I grinned, adding, “Because my brother Billy loves talking about the weather.”

Like the other times I’d stepped between Shelly and a man with wounded pride, I felt her behind me. I thought I’d given her enough space, but I must’ve misjudged because she was directly behind me, her breath on my neck like the first time with Drill weeks ago. It sent shards of sensation racing over my skin. And when she inhaled, her chest pressed against my back.

I was aware of her, and the awareness was incredibly distracting.

Duke sobered at the mention of Billy, rocking backward on his heels. He seemed to be considering his options, and I understood that. When a man’s pride is all he has worth defending, it makes him reckless.

Finally, after a tense moment, he stepped back and grabbed his beer. “Fine. I was finished with her anyway.” His eyes flickered over my shoulder to Shelly.

I tensed, because if I was reading Duke right, then an insult was on the tip of his tongue, and not a clever one either. One of the obscene variety. And if he said it, then I was going to have to punch him.

What? Why? Why do you have to punch him?

Because.

Not a good reason.

You’d do it for anyone.

No. I’m not sure that is strictly true.

For Shelly.

You are out of your damn mind. She’s not yours, you’re not hers.

Maybe . . . she could be?

Again, out of your damn mind. Remember Cletus? YOUR BROTHER?

Thankfully, at the last minute he bit it back, smirking as he sauntered away.

I was rattled. And muddled. Not by Duke or the threat of violence, though I was rattled and muddled by my own instincts.

I covered my confusion by glaring at the crowd gathered, silently communicating that the show was over as I turned to face her. Folks dispersed, and Hank—currently behind Shelly—motioned to the bartender to place our order.

Moving to allow space between us, I lifted my eyes to hers. They looked less cold than was typical, glowing as they searched mine. But her entire body was rigid.

Fighting the urge to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, I instead pulled it through my hair.

“We’re not at the shop,” she said with her trademark lack of emotion.

“So?”

“So . . .” She took a half step forward, invading my space. “Don’t do that.” Her tone was almost soft.

“Do what?”

“Warn guys off.”

I flinched, feeling my brows come together. “You liked how he was treating you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

She licked her lips, glancing at the bar, and then back to me. “Where’s your girlfriend?”

“My what?”

“Girlfriend.” A crease formed between her eyebrows. “When we met, you said you were seeing someone.”

“Oh. No. That ended. Actually, it never really started.”

“Oh.” Either it was my imagination, or that news seemed to please her.

Probably your imagination.

“So—”

“Either way, I don’t need your help.” Her voice was still gentle. Well, gentle for Shelly Sullivan.

And I wasn’t sure what to do with her gentleness, or her words. I stared at her, trying to read her mind. Getting a read on this woman was the ultimate effort in futility. She was locked up tight, still looking at me from behind a sheet of ice.

Maybe not as hostile as before, but just as guarded.

“Fine.” I nodded once, trying not to be irritated.

She inspected my face. “Are you mad?”

“No,” I responded immediately. Her question surprised me; when had she ever cared if I was mad?

Hank came to stand next to us. “Here’s your beer, Beau. I’m going to take Duane and Jess’s drinks back to the table. Y’all coming?”

“In a minute.” I accepted the beer and indicated that he should go on without me.

Hank turned a tight smile to Shelly. She glared at him, one of her eyebrows lifting slightly higher than the other.

“Well, okay then,” he said, turned, and left.

As soon as Hank was out of earshot, Shelly grit her teeth, her gaze sliding away. “I’m not good with people.”

“No? I never would have guessed.” I endeavored to keep sarcasm out of my voice, tried for teasing.

I failed.

Her stare darted back to mine and sharpened in that way she had. “You’re being sarcastic.”

“What gave me away?” I covered my unease with a swallow of my beer. She was skewering me with her eyes, cutting me open.

“The tone of your voice,” she responded in a monotone. “And your words.”

“That was a rhetorical question.”

“Right.” She nodded, her eyes fell back to the bar top and I was relieved to be out of their snare. I wondered if I’d ever grow accustomed to the weight of her attention. The rubber band around my chest had returned in full force, so did the restlessness.

This woman agitated me like no one else. Talking to her was like riding a roller coaster blindfolded. I needed to leave.

Giving her a quick nod, I moved to depart. “Well, nice seeing you.”

“Wait.” Her hand reached out and gripped my forearm.

And then she froze, staring at her hand on me like she expected something to happen. For my part, I was also stunned. I didn’t move. I watched her. A weird mixture of fear and determination played over her face.

Shelly released a shaky breath, her grip loosening but not releasing me. “Can we talk?”

“You want to talk? To me?”

“Yes.” Her gaze lifted—more fear, more determination—and held. “Please.”

My eyes widened at that. This night was just full of surprises.

Nevertheless, I nodded, leaning against the bar. “Okay.”

Her fingers slid away in a way that felt reluctant, and she twisted the coaster next to her drink until its side was perfectly parallel with the edge of the bar, saying nothing.

So I waited. I waited for a good while. I caught Kimmy Jones staring daggers at the back of Shelly’s head, bending to whisper something to Kelly Gavin and making a sour face. That surprised me. Kimmy had always seemed like a nice person. As far as I knew, she’d never met Shelly.

Women are weird, and that’s a fact.

Just as I took a gulp of my beer, Shelly said, “I'd like to have sex with you.”

I choked.

Beer threatening to come out of my nose, I brought my hand to my mouth and coughed, staring at this woman and certain—very, very certain—I’d misheard her.

She watched me, expressionless. Except, even as my eyes blurred with the tears of a good coughing fit, I detected a shift in her, a sliver of vulnerability—uncertainty—as she stared at me.

I coughed so long and so hard, the bartender eventually brought me a glass of water. I drank it, staring at Shelly.

And when I set it down, I rasped, “Excuse me?”

“You are excused.”

“No, I wasn't—” I shook my head quickly and pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. “What did you just say?”

“I said, I'd like to have sex with you.”

I continued staring at her, letting my hand drop as I regarded this woman, the meaning of her words, and the lack of emotion with which she said them.

The words themselves weren’t unusual. I’d heard those words before—or something like them—from many, many women. Usually whispered in my ear while they pawed me in my car, or in a hidden corner of the community center on jam session night, or behind this very building.

But I’d never heard them like this, with the same passion one might use to suggest I try using fabric softener.

Shelly Sullivan dropped her gaze to the bar top.

“You’re joking,” I said and thought at the same time.

She shook her head.

I flinched because she wasn’t joking.

“You’re serious.” The words came out strangled.

Color stained her cheeks. Her eyes were averted but sober, and her generous lips were pressed into a determined line. “Yes.”

An involuntary sound escaped me as I gave the woman a once-over, again saying and thinking at the same time, “You're crazy.”

I winced as soon as the words were out. Immediately, I regretted them, wished them back, and cursed under my breath. I hadn’t meant to say it, because—clearly—she’d suffered at some point in her life.

She also flinched—just a little—like I'd poked a wound that still smarted.

It was on the tip of my tongue to apologize, but before I could she said, “Yes. That’s also true. But I'm taking medications, I think I'm less crazy now than before.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing. She had me turned inside out and upside down, uncertain what to do or think or say.

Spinning the coaster on the bar top, she filled the silence. “My therapist suggested that I should ask you out. But what I really want is to have sex with you. So, that’s what I am asking for. But I’m not against dating.”

“Therapist?” I asked dumbly, trying to keep up. “You’re in therapy?”

The muscle at her jaw jumped and she nodded.

Glancing around the bar, half wondering if this was an elaborate prank, I searched my head for the right response to her request.

Uh, yeah.

Yes.

Hell. Yes.

How about right now?

Wait a minute . . . wrong head.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled. I exhaled. I opened my eyes and they caught on Duane across the room, and his often-repeated words floated through my mind, What would Darrell Winston do? Do the opposite.

And also, Cletus.

“I . . .” I started, my stomach dropping, eyes lingering on my brother for a moment longer, then moving to the woman in front of me. I didn’t prepare myself—I hadn’t been thinking—so her gaze hit me square in the chest. Two beats of my heart later, I finished my sentence. “I don’t think it would be appropriate, for us to . . . seeing as how I’m technically your boss.” And my brother Cletus thinks you two are suited.

Shelly was nodding before I’d finished my sentence, reaching into her back pocket and withdrawing a twenty-dollar bill.

“That makes sense.” She placed the bill on the bar. She turned. She left.

I stared at the spot she’d just vacated for less than a second, and then my feet were moving. I set my beer on the bar. I followed her through the crowd and out the door. She had long legs, and she was power-walking, so I had to jog to catch up. By the time I did, she was standing next to her brown 1971 Buick GSX and was fumbling with her keys.

“Wait a minute. Wait.” Unthinkingly, I caught her arm, sliding my hand down the length of it until she was facing me and I had her fingers wrapped in mine.

She shivered and lowered her gaze, but she didn’t move otherwise.

“Shelly.”

“Yes?”

For some reason, I was out of breath. “Are you . . .”

She gave me her eyes. “Yes?” The question was a whisper and it sounded hopeful.

Dammit.

Releasing her hand, I took a step back. “Are you working Monday?”

She stared at me. She nodded. I nodded too.

Then Shelly unlocked her car, slid into the driver’s seat, started the engine, and drove away.

11

“He’s like a song she can’t get out of her head. Hard as she tries, the melody of their meeting runs through her mind on an endless loop, each time as surprisingly sweet as the last, like a lullaby, like a hymn, and she doesn’t think she could ever get tired of hearing it.”

― Jennifer E. Smith, The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight

*Beau*

I’VE ALWAYS CONSIDERED myself an honorable man. That said, my dreams weren’t always honorable. And I was definitely okay with that.

Take Saturday night, for instance. I’d lain in bed, Shelly and her request on my mind, wondering what would’ve happened if I’d said yes. Almost immediately, I pushed the delectable flashes of possibility away. No good could come of lusting after a woman so entirely out of my reach. Not only did Cletus have intentions for her, but she was in therapy. On medications.

The last thing Shelly needed was to star in her coworker’s sexy fantasies.

So of course, my dreams took up the cause.

We were at the shop and it was daytime. She was being mouthy with me about something. My dreams were peculiar in that people spoke, but it was usually an impression of the words rather than specifics.

We argued. She followed me upstairs. We argued some more. I was changing, she was changing. She took off her clothes . . .

And then suddenly it was weeks ago, when she’d walked in on me at my locker. Except I was still angry about the argument. But she wasn’t angry, because we hadn’t been arguing.

She whipped off her dress like she’d done on that day. This time, I didn’t look away. I advanced—still furious—and backed her against the wall. She looked up at me, surprised but not afraid.

I pulled roughly on her braid, her mouth opened, and I kissed her. She was soft and hot. More importantly, she kissed me back. She moaned, or I did, as I slid down the straps of her bra, bending to take her breast in my mouth. Her hand was in my boxers. She circled me with her fingers, stroked. I was so hard, so damn hard.

But I wasn’t angry. I was frustrated. I wanted. And the wanting was frustration incarnate. The upstairs office wouldn’t do, not for what I wanted. So the scenery changed.

We were in a room I’d never seen, with a large leather sofa. Shelly was still in her lace underwear, standing in front of me. I wanted her to take off her bra. She did. I wanted her to sit on my lap, facing outward, straddling my legs. She did.

I put my hands on her, filling one palm with the weight of her perfect breast, rolling and tugging her nipple, then sliding the fingers of my other hand into the front of her panties. She arched, giving me a glimpse of her tits over her shoulder, rubbing her ass against my dick. I bit her neck, her back.

Pressing her forward until she was on her hands and knees on the carpet, I knelt behind her, cupping her backside.

But that wasn’t right.

She said my name, it sounded like a question.

I didn’t want her facing away. I wanted to see her. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to watch her come.

We were in bed, a big bed, and I was kissing my way down her body to the juncture of her thighs. My mouth watered. I could almost taste her.

She said my name, louder this time. It sounded like a question.

I looked up. She was looking at me. She trusted me.

“Wake up, Beau.”

A rough shake of my shoulder had me blinking awake, rubbing my eyes. I came face to face with a hovering Cletus.

“Good. You’re not dead. That would have been an embarrassing funeral.”

“Cletus!”

“Good Lord.” He shook his head at me, clicked his tongue. “We don’t have long before church, but if you hurry you can finish up in the bathroom.”

“What?”

“It currently stands vacant and awaits your deposit.”

“Dammit, Cletus, what are you talking about?” I grumped, irritable for several reasons and still in the clutches of my dream-fog.

Cletus’s eyebrows shot high on his forehead, he stared at me meaningfully, then turned on his heel and left my room.

I moved to sit up and winced, pain and stiffness in my groin stopping me. I glanced down, finding the sheets and my boxers tented with the world’s largest—and most obvious—hard-on.

I SPENT ALL day Sunday trying to figure out what to do—about Shelly, about Cletus—and talked myself in circles instead.

Finally, early Monday morning after not sleeping much, I sorted the facts from the fuzz.

What did I know?

First, Cletus was my brother and he’d already informed me of his intentions for Shelly. That meant she was in a box I wasn’t allowed to open.

Second, Shelly wanted to have sex with me.

And those were the facts.

Did I want to have sex with Shelly? Hell, yes. Of course I did.

Theoretically.

Then again, not at all. Could I see myself with someone like her long-term? Someone moody and unpredictable? But there was no use even asking the question. It could never happen because of Cletus.

There it was.

That was that.

No biggie, I shrugged, plenty of fish in the sea.

. . . Right.

I drove into work Monday morning, arriving before the sun was up and debating my next steps. The strange truth was, despite her oddness—and moodiness, and rudeness, and unpredictability—I liked the woman.

I liked how clever she was, how she approached fixing cars, how she manufactured her own parts like it wasn’t a big deal. I admired that about her. I also liked that she was contemplative before she spoke, and never talked just to hear herself speak. There was nothing flighty or trivial about her, and she reminded me of Duane that way.

I wanted to know her better.

Duane was leaving, and if I didn’t want every day at work for the rest of my life to suck, then Shelly and I were going to have to find common ground. Sadly, it couldn’t be sexy common ground either.

Coworkers didn’t argue, didn’t have sex, didn’t have wet dreams and fantasies about each other.

I loitered at the front of the garage for two hours, wanting to catch her when she came in. I worked through every oil change scheduled for the day. Then I moved on to replacing a muffler. I was just finishing up when I heard tires on gravel.

It was 7:27 AM. Shelly stepped out of her parked car and my heart jumped like a traitor. Crossing my arms and setting my feet apart, I waited for her to traverse the thirty feet to the shop, taking an eyeful of her as I did so.

She was already wearing her coveralls and boots. Her usual long braid seemed to be missing. As she drew closer I noticed she’d affixed the braid to the top of her head like a big cinnamon bun. I liked it. She looked cute.

Cute?

Yeah. Cute. Deal with it.

I knew the precise moment she spotted me. Her steps slowed and she leaned to her right, like the sight of me carried weight.

Impatient, I dropped the dirty rag I’d been gripping and moved to intercept her, all the while ignoring jittery nerves in my stomach.

“Hi.” I gave her a small smile as I approached and did my best to not think of her naked, or wonder if she was wearing lacy underthings.

She stopped, tensed like she was bracing for something, an argument maybe.

“You’re here early.”

“Yeah.” I scratched my neck, my smile stretching. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Shelly inspected me, aloof as usual. “Talk.”

“Do you want some coffee?” I tossed my thumb over my shoulder. “I just made some.”

“I do not drink it.”

“Coffee?”

“No.” I thought that was all she would volunteer, but then she shifted her weight to one foot and stuffed her hands in her pockets, saying, “It makes me more anxious.”

“Huh.” I cocked my head to the side, studying her. “Decaf?”

“No. Tea. Herbal.”

“Oh. How do you take your tea?”

“Plain.”

“No sugar? No milk?”

She stared at me, like she was searching my words for a hidden meaning, then repeated, “Plain.”

“I’ll make sure we have some on hand here, if you’re ever thirsty.”

“I drink water.”

“Nice to have something other than water, every once in a while.”

Shelly pressed her lips together while her jaw worked. Abruptly, she walked past me.

“What do you want, Beau?”

I followed.

“I’d like to discuss Saturday, what happened at Genie’s.” No use beating around the bush.

She stopped just inside the garage, setting her bag under a table and reorganizing the tools I’d been using earlier for the oil changes. “What about it?”

“I guess you’re dealing with some stuff?”

She didn’t answer, but the muscle at her jaw ticked, her attention still on the tools.

“I don’t want to pry—”

“Then don’t pry.”

“—but you’re all alone here, as far as I can tell. There’s no reason not to be friendly.”

She huffed a short laugh but didn’t smile. “Friendly.”

“Yes. Friendly.” I studied her profile; a wisp of hair had broken free from the bun and braid, and it curled lazily down her back. I wanted to tug on it, wrap it around my finger, and bite and lick the skin where her shoulder met her neck.

Instead, I folded my arms over my chest. “The thing is, Cletus—my brother—he has great respect for you.”

Shelly lifted her eyes to mine and stared at me from behind her sheet of ice, giving me nothing.

So I continued. “It’s true, I’m technically your boss. Even so, I would very much like to get to know you better.”

She shifted on her feet again, her eyebrows pulling together as though my words confused her. Shelly opened her mouth to speak.

“But Cletus is my brother.” I cut her off, needing to finish saying my piece.

“What does Cletus or his respect for me have to do with anything?”

Now here’s the part of my plan that was a little blurry. I’d hoped that Shelly would pick up on the subtlety of my words thus far. That was a silly hope. Clearly, Shelly Sullivan didn’t operate in subtleties.

I had to make a decision. Would it be wrong of me to share Cletus’s intentions?

Maybe.

Probably.

Yet, in that moment, I didn’t care. I was much more interested in her reaction to his intentions than making life easy for Cletus.

It’s not like I’m going to besmirch his character, I reasoned. I’m just going to spill his beans.

And so I said, “It means, he’s fond of you. A lot. And he intends to . . . court you.”

I watched her for a reaction, like a hawk.

She lifted her chin, her eyes clouding with understanding as she absorbed my words, but all she said was, “Oh.”

My mouth tugged downward and I searched her eyes, looking for something, anything that would give me a clue as to what she was thinking. Was this good news? Or bad? Was she adverse to the idea? Or what?

Shelly revealed nothing, staring at me from behind her glacial fortress. My stomach pitched, then dropped, and I rubbed a hand over my face.

Forcing a determined smile, I plowed ahead. “So how about you and I start over?”

“What does that mean, exactly?”

“We’ll be working together, for who knows how long, so we might as well make an effort to be civil.”

“Civil?”

“Yeah.”

“Be more specific.”

“Fine. Friends.”

She flinched and her gaze sharpened. “Is that what you want?”

No. Not really. “Yes. Of course.”

A tempest gathered in her eyes and her expression turned severe. “I don’t want to be your friend.”

“Excuse me?”

“You aren’t excused.”

“No,” I shook my head. “I mean, what? Why wouldn’t you want to be friends?”

“It’s not what I want.” Her voice rose to a near shout. Shelly was full-on glaring at me now, and I got the sense my suggestion of being friends troubled her on a fundamental level.

“Then what do you want?” I asked gently, which only seemed to infuriate her further.

For the record, that was not my intention. I was trying to make peace, and in doing so, give myself some peace of mind. Somehow, Miss Shelly Sullivan and her black lace underwear, and her tank top with no bra, and her eyes that looked into my soul, had invaded my thoughts, filled my mind and hijacked my dreams with impossible possibilities.

It needed to stop, and not just because of my brother’s intentions. She was all alone here. She was in therapy for heaven’s sake. All signs pointed to off limits.

So when she yelled, “I want—” she lifted her hands like she was going to grab my arms, and I braced myself for her touch.

Instead, she balled them into fists and spat, “I want you to leave me alone.”

I rocked back on my heels, not masking my surprise at the venom in her tone. She was angry, that much was obvious. As to why, I had no clue.

“Okay, fine.” I nodded once, grinding my teeth.

“I want you to reset the auto lift when you’re finished using it. I am tired of cleaning up your messes.”

Well. Okay then.

“Fine.” I took a step back.

“And, how you sing along with music while you have headphones on? Stop doing that.”

“Anything else?” I taunted. “Any more demands, your Regal Majesticness?” This woman brought out the worst in me.

Her glare grew furious and she shoved her face in mine. “You often speak in even-numbered word sentences.” The statement flew out of her mouth, and she made it sound like the vilest insult imaginable.

However, that made absolutely zero sense.

I stared at her, lifting an eyebrow as I waited for her to explain.

When she didn’t, I asked, “What the hell does that mean?”

“It means,” she swallowed and then shook her head rapidly, “I’m very frustrated.”

“Yeah?” I scoffed. “Well, join the club.”

“I do not like you right now.”

“I don’t like you either. But what does that have to do with how many words are in my sentences?”

“Nothing.” She turned from me, grabbed her bag from where she’d placed it, and walked farther into the garage.

I started to follow. “Shelly—”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Leave me alone.”

Biting back a curse, I let her go, thankful I’d completed so much work before she’d arrived. If our interaction just now was any indication, the rest of the day was going to suck.

EVERYTHING DID SUCK.

Shelly wouldn’t speak to me, she wouldn’t look at me. You’d think I’d murdered her abominable parrot instead of suggesting being nice. It wasn’t until Thursday that she addressed me at all, and then it was the strangest conversation I’d ever had.

I was working on the under carriage of Jacob Templeton’s Buick. He’d driven over some rocks, like a fool. When I rolled out from under the car, I found Shelly hovering, waiting for me.

I blinked up at her. “Can I help you?”

“Do you . . . like to eat?”

“To eat?”

“Food.”

“Food?”

Dammit.

Here I was, sounding like her parrot again.

“Yes. Food.” She crossed her arms, glaring down at me.

This felt like a trick question, especially after several days of her cold-shoulder treatment. As such, I took my time thinking over potential hidden meanings and worst-case scenarios.

Once, when I was a kid, my daddy knocked my lights out after I’d complained about being hungry.

You’re hungry? Well, here’s a knuckle sandwich.

Drawing my legs up, I placed my elbows on my knees and peered up at her. She had strong hands, a strong body. She lifted tires and all manner of machinery without complaint, never once asked for help. Her left hook would probably make a considerable impact.

Shelly shifted her weight from foot to foot, which was the closest to fidgeting I’d ever seen her do. If I didn’t know her better, I’d think she was nervous.

Seeing no reason to delay further, I responded—but just in case, I readied myself to take a punch. “Yes. I’ve been known to eat food.”

“Good.” She nodded, inhaled, bit her bottom lip, and kept on nodding.

I waited for a few seconds.

When she didn’t speak, I stood, dusting my hands off on my coveralls. “Are you referring to any particular kind of food?”

“I like bread.” Shelly backed up as I straightened, her attention on the car behind me. She shoved her hands in her pockets, looking like she wanted to say more. Her cheeks were red, but I chalked that up to it being hot in the garage.

Another long pause. I huffed my impatience.

We were backed up. There’d been a Parkway accident on Monday and another on Wednesday. We had a ton of body work to do, a new transmission to install, an unusual number of drop-ins, and a post-summer surge of AC maintenance issues. No one had taken a lunch break, we were too busy, and here she was bringing up food.

I glanced at my watch. “You do?”

“Yes. How about you?” she asked, and then grit her teeth, scowling.

“I like bread just fine.”

“Good.” Shelly rubbed her forehead, now looking completely frustrated.

I had no idea what was going on in her head, and no time to finesse an answer out of her, so I asked plainly, “Shelly, why are you asking me about food?”

“Because it’s important to eat. I wanted to make sure that you’re eating.”

“You want to make sure I’m eating?”

“That is correct.” She’d gone from frustrated to discernibly downtrodden.

I searched my mind, and then I searched her face, her eyes, her body language, looking for some sign as to what the heck this was about.

On a hunch, I was about to ask her if she wanted to go grab something to eat after work when she turned and walked away, mumbling, “Never mind, forget I said anything,” or something like that.

After that things got worse. She started speaking to me again, but only to criticize and complain.

“You’re going to clean that up.”

“When are you going to be finished?”

“You’re not finished?”

“Do you need me to do it?”

The woman was seriously trying my patience. But the only thing that irritated her more than my presence was when I was unfailingly polite, so I made sure to be just that.

“Yes, I’ll clean that up. So sorry to have bothered you.”

“I’ll be finished soon, Shelly. But if you’re in a hurry, please take it.”

“Almost finished, but I’m happy to wait if you need to go first.”

“I don’t require your assistance, but I’m always interested in my friends’ expert opinions.”

Man, oh man, that last one really pissed her off. I thought she was going to lose her temper. She didn’t. Instead, she stomped out of the garage and disappeared around the corner.

She’d also spent the week wowing us with her mechanical prowess, engineering and casting a new part for Judge Payton’s 1923 Piedmont Touring that basically saved the engine, and worked overtime to save our asses. Between the four of us, we managed to catch up by late Friday.

Of note, those dirty dreams hadn’t stopped either.

Every day she impressed me, ignored me, or snapped at me. Every night I collapsed, exhausted, and we made use of each other’s bodies in my dreams. And every morning I woke up frustrated.

Adding fuel to the frustration tire-fire, Drill stopped by on Wednesday. He repeated more frantically that Christine wanted a meeting. I reminded him he’d given me a month and the month wasn’t over yet. He in turn reminded me I only had one week left.

I was more than ready to be done with work by the time Friday night rolled around. Duane and Jess had invited me to go with them to the jam session. I thought about it. A night of listening to music and eating coleslaw and fried chicken sounded like a good remedy for a shitty week. But the idea of being Beau Winston—joking, smiling all night after forcing politeness and disinterest in Shelly Sullivan all week—was unbearable.

Hank had asked me to fill in for his bartender at the Pink Pony, but I begged off. I wouldn’t be good company for anybody, especially not the horndogs at the strip club. My bad mood would be bad for his business.

For the first time in a long time, I was alone at the big house, reading in Momma’s library and drinking Scotch. I’d picked a book at random and settled in one of the four big chairs clustered in the center of the room. It turned out to be a book on art history, a subject I’d never given much thought to. The contents managed to hold my attention surprisingly well.

“You found yourself a picture book?”

I glanced up from the page I was reading to see Billy standing in the doorway. He was still dressed in his work clothes, though his tie and jacket were gone.

“Yep. And it has naked ladies, too.”

Billy smirked, then laughed belatedly, shaking his head at me. His attention snagged on the glass in my hand.

“What’re you drinking?”

“Aberfeldy.” I lifted my chin to the sidebar.

“Don’t mind if I do.” My older brother strolled into the room.

The bar used to be empty. Momma didn’t allow liquor in the house. But since she’d died, we’d slowly started filling it with the essentials for gatherings: a decent vodka, a better tequila, a subpar rum. I’d added the Scotch earlier in the evening, having made a special trip into Knoxville to pick it up.

After pouring two fingers, Billy claimed the chair diagonal from mine. He studied me over the rim of his glass, like he was waiting for me to speak.

When I didn’t, he asked, “What’s troubling you, Beau?”

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

“What makes you say so?”

“You’re here. At home. On a Friday night.”

“So?”

“Usually you’re out on a Friday night, entertaining your flock of admirers.”

I considered my brother, watched him as he swirled his drink.

Now, I liked Billy a lot, and I respected him more than I liked him. He stepped in, took care of Momma, took care of us when Jethro—who was the oldest and should have been drawing our daddy’s fire—was being an ass.

Yet he and I had never been particularly close, especially after his junior year of high school, when he’d lost all chance of a football scholarship. My father and his motorcycle club brothers had beaten the tar out of Billy. Broke his leg. My brother returned from the hospital sullen and withdrawn, and had been in a perpetually brusque mood since.

Until recently, Billy had hated Jethro.

Cletus and Billy had always been close.

Ashley had been living her life in Chicago until last spring. But since moving back home, I knew Ash and Billy had lunch once a week at his office.

Billy and Duane did stuff together, but they were always real quiet about it.

We all did stuff with Roscoe, because he was the youngest and we took turns.

But sometimes, rarely, like tonight, Billy would seek me out and we would talk. Usually, I’d spend the time making him laugh, telling him jokes and tall tales. He seemed to like that about me. At times, he seemed to need that from me.

Maybe that was why he asked me about my troubles now, because I hadn’t cracked a joke.

“Have you heard the one about the fisherman and his pole?”

Billy shook his head, his eyes bright, a small smile curving his mouth. “You remind me so much of your sister.”

I cocked my head to the side, his phrasing struck me as bizarre. “How so?”

Billy blinked like I’d startled him. He closed his eyes and waved his hand in the air. “You know. Funny.”

“Ashley? Yeah, I guess she can be, if she sets her mind to it.” Ashley was funny, but her humor was more like my momma’s, more like Cletus’s—sharp, witty, dry—whereas I preferred rooster jokes and exaggerated stories.

Billy opened his eyes once more and studied his drink. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Seeing no reason to avoid the conversation, I said, “I’m having trouble at work.”

“With what?”

“Our new employee.”

Billy inspected me for a beat, then his attention moved to some point above my head as he nodded slowly. “I see.”

I didn’t see how he could see anything of the sort. The man worked all the time. Here it was almost midnight on a Friday and he was just coming home from the office.

“Anyway, it’ll sort itself out.” I searched my mind for a subject change.

“You’re referring to the lady mechanic?”

“That’s right. Shelly.”

“Quinn’s sister?”

“That’s her.”

“Quinn is a good guy.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know him.”

“What’s the problem? Maybe I can help.” Billy stretched his long legs in front of him.

I exhaled a laugh. “No. I don’t think so.”

“Why not? I have a lot of employees.”

Gritting my teeth, I considered what to say before settling on, “It’s not that kind of trouble.”

Billy’s forehead wrinkled and he mouthed the word Oh. And then he smirked.

I rolled my eyes.

He chuckled. “You and Cletus both.”

A cold knot twisted in my stomach and I dropped my eyes to the book in my lap. “What about me and Cletus?”

“He’s got lady troubles, too.”

“Yeah, well. I know who the woman is.”

“Really?”

“Yep. He told me a week ago, he’s got intentions for Shelly.”

“Shelly?” Billy inspected me.

“Yep.”

“Nope.”

“Billy, come on.” I closed the book, setting it on the table next to me. “He was all dressed up, showered before noon, in that new shirt Sienna got him for his birthday—”

“To see Jennifer Sylvester.” A small, knowing smile tugged at one side of his mouth.

“What?”

“Jennifer Sylvester. That’s who’s got Cletus wrecked.”

Jennifer Sylvester?

The Banana Cake Queen?

The meek little slip of a woman?

And how the hell does Billy know?

“No.” I shook my head.

“Yes.” He nodded his head.

“First of all, Cletus will never be wrecked for a woman,” and definitely not how Billy meant, “because he’s not built that way. And furthermore, he told me—”

“He’s delusional.” Billy flicked his wrist, batting away my argument. “And you’re wrong. That’s how we’re all built. Give him time. He’s smart, he’ll figure it out eventually.”

I was stunned, still working through this information as Billy stood, taking his glass with him. But I thought I caught him mutter as he left the library, “And so will you.”

12

“If everybody minded their own business, the world would go around a great deal faster than it does.”

― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

*Beau*

THAT NO-GOOD, sneaky, meddling usurper.

That’s what he was.

Cletus’s eyes cut to mine and I gave him a small smile, masking the daggers I’d been tossing his way just a second prior. He glared at me from across the garage, his stare narrowing like he was suspicious.

He’d always been this way. Always. Doing sneaky shit, lying by omission, thinking he knew what was best for everybody. In truth, he was just messing things up and being a pain in the ass.

But this time . . . this time he’d seriously pissed me off.

Monday and Tuesday brought more of the same, specifically, Shelly’s persnickety attitude. But now I was distracted. As such, when she snapped at me or complained, I let her have her way without a word.

My sights were set on Cletus. I wasn’t going to ask him what the hell he was playing at. He never gave a straight answer to a straight question. I was going to have to trick him somehow, force him to show his hand.

And then, when he does, Shelly and I will . . . well, I reckoned I’d cross that bridge when I came to it.

He knew I wouldn’t make a move on Shelly if he declared his interest first. He knew that. So, what was his game? Why say he had intentions for Shelly if he actually had intentions for Jennifer Sylvester? That was the part I didn’t understand because—though he was sneaky—this kind of behavior wasn’t like him. Not unless he was trying to push my buttons or he was lying to Billy for some other nefarious purpose.

I didn’t believe for one minute he was wrecked over Jenn Sylvester, at least not the way Billy meant. Cletus wasn’t the head-over-heels sort, not like Ashley, or Duane, or Jethro.

I hadn’t figured out yet how to force the issue, but I was considering driving my ass down to the Donner Bakery—that’s where Jennifer worked—and asking her out on a date.

Turns out, I didn’t need to.

Standing at the basin sink, scrubbing the grease from my fingernails, I glanced out the front of the garage and spotted Jennifer Sylvester’s BMW pulling into the lot. A disbelieving laugh burst from my chest and I shut off the water, keeping my eyes on her car while she parked.

Unzipping my coveralls, I strolled toward her car and tied the sleeves around my waist. I stopped at her bumper, waiting for her to exit, and I couldn’t remember a time I was so happy to see another person. For all intents and purposes, in that moment, Jennifer Sylvester was my favorite person on Earth. She got a big ol’ smile.

“Hey Jenn. Something wrong with your car?” I noticed several things about her at once: she was dressed differently than usual, more relaxed; she was holding a plate in front of her like it would protect her; and she looked nervous.

“Hiya, Beau.” She paused to clear her throat. “No. Nothing wrong with the car. I was just driving by and thought I’d stop in and bring y’all some muffins.”

“What’d you bring?”

“Um, something new I’m trying out. They’re blueberry pancake muffins.”

Of course. Of course she did.

I chuckled, shaking my head. “They’re for Cletus, right?”

Anything blueberry was Cletus’s favorite. He’d almost had a heart attack last year when there was a blueberry shortage at the Piggly Wiggly, expecting us all to live-Tweet our grocery shopping.

“No, no. They’re for all of you.”

Her response was unexpected, so I examined her closely as I said, “Blueberry pancakes are his favorite.”

“Are they?” She looked genuinely surprised, and maybe a little happy.

“You didn’t know that?”

“No. I had no idea.”

“Huh. Well.” Inspecting her again, I didn’t know what to think of this development. But there was no reason to keep her hostage in the parking lot. I turned and waved her forward. “Come on in. I’m just finishing up. I can make some coffee and we’ll hang out for bit.”

“Oh, that sounds nice.” Again, she sounded pleasantly surprised and that gave me pause.

I didn’t know much about Jennifer Sylvester. She was some years younger than me, about Roscoe’s age, and never seemed to do anything other than bake. Her momma and daddy were extremely strict, and she always appeared a little embarrassed and a little confused in public.

Aside from all that, she seemed like a nice enough person. When she’d shown up unexpectedly at our house a few weeks ago on the anniversary of our momma’s death bearing gifts of food, I hadn’t given her arrival much thought. Momma had befriended a lot of people over the course of her life. I just figured Jennifer had been one of them.

I wasn’t going to ask her on a date. Nor was I going to mislead her, per se. However, once we were in front of Cletus, I was going to unleash every flirt-weapon in my arsenal to get a reaction out of my brother. Then I’d have my answer.

“Wait ’til you try my coffee. I doubt it’ll do justice to your muffins.” Feeling a twinge of guilt, I glanced over my shoulder and slowed my steps so we could walk into the garage together.

“Don’t get your hopes up. They could taste like feet,” she said solemnly.

I barked a surprised laugh and studied her again, wondering how many more surprises I could expect from mousy Jenn Sylvester. “I seriously doubt that anything you made could—”

“What is the status of the Ford Expedition? Did you finish with the radiator?”

I stiffened, gritting my teeth as Shelly came into view. She was glaring at my companion, which wasn’t unusual. But I couldn’t afford her rudeness at the moment. Fate had dropped the woman baker on my doorstep and I wasn’t about to lose my chance to confront Cletus.

Adding a bit of steel to my tone, I hoped the warning in my glare was enough to keep Shelly from launching into one of her insulting outbursts. “Shelly. This is Jennifer Sylvester. You’ve probably heard of her banana cake. Jennifer . . .” I motioned rigidly to the woman mechanic, “this is Shelly Sullivan. She’s new to town and works here.”

Jenn reached out her hand for a shake. “Nice to meet you.”

No surprise, Shelly didn’t accept Jenn’s handshake. She crossed her arms and spoke through clenched teeth. “Nice to meet you, too.”

Jennifer lowered her hand slowly when Shelly’s snub became obvious. Just like with Mr. McClure, I couldn’t help feeling frustrated and angry with her. Why she was determined to treat nice people badly? I didn’t understand.

“Don’t take it personally.” I touched Jenn’s arm, hoping the smile I gave her made up for Shelly’s lack of manners. But then I had to prepare myself, putting up my guard as I returned my eyes to my coworker. “She doesn’t shake anyone’s hand.”

The twinge of guilt returned, but this time because Shelly lowered her gaze to the floor of the garage. I noticed a pink flush spread up her neck and over her cheeks. I’d embarrassed her, or she was upset, and that didn’t settle well with me.

A pull to touch her, to apologize, arrested me. But then she returned her gaze to mine and her eyes were fire and ice.

Dammit.

This woman was going to be the death of me. How was it possible to both dislike and admire a person this much? To want—no, crave—so badly to be in her company and be rid of her at the same time?

I didn’t know how long we stood there, glaring at each other, but eventually Jenn’s tentative voice interrupted the staring contest.

“How are you settling in, Ms. Sullivan?”

Shelly’s eyes shifted to Jenn. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, uh, how are things? How’s your place? Do you need anything? Are your neighbors nice?”

Fire and brimstone was replaced with curiosity, and then contemplation. Her features softened.

Even though she wasn’t looking at me, my heart did the two-beat stutter, forcing me to hold my breath. I was so mesmerized by the change in her, I didn’t recognize that we’d been standing in silence for a good while until Jenn cleared her throat again and her eyes darted to me for help.

Finally, Shelly responded, “My house is adequate. I need potholders. I keep using towels and I’ve burned my hand three times. I haven’t met my neighbors, so I don’t know if they’re nice.”

Jenn grinned, taking a deep breath like she was relieved, and maybe a little pleased, by Shelly’s response.

For reasons I couldn’t immediately explain, her words both charmed and aggravated the tar out of me.

I had no idea she needed potholders. If she’d needed potholders, she should have said something. I didn’t want her burning her hands. The woman had beautiful hands, clever hands, strong hands, industrious hands. Nothing should ever happen to her hands. I made a mental note to bring her potholders.

And another thing, here we were, working together for weeks, and she’d volunteered more to Jennifer Sylvester in five minutes than she’d shared with me in a month.

And another thing, where the heck did she live?

And realizing how little of herself she’d been willing to share with me burned my oats. The woman steadfastly refused to be anything other than ornery.

Except that one time she wanted to have sex with you.

And another thing, I’d made an effort, hadn’t I? I’d wanted to know her better, be friendly. And what did she do? Snap at me all day and invade my dreams all night, tell me how she liked bread.

Bread.

That’s right, she literally gave me nothing but bread crumbs.

And one last thing, why was everyone seeing fit to piss me off these days?

Carried on this wave of discontent, I sniped, “Maybe you should make more of an effort,” before I could catch the unkind impulse.

Shelly started, gazing at me with what looked like surprise. In my peripheral vision, I didn’t miss how Jenn’s mouth fell open.

But I was too irritated to feel remorse. We—Shelly and I—were well beyond that. Or we should have been. Once this business with Cletus was settled, she and I were going to have a discussion.

Keeping my eyes on Shelly, I addressed Jenn, “I’ll go start that coffee.”

Not waiting for a response, I left for the garage office on the first floor, veering away from the door at the last minute so I could take a walk around the building. I needed to cool off.

I needed to be calm and collected. I needed all my wits if I was going to use this opportunity to outsmart my brother. So I took my walk around the building, and it was a good thing, too. As I came around the corner several minutes later, completing my second loop, I spotted Jennifer Sylvester speed-walking toward her car, visibly upset.

Concerned, I jogged to catch her, reaching for her arm.

I must’ve startled her because she gasped, her hands lifting to clutch her chest.

I let her go. “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No.” She breathed a weak laugh. “No, it’s fine. I just didn’t see you.”

Dammit. I shouldn’t have left her with Shelly.

“Did Shelly say something? To make you leave?”

“What? No! Not at all. She’s great.”

Really? “Really?”

This was officially the Tuesday of surprises.

Jenn opened her mouth to respond but then snapped it shut, her eyes widening at something over my shoulder. I twisted at the waist and had to do a double take. Cletus was holding Jenn’s plate of muffins and power-walking right toward us.

He didn’t seem to notice me at all. No, his eyes zeroed in on the small woman at my side. Jenn took a step back, like she planned on fleeing.

“Just stop right there,” Cletus hollered, his expression thunderous.

Watching with rapt fascination, I stood dumbly as he moved narrowed eyes over Jenn, then me, then Jenn again.

Shoving the plate of baked goods at my chest, he continued glaring at Jenn, saying, “Beau, take these to the front and close up. We’ll join you in a moment.”

I didn’t move, allowing myself a moment to study him, the situation, the body language, and the sparks of fearful pride these two were shooting at each other.

And I couldn’t believe my eyes.

Billy had been right.

I’d never seen Cletus look at a woman like he looked at Jennifer Sylvester. She was the only person in his world. He didn’t know whether to kiss her silly now, or throw her over his shoulder, toss her in his back seat, and kiss her silly there.

Cletus was wrecked. Really and truly wrecked. Twisted in knots, going out of his mind, fallen too far, over the moon crazy gone for this woman. Furthermore, and just as obvious, Cletus had absolutely no idea that Jennifer Sylvester had wrecked him.

“Sure thing,” I mumbled, my mind in chaos as I walked to the office.

What the hell was I supposed to do now? Cletus had it bad for Jenn, but he had no idea he had it bad for Jenn. Which meant he hadn’t been lying to me or pushing my buttons; he still planned to court Shelly.

The idiot.

Of all the stupid messes.

Setting the muffins on the countertop, I started the coffee and considered the best course of action. Talking to Cletus about his intentions would get me nowhere. He was stubborn and never admitted when he was wrong.

The only thing I could do was stick to the original plan. I would flirt with Jenn, shamelessly, hoping a little jealousy would go a long way and force him to see what was staring him in the face.

The time had come for me to meddle in Cletus Winston’s life.

“Y’ALL NEED TO learn how to share,” Jenn said, referring to her muffins.

“Sharing is overrated,” Cletus quipped, staring at her like she was a plate of blueberry pancakes.

The big dumb idiot.

“I agree,” I said cheerfully, hiding my smirk. “Who wants coffee?”

Everything was going more or less as I’d intended. Jenn and Cletus had returned and we were preparing to eat the muffins in the downstairs office.

“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 against 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 Jennifer 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.

I surmised this was where she expected me to freak out. I wasn’t going to do that, mostly because—though I’d heard of OCD—I didn’t know anything concrete about it.

Darlene had said once or twice, I’m so OCD about my laundry, or organizing her bookshelves, or some such thing. I’d heard other people use OCD to mean being particular in the same kind of context.

Shelly was definitely particular. But what she had going on seemed more serious than being fastidious about folding laundry or alphabetizing bookshelves.

So instead I said, “Hmm,” and with deliberate slowness, I slipped my hand into hers. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Her attention was fastened to our entangled fingers and she gave mine a squeeze.

“Daisy’s. I’m hungry for something good.” And Daisy’s would be quiet during the middle of the week. And she had apple pie. “Mind if I drive?”

“Sure.” She was looking at me funny, sorta sideways, and her answer didn’t seem so sure.

I ignored her inspection, instead enjoying the weight and heat and texture of her hand in mine. I got the sense I’d won a battle of some sort.

Now all that remains is the war.

I CLOSED THE roller door and locked up, holding her hand the whole time. Each occasion where I might’ve released it—to maneuver through the backdoor or to make turning a key easier—her grip tightened and she stepped closer.

She was forced to let me go when we reached her car, still idling in the middle of the lot. I waited by my car as she parked hers, then opened the passenger door. Before she slipped in, Shelly surprised me by stealing a soft, almost tentative kiss. Yeah. It did strange things to my stomach, nice things, things that meant I’d likely be daydreaming—or night dreaming—about the moment over the coming weeks.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to deepen the kiss. I watched her through narrowed eyes as she settled in my GTO, promising myself I’d be ready for her next time.

If there is a next time.

The thought sobered because, what were we doing?

Strolling around to the driver’s side, I decided: we were about to settle things between us. That’s what we were doing.

As I pulled onto the road, the placement of her thumb along her wrist caught my notice. She was doing that thing again, scoring the skin of her wrist with her thumbnail.

“Why do you do that?”

Shelly tugged on her sleeve, covering the marks. “It is hard to explain.”

“Nervous habit?”

She huffed a laugh, leaning her elbow on the window sill and peering out of it. “Something like that.”

Tapping lightly on the steering wheel, I considered how best to proceed. Should I be pushy? I didn’t want to send her running, but something had to give.

“OCD is, uh, pretty common, right?”

“It isn’t uncommon.”

Okay . . .

“I’ve heard people say things like, I’m a little OCD about whatever they want to make sure is just right—like organizing and cleaning and such.”

I looked to the side just in time to see Shelly’s chest expand with a large breath. “That’s not OCD. Not even close. This disorder isn’t cute and it’s not admirable. It’s not something to be proud of, or something people who actually have it will advertise.” She was fidgeting in her seat as she said this, like she didn’t know how to sit still and talk about this at the same time.

“Okay, then. Tell me about OCD.” Maybe describing her experience with the disorder would give me insight as to why she acted so cold most of the time. I was convinced now she wasn’t a cold person. No one who kissed like she did could ever be described as cold. The woman had fire inside her, and I was guessing OCD was the reason she kept it hidden.

“It’s a chronic disorder in which a person has obsessions—meaning, uncontrollable reoccurring thoughts. The person then does things, compulsions, to avoid or escape the stress of the obsessions.” She sounded like she was reciting a medical dictionary.

“So the obsession is the thought, and the compulsion is what you do to avoid the thought?” That didn’t sound so bad.

“Yes. In my case, sometimes I can’t stop thinking about something as simple as, did I unplug the toaster. So I’ll check to make sure I’ve unplugged the toaster even though I know it’s not plugged in. I don’t know if that makes sense.”

“But doesn’t everyone do that?” I glanced at her; she was biting her thumbnail, staring anxiously out the windshield. “I’m always triple-checking things, just to make sure.”

“No. I don’t triple-check. I would check nineteen, or thirty-one, or thirty-seven times.”

My eyes widened at that. “Oh jeez.”

“Yeah.”

We sat in silence as I navigated past a few switchbacks, something about the numbers she listed seemed significant. “Wait a minute . . . Does it have to be a prime number?”

I felt her eyes on me, but more than that, I felt her energy; she was a bundle of nerves. “Yes. Most of what I do regarding my compulsions is based on prime numbers. Or odd numbers. And to clarify, I haven’t forgotten that I have unplugged it, nor have I forgotten that I’ve already checked. It’s like, the thought is that the toaster will plug itself back in or that I was dreaming when I unplugged it unless I check a prime number of times. And I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t stop myself from checking.”

“What happens if you don’t check?”

“That’s the goal. That’s why I’m in therapy. But I’m not there yet.”

I noticed she didn’t answer the question I asked, so I tried again, “And if you just leave the house without actually checking?”

“If I don’t check, then I can’t think about anything else until I do check.”

“You can’t think about anything else?”

Her knee started to bounce. “The analogy my therapist uses is, imagine someone standing in your face, banging on a pan and screaming, while you’re covered in spiders. That’s what my brain does to me if I don’t give in to my compulsions.”

“That sounds intolerable. You’re trying to learn how to tune them out?”

“Yes.”

None of this seemed terrible, not great, but not the end of the world.

“How long have you been in therapy?”

She hesitated, adjusting the seatbelt by her neck, and then twisting it with her fingers. “A few months.”

“A few months? I thought you said you were born this way.”

“I was.”

“And this is the first time you’ve been in therapy?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you do something before now?”

“I thought I could handle things myself.” Shelly rubbed her forehead and released a breath that sounded frustrated. “I’m not stupid—”

“No, you are not stupid.” I glanced at her, making sure she understood how not stupid I thought she was.

That earned me an almost smile as she continued. “As long as I could make the thoughts stop, therapy didn’t seem necessary.”

“So, you can stop the compulsions? Or the thoughts?”

“Sometimes the thoughts stop on their own. Like, I used to have thoughts that I would forget how to read if I read a book where the cover wasn’t blue. That lasted for a few months and then suddenly stopped.”

“So they eventually go away?”

“No, not all of them. Some come and go, some I’ve had since I can remember.”

“What’s your newest obsession?” I glanced at Shelly.

She was chewing on her bottom lip. “Uh. Well . . .”

I waited, biting back the urge to let her off the hook or apologize for asking. Everything she’d confessed so far had started to bring her into focus and I was hungry for more. I wanted to know everything.

Finally, after some intense hemming and hawing, she said, “I have trouble concentrating on what people are saying if their sentences consistently contain an even number of words. If a person’s sentences contain an even number of words the thought is that the person is about to be violent, hurt someone.”

I blinked once at her confession. “Should I be counting my words . . . before I speak?”

“No.” She shook her head adamantly. “I don’t want you to do that. Usually, it’s fine. Statistically, the number of sentences with an even number of words should be the same as an odd number. Just as long as most of your sentences aren’t even worded—” She stopped herself, her face dropping to her hands. “I’m so sorry.”

A surge of something protective and warm had me reaching for her wrist, sliding my palm against hers and entwining our fingers; she stiffened at the contact, but she didn’t pull away.

“Do not apologize.” I made sure my sentence contained an odd number of words.

She shook her head, casting her eyes out the window. “This isn’t going to work.”

“What?” My fingers tightened automatically, though she made no move to withdraw.

“My crazy is too much. Too big for another person. I shouldn’t have—”

“I’m glad you did, I’m glad you’re telling me.” I had an urge to pull the car over, so I could hug her good and proper.

“I can’t think.”

“Why?”

“Because we are touching, and we have touched four times today.”

“. . . So?”

“I can’t think.” She swallowed, shaking her head. “I need to call Dr. West, I need to talk to her.”

I glanced at our hands; Shelly’s knuckles were white. “What’s going on? Does being touched—is that one of your obsessions? Or rather, compulsions? Not being touched?”

She nodded, like all she could do was nod.

I stared out the windshield as more and more of her past behavior came into focus, recalling the times she’d refused to shake hands. I felt like a right ass for judging her.

“What happens if someone touches you?”

“It’s only if I touch someone first.”

“Okay, what happens?”

“I obsess that something horrible will happen to the person.” Her voice cracked and her hand squeezed mine.

Holy shit.

I let that fact wash over me, now needing to pull the car over, pull her onto my lap, and embrace her. Maybe I’d never let her go.

But then suspicion, which quickly became cold dread, had me sitting straighter in my seat and making my neck itch.

“What’s the compulsion? What do you do to escape the thought?”

In my peripheral vision I saw Shelly shaking her head. So I really did pull the car over, my attention split between the skin of her forearm, her face, and the road. When we pulled to a stop, I saw a tear had escaped from her closed eyes, leaving a wet trail on her perfect cheek.

“What do you do, Shelly?” I’m wrong. Don’t say it.

“I don’t want to say. Then you’ll know.”

“Tell me.” Shit. Shit. Shit.

“I—” She choked. Sniffed. Shook her head. “I have to . . .”

Please don’t say it, Shelly. I don’t want to be right.

“. . . have to cut myself.”

I stopped breathing, a litany of recriminations running through my mind underscored by dread.

Has she touched me first? Did that ever happen?

Two times, maybe three. The first time was at the bar, over a week ago, when she grabbed my arm. The second time was just moments ago, when she’d kissed me before slipping into the passenger seat.

No way could I have focused on driving—even on roads I knew so well—with the thoughts currently sprinting in a circle through my mind. At least, that’s what it felt like the way my heart was beating. So glad I pulled the car over before she told me.

Unable to check the impulse, I tugged on her hand in my grip and scanned her arm for any sign of new cuts. When I discovered none, I reached for her other arm. She yanked it away before I could see. Turning her face to the window, she tucked the arm between her body and the door while giving me the back of her head.

“Shelly?”

She shook her head.

“You need to call your doctor.” I spoke to her hair, fear grabbing hold of each muscle, my body tight with it. And the fear was surpassed only by my sense of complete helplessness.

“Yes.”

“Do you have a phone?” I couldn’t remember ever seeing her with a cell phone, but then I hadn’t been thinking clearly.

Maybe it was selfish, it probably was, but the idea of this woman injuring herself because of me, it made me want to puke. And then bind her wrists and lock her up so she can’t do it again.

“No.”

“Do you know the number?” One-handed, I fumbled for my phone in my back pocket.

“Yes.”

Unlocking my cell, I opened her palm and placed my phone in it. “Call. Call her now.” Even as I said the words I was searching my car for sharp objects. Would she do it now? Or would she wait until she got home? Does she carry razors?

I was caught, ensnared in another undertow of helplessness. What the hell was I supposed to do? Babysit her in the car while she called her therapist? That didn’t seem right.

Give her privacy.

I didn’t move.

Shelly slid her hand from mine, unhurriedly bringing the unlocked phone to her lap, and navigated to the number pad. Slowly, so slowly, she dialed a number she knew by heart, waited until the screen indicated the call had been accepted, and brought my cell to her ear.

“Hello? Dr. West? Yes. Hi, it’s me. Shelly.”

It was time for me to go, to step out of the car, but I couldn’t bring myself to leave. If she cut herself . . .

“I am sorry to call, but I’m feeling overwhelmed.”

I stared at her profile, my mouth hanging open a half inch. She looked and sounded so calm. Too calm.

I could just hear a voice on the other end ask something like, “Where are you? What phone number is this?”

Shelly’s eyes darted to me and then back to the dashboard; they were wide, rimmed with panic; the only outward sign that something very not-calm was happening inside her.

“I’m not alone.” A pause, then, “Beau Winston’s phone.” Another pause.

Shelly was listening and I couldn’t catch what her doctor was saying on the other end. My attention had dropped to her hand farthest from me. Her sleeve was down. I didn’t have X-ray powers, so I couldn’t see beneath the fabric of her shirt.

“I believe once.” Shelly’s knee was still bouncing; she placed a palm on her thigh and appeared to be pressing her leg down, trying to stop its movement. She was quiet for a moment, then seemed to be responding to a question, “Before that, he kissed me.”

The therapist said something that sounded like, “That’s so great,” and I fought a disbelieving laugh.

It was great? How the hell was me kissing Shelly great? Well . . . other than the obvious reasons why kissing is great.

Wasn’t all the greatness undone by Shelly’s desire to cut herself after touching me?

No.

Why not?

Because kissing her was great. And what came after was great. And leaving together was great. You can’t rewrite history because of new information.

But doesn’t the new information change the history?

Stop being stupid.

Shelly sunk lower in her seat. “He’s right here.”

I didn’t catch what the doctor said next, but whatever it was seemed to be helping. Shelly stopped pressing on her leg and her knee stopped moving. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and pushed the back of her head against the headrest. Her features relaxed.

“Okay. That makes sense. I can do that.” She nodded subtly, picking at a thread on her pants. “Yes, he’s still here.”

She glanced at me, peering at me like I was a picture of a person rather than someone real sitting right next to her. “No. He looks . . . worried.”

“That’s ’cause I am worried.” I spoke without thinking, but was able to keep my voice low and calm.

Flinching, her eyes dropped and she rubbed her forehead like she had a headache. I was reminded of what she’d said her obsessions were like, how they screamed at her and distracted her until she gave in to the resultant compulsions.

“What? No. We’re perfectly fine.” Her tone was sharp, like Shelly couldn’t hear the other woman but her patience was running thin. Her attention lifted to me again. “I don’t know.”

Very clearly, I heard her therapist instruct, “Ask him now.”

Shelly stared at me, a mixture of emotions playing over her features. Now, this was a sight to behold. Until recently, I’d never seen much in the way of emotion from Shelly Sullivan, just rare glimpses followed by taciturn caution.

So seeing the spectrum of feeling now—worry, desire, hope, despair—had me holding my breath and wanting . . . something. Something I couldn’t rightly name, but there it was.

Allowing the want to guide me, I held her gaze and reached for the phone, slipping my fingers over hers and taking the cell out of her hand. She let me, her stare now wary and bracing.

“Beau,” she said, and it sounded like a plea.

I lifted my eyebrows, giving her a second to object. When she didn’t, I brought the cell to my ear. “Hello?”

“Hello? Mr. Winston?”

“Yeah, but you can call me Beau.”

The woman on the other end sighed, like she was relieved. “Beau, thank you for agreeing to speak with me. Do you have me on speaker?”

“No, ma’am.”

“If it would make you more comfortable, you can place me on speaker.”

“Let me ask,” I placed my palm over the receiver and asked Shelly. “Do you want me to place her on speaker?”

She shook her head, reaching for the door. “No. I—I don’t want to hear. I’ll wait outside.”

“You don’t want to hear?” I almost choked on the irony. Here I couldn’t bring myself to give her privacy, and now she couldn’t get away from my impending conversation fast enough.

“No.”

“She’s your therapist.”

“Yes, but she’s going to ask you to do something, and I know what it is. I don’t want my being here to impact your response.” She was already halfway out the door as she said this.

“Shelly—”

“Beau, you don’t know me—”

“I want to.”

“Really? Still? Are you sure? Because it doesn’t get better than this.” Her tone was stark and the depth of sadness—of desolate surrender—I saw in her eyes almost made me miss the ice and arrogance. Almost.

But it also made me want to take away her sadness, to prove her wrong.

Before I could say anything else, she was out of the car and closed the door, pacing to the back of my GTO and leaning against the trunk.

“Beau? Are you still there?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m here.”

“Am I on speaker with you and Shelly?”

“No. She decided to give us privacy.”

“Ah. Okay.” It sounded like the woman was walking, I could hear the click-clack of shoes against a hard floor. “That should be fine, but it does complicate what I’m allowed to say and share.”

“I have a lot of questions,” I glanced at the rearview mirror, where Shelly’s stiff, straight back was visible, “but I’d prefer to ask her.”

I didn’t want Shelly to feel that we’d talked about her, that I’d been given information she wouldn’t have been willing to share. I wanted Shelly to have . . . some control.

“Good, you should.”

“She said you had something to ask me? How is it that you know who I am?”

“Shelly has mentioned you on many occasions.”

“She has?”

“Yes.”

“Because we work together?”

“No.” There was unmistakable humor in the single-word answer and also finality, communicating very effectively that she was not at liberty to discuss the context of how and when my name had come up. “But I can tell you that she speaks very highly of you.”

She speaks highly of you. Despite everything, that had me grinning, which might’ve meant I was the crazy one.

“Beau, I can also tell you, Shelly has made great progress in the last several months, especially since moving to Tennessee, and I think you—and her position at the Winston Brothers Auto Shop—are contributing factors. I think, and I’ve discussed my theory with Shelly, that you in particular could be instrumental in helping Shelly’s therapy moving forward.”

“How so?”

“First, let me ask you, do you consider Shelly a friend?”

No.

“Yeah.” Even to me, my response sounded hesitant.

Clearly the woman sensed my insincerity, because she asked, “Really?”

“Well,” my gaze flickered to Shelly’s rigid posture, “I’ve made overtures, which she rejected.”

“Last week, correct?”

“She told you about that?”

Dr. West ignored my question, instead asking, “But you would like to help her? If you could?”

“Absolutely. I don’t want her cutting herself because she touched me, or anyone else.”

The doctor was silent for a long time, prompting me to ask, “Are you still there?”

“Yes.” Her voice altered, now wary and stern. “She told you about the cutting?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Just before she called you.”

“That’s very surprising.”

“What?”

“She trusts you.” The woman suddenly sounded fierce, angry, like she was warning me not to mess things up.

And her tone had me automatically defending myself. “I’m very trustworthy.”

“Good. I hope you’re also a very responsible driver, and don’t needlessly put yourself in harm’s way.”

“I don’t,” I snapped. I wasn’t the daredevil in our family; that title belonged to Duane. Besides, why was she bringing up my driving skills?

“In light of this development, I will need to speak with Shelly to determine the next steps.”

“What development? Me being a safe driver?”

“No. Shelly trusts you.”

“So? What’s wrong with her trusting me? I trust her.”

“You don’t know her—”

“I’m trying to change that.”

“She doesn’t know you very well—”

“I’m trying to change that, too.”

“This is not a simple matter, Mr. Winston,” the doctor continued as though I hadn’t spoken.

“I told you to call me Beau.”

“This is not a simple matter, Beau. I’m not able to delve into specifics for obvious reasons, but her trusting you—after so little time—changes everything.”

“What does it change? And what were you going to ask me?”

The physician hemmed and hawed, saying nothing for a good ten seconds. “That’s no longer a viable course of action, Beau. But I do appreciate your willingness to speak with me.”

I sensed that the woman was shutting the door in my face, and that did nothing for my mood. Whether this woman liked it or not, Shelly was my business.

And another thing, I’d just kissed a woman I’d been fantasizing about for weeks. I should be planning my next move, not stuck in my car speaking to her therapist while the literal woman-of-my-dreams paced outside.

How the hell did I get here? This was the strangest conversation I’d ever had.

All of these factors had me speaking without debating the wisdom of my words. “Listen, ma’am, I understand that Shelly has this disorder and you’re helping her work through things, and that’s great. But I care about this woman. She’s a fu—a freaking automotive genius. Did you know she can design, cast, and weld car parts?”

“Uh—”

“And diagnose problems just by listening to an engine? I’ve never met anyone who can do that. And she adopts cursing parrots. She may not come off as warm and friendly, but the woman has a big heart, and hiding it away ain’t doing anybody any good, especially not her. She’s starving, Doctor. I don’t know if you can see that, but I sure can. She needs affection more than a diagnosis, if you want my opinion, and not that you asked. But there it is.”

Dr. West made a sound that might’ve been a cough—or it might’ve been choking, I couldn’t tell. “Do you feel sorry for her, Beau? Is that why you want to help?”

“Hell, yes, I feel sorry for her.”

“That’s not a good basis for—”

“But mostly, I feel sorry for everyone else. Because from what I’ve seen, the glimpses of herself she’s shared with me, it’s a damn shame no one else gets to see it. It leads me to suspect that what we see of her on the outside has nothing on the beauty on the inside.”

Silence met this last statement. Shelly’s doctor was quiet for a while.

I glanced at the screen, seeing we were still connected, then brought it back to my ear just in time to hear her ask, “Beau, would you be willing to accompany Shelly this Friday afternoon? When she meets with me?”

“If she wants me there, I’ll be there.” Once more, I glanced at Shelly in my rearview mirror; she was still pacing, biting her thumbnail. The sight of her anxiety made me anxious. Her back was straight and tall, which was a miracle given the burden she balanced on her shoulders.

“Thank you.” Dr. West’s tone was friendly again, excited even. “Thank you, Beau.”

“For what? I haven’t done anything.”

“Don’t be so sure about that. See you Friday.” Dr. West ended the call, and if I was judging her tone correctly, she ended it smiling.

I tossed the phone to my dashboard, not smiling. I took a minute, marinating in the events of the day. But I didn’t get any further than our kiss in the garage, mostly because I didn’t want to. It had been the highlight not only of the day, but of the month. Maybe my entire year.

A soft knock on my window pulled me from my reflections. Shelly was hovering next to my door, her arms crossed, giving me an eye-interrogation.

I gave her a small smile and opened the driver’s side door, forcing her to back up a few steps.

“You spoke to Dr. West.”

I nodded, closing the door, inspecting the remarkable woman in front of me. She appeared to be struggling to erect her walls. Her gaze moved over me, like I was about to disappear and she was trying to commit my image to memory.

“I did.”

“Did she ask you about the touch therapy?”

That had me widening my eyes with acute interest. “Touch therapy? Tell me more.”

“She didn’t ask?”

“She asked me to come with you on Friday, for your appointment.”

Shelly blinked at me, three times, very quickly. “What?”

“She wants me to come with you.”

“Oh.” The word was more a breath than a real sound and her gaze had finally settled on mine, making my heart skip the requisite two beats.

“If that’s okay with you.”

Shelly nodded quickly. “Yes. That is fine with me. More than fine.”

“Good. I can’t make it this Friday. I have to close because Cletus has a thing in Nashville on Saturday, but I’m going with you next week.”

Finally still, she studied me at length before saying, “You’re taking me back to the shop.”

“What? Now?”

“I need to go back to the shop and get my car now. I think I need to go home.”

“Okay.” I nodded, letting my disappointment show but not wanting to push; a lot had happened and she clearly needed time to process things, but a nagging thought had me hesitating. “Shelly, can I ask you something?”

“Yes.”

“Have you—have you hurt yourself because of me?” I couldn’t say the word cut, it caught in my throat and made it burn, so I motioned to her sleeve.

She shook her head, her attention moving to some spot behind me. “No, I haven’t.”

My relief was bone deep, yet apprehension still remained. “But you’ve wanted to?”

She nodded without speaking, her features blank, her eyes still affixed elsewhere.

“Tonight, when you go home, should I be worried—”

“Do not worry about me.”

“Impossible.”

Her gaze cut to mine, sharpened, scattering my wits as usual.

“I did not tell you about my—about me so you would worry.” Her hard tone belied frustration.

“Shelly,” I took a half step forward, “I was worried about you before you told me.”

She flinched. “Because you thought I was crazy?”

“Because I worry about people I care about.”

My admission seemed to fracture her ice wall and all at once her features melted. “I care about you, too.”

“Should I stay with you tonight? Do you need my help?” Do you need me?

“No.” Her tone now gentle, her gaze grew cherishing, and I believed she did care about me. “You don’t need to worry. I haven’t cut in over a year, and I don’t own any knives. Dr. West has really helped.”

Thank God.

“Good. That’s really good.” I tried not to let the extent of my relief show on my face, but I did allow a small smile. “How about a raincheck then?”

“Raincheck?”

“Yeah. Tomorrow for dinner, you and me go to Daisy’s. On a date.”

Shelly blinked, like my suggestion surprised the heck out of her. Her eyebrows pulled together, plainly confused. “You still want to go with me?”

“Yeah, of course.”

She shook her head, protest written all over her face. “But—”

“Let me ask you something.” I shuffled a step closer. “Your worry, or obsession, is about touching people?”

“Yes.”

“But if I touch you? That’s okay? That doesn’t make you want to do stuff?”

She crossed her arms. “Correct. I can’t touch other people, initiate it, but being touched doesn’t trigger any obsessive thoughts or compulsions. I just . . .”

“What?”

“I don’t usually like it, when people touch me. I can’t touch them back.”

“Should I stop?”

“No!” She said this in a way that had my small smile widening. “I like it when you do it.”

“Good to know,” I drawled. “I’ll be sure to keep doing it, then.” Yep. That was me flirting.

“I like it a lot when you touch me.” She hastened to add, “You can touch me whenever you want.” The last sentence was spoken like she was out of breath.

Good Lord, I really enjoyed her brutal honesty sometimes. It removed guesswork from the equation and simplified everything.

Shelly didn’t return my grin, instead her gaze clouded with that same sad surrender from earlier, and her obvious melancholy wiped the smile from my face.

Taking another step into her space, I held her stare. She lifted her chin to maintain eye contact, her body swaying toward mine, her breath coming short. Cupping her cheeks, I felt the tension in her freeze, and then melt beneath my palms. Her eyes closed, like she was relieved and grateful, and seeing her gratitude made my chest ache.

Damn. I felt sorry for her.

What must that be like? To be a prisoner to your own mind? To have your actions and desires held hostage by irrational fear?

I also felt a little sorry for myself. Her hands on me felt great. But knowing what I knew now, I didn’t want her to reach for me. I would likely flinch away from her touch, because I knew what it might cost.

With this thought on my mind, I brushed my lips against hers, enjoying everything about the hot and hungry way she reacted, how her body trembled, how she shifted restlessly.

But I did not enjoy how she clearly wanted me closer, yet was unable to do anything about it.

As I deepened the kiss, I slid my palms down her arms, entwining our fingers, and guiding her hands around my waist.

Immediately, she hugged me.

She held on tight.

Like she never wanted to let me go.

14

“It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.”

― Aristotle, Metaphysics

*Beau*

THAT NIGHT, I did not use Google to understand more about OCD. I wanted to wait until the appointment with her therapist. The search for cutting nearly sent me into a panic.

But I did dream of Shelly, as usual. Except, we weren’t getting busy. We were lying together. I held her and . . . that’s it. If it’s possible for a dream to be hopeful, that’s what this dream was. I woke up early, well rested with a single question on my mind: where could I buy Shelly potholders before work?

As I moved about, getting ready for the day, the worry set in. Had she given in to her compulsions last night? She said she didn’t own knives, but they weren’t hard to come by. She shaved her legs, didn’t she? So she had razors.

I wished she had a cell phone, and I wished I had some way to check on her.

I accidentally cut my neck shaving, penance for being distracted. Dabbing at the spot with a Kleenex, I tossed it into the toilet. But then the toilet didn’t flush. I made a mental note to grab the plunger from the basement and made my way downstairs where the smell of coffee beckoned.

My thoughts were still on Shelly as I entered the kitchen—whether I should take her someplace other than Daisy’s for dinner, whether I should pick her up flowers, what the rest of her obsessive thoughts were and the resultant compulsions—so I wasn’t paying much attention to my surroundings. My excitement for our date was irritatingly tempered by my concern for her well-being.

Would it always be like this with her? Would thinking about her always be half anticipation, half trepidation?

“What’s wrong?” Billy’s question had me looking up. My second-oldest brother was already dressed for work in his suit and tie. “And shouldn’t you be fishing with Hank?”

“I cancelled. I have an errand to run.” Grabbing a coffee cup from the cabinet, I tossed a thumb over my shoulder. “The toilet is acting funny.”

“Like what? You mean satire?” This question came from Cletus, not bothering to glance away from where he was reading at the table. He was still in his pajamas, his curly hair a mess. Nevertheless, I was surprised to see him up so early.

“No, I mean—”

“I hope it’s a dark comedy,” he added, still not removing his attention from the newspaper.

“Cletus. That’s disgusting.” Sitting across from Cletus, Duane’s tone was reprimanding.

Finally, Cletus tore his eyes from the paper. “What?”

“Dark comedy?” My twin lifted his eyebrows. “Meaning poop?”

“No, Duane.” Cletus paired this with a suffering sigh.

“That would make it a shitty comedy,” I piped in, adding fuel to the conversation fire as I was prone to do, feeling more myself as I smiled.

“Y’all are a bunch of toilets,” Billy mumbled under his breath.

We all turned our attention to our older brother, with Cletus speaking for us, “Let me guess, because toilets in this house act funny?”

Billy tilted his cup toward Cletus. “Exactly.”

I grinned, the rawness in me settling. Being around my brothers was a salve and a good reminder. We had all lived through dark times—sometimes together, sometimes separately—yet here we were, making toilet jokes on a Wednesday before 7:00 AM.

When our father was in the picture, we’d lived our lives in a state of constant agitation. We waited for tragedy to strike, for a shoe to drop, a punch to land.

Living that way was not an option, not anymore. Shelly’s therapist had said she was making remarkable progress. Anticipating failure wasn’t fair to her, and it wasn’t fair to me. No person is exempt from troubles and strife. Her baggage had the label of OCD, mine was labeled Darrell Winston.

As long as Shelly and I could have times like this, as long as the discord was diluted by frequent, everyday moments of knowing and enjoying each other, then I could deal.

I would not cheat myself out of the possibility of her, of us, of hope and happiness.

I refused to expect or anticipate misery.

THE PIGGLY WIGGLY HAD POTHOLDERS. I picked up four, walking past the bundles of flowers to the checkout. Something told me Shelly wouldn’t appreciate flowers like most people would. In fact, I was pretty sure she’d hate them.

My detour to the grocery store meant that I didn’t get to the auto shop until after 8:30 AM, making me the third to arrive. Cletus’s car was still missing. I was excited nerves, now in the grip of happy anticipation. I couldn’t wait to see her.

Duane was stationed at the front of the shop and I came to a stop next to him. Hovering, I gave my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the garage and scanned the expansive space.

“Where’s Shelly? I saw her car in the lot.”

“Under Daisy’s Volvo in the back.” He glanced up from the Ford he was working on, wearing a scowl of concentration.

“Thanks.” Not needing to be told twice, I made to head in that direction, but was waylaid by my twin’s hand on my arm.

“Wait a minute.”

I glanced at his fingers, and then at him. “What’s up?”

He let his hand fall away, but he still wore a scowl. “You want to, uh, grab some lunch later?”

“Pardon?” I couldn’t have heard him right; he always had lunch with Jess.

“Do you want to go grab lunch later?”

“Is Jess out of town?”

“No.”

I surveyed him, the scowl he wore, the set of his jaw. He wasn’t angry, but he was something like it.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

Metal clattering against concrete toward the back of the garage snagged my attention. “We’ll see how the day goes,” I said absentmindedly, backing away from my brother and navigating to the dark blue Volvo.

Immediately, I spotted Shelly’s legs and boots sticking out from beneath the car. I grinned, because her legs were bare, which meant she was wearing her cutoff shorts.

I nudged her boot with mine. “Good morning.”

“Morning.” The word sounded strained, then she grunted, then she cursed.

“Are you okay down there?”

Shelly wheeled out from under the car; I backed up to give her space. Squatting next to her as she sat up, her elbows resting on her raised knees, I indulged my desire to devour the sight of her. She’d braided her hair in a circle, so it resembled a crown and reminded me of a milkmaid or a wooden-shoe-wearing lady from The Netherlands. Her expression was unperturbed, but the set of her mouth gave her away. Her teeth were clenched, her lips curved downward, which made her bottom lip protrude a millimeter more than the top.

Shelly wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a streak of grease over one eyebrow. “Someone has stripped these bolts. I’m going to have to use the auto lift.” Her gaze flicked over me, as though unwilling to settle on one place.

“You want help?”

“No, thank you.” Her attention was affixed to the wrench in her hands, she hadn’t looked me square in the eyes yet.

I lowered my voice even though Duane wasn’t likely to overhear us. “Do you still want to have dinner at Daisy’s? Or we could go somewhere else.”

She shrugged, fiddling with the wrench. “I’ll go anywhere you want.”

“Seven? We’ll leave together?”

“Okay.”

I studied her, unable to read her mood beyond evasive. “Shelly.”

“Yes?”

“Look at me.”

“Why?”

“I love how it feels.”

Her eyes lifted to mine suddenly. There it is. I welcomed the stuttering double beat in my chest.

As though unable to stop herself, she asked, “What does it feel like?”

Holding her gaze, I let a slow grin spread over my features and watched for any answering sign of heart palpitations in her. I was not disappointed.

“Beau,” she whispered, her stare growing gratifyingly hazy. “I like it when you smile.”

“What else do you like?” I captured her protruding bottom lip for a quick, biting kiss; skimming the tips of my fingers along the underside of her calf to the silky skin at the back of her knee.

A little moan stole past her parted lips. The sound was a potent mixture of pleasure and frustration, and it made me grin. As I leaned away, one of her hands lifted like she was going to grab me by the shirt to stay my retreat. In the end she didn’t, instead making an empty fist and gritting her teeth again.

I stood, meeting her fiery gaze, not hiding the fact that her reaction pleased me.

Her hot stare moved over me, like I confounded her. “I like how you look at me.”

“How do I look at you?”

She gifted me with an almost smile, giving her head a subtle shake. “Stop wasting time. Get to work.”

“Afraid the boss will see?” I wagged my eyebrows.

Rolling her lips between her teeth, she turned her head just so, squinting at me and saying nothing.

So I inclined my head once and drawled, “Ma’am.” Then turned for the stairway leading to the second-floor office, knowing her eyes followed me the whole time.

I needed to change into work clothes.

I also needed a minute.

Too bad we didn’t have a shower on the premises, because I could’ve used a cold one.

IT WAS A GOOD DAY. In fact, it was the best day in recent memory.

Stealing touches and trading looks—the hot spiky sensations prickling my skin when I caught her watching me or when she caught me watching her—definitely contributed to the greatness of the day, no doubt.

But more than that, much more, discussing solutions like two colleagues, with mutual respect and esteem, was even better.

She asked my opinion about a rusted-out camshaft. I asked her to consult on a warped flywheel. She was brilliant. I had fun. Talking with her, troubleshooting with her, being with her was fun.

The hours got away from us. Duane had left with Jessica around 5:00 PM. Before I knew it, I’d run out of time to drive home for a quick shower. Forced to settle with washing up at the large basin sink at the back of the garage, I couldn’t muster any irritation for the inconvenience.

The sink had three faucets, was made of stainless steel, and was slightly larger than a standard-sized bathtub. As far as I knew, no one had ever tried to climb in and take an actual bath, nor would they want to. It was where we cleaned tools, rags, and grease from our hands throughout the day.

When the need arose for a quick wash, my general practice was to tie the sleeves of my coveralls to my waist, strip off my undershirt, and clean up using a washcloth and a bar of soap.

I’d just soaped my neck when Shelly appeared. She stopped short, clearly not expecting to see me half-naked and covered in soapy water. Her eyes moved over my body in a way that was reminiscent of the day she’d caught me changing in the upstairs office—hot with appreciation.

I smirked even as the spiky heat materialized beneath my skin, making my heart gallop.

“Hello, Shelly.” I tried to sound smooth, unaffected, and mostly succeeded.

Not removing her eyes, she choked out, “Hello,” continuing to stare as though in a trance.

My smirk widened.

Abruptly, she tore her gaze away and walked past, heading for the front where the roller door was already closed. Grinning at her retreating back before she disappeared into the supply closet, I glanced at the clock, noting it was just past 6:30 PM.

I was just about to call out to her, to tease her, when she reappeared, holding a washcloth in one hand and a towel in the other.

The self-satisfied smile I’d been wearing disappeared and my wide stare bounced between her and the washcloth. “What are you doing?”

“Washing.” Shelly twisted the faucet next to mine, draped her towels over the far edge of the sink, and whipped off her T-shirt.

Like before, I caught a tantalizing flash of lace and skin before I averted my eyes to the wall in front of us.

“Shelly . . .”

“Yes?”

I swallowed thickly, unable to block the sight of her bare skin in my peripheral vision. Presently she was peeling off her shorts. I closed my eyes, squeezing them shut as traitorous images—some from my dreams, some new fantasies—assaulted my inner vision. She was torturing me.

“Please pass the soap when you’re finished.” Her voice held humor. Not a lot, just a trace, just enough that I’d notice.

I gritted my teeth, holding the soap out for her to take. “I’m trying to be gentlemanly here and you’re making it real hard.”

She plucked the bar from my hand. “Really? It doesn’t look hard.”

Coughing a disbelieving laugh, my eyes flew open and then I quickly squeezed them shut again, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands least they wander in her direction. “What’s your middle name?”

“Catherine.”

“Shelly Catherine Sullivan, did you just flirt with me?”

She didn’t respond straightaway, leaving me waiting in the darkness behind my eyelids with my lusty imagination, and the sound of running water.

But then she did respond, and her voice was achingly close, I could feel the heat from her body. “Are you always a gentleman?” she whispered, the question sounding honestly curious.

“I will be with you.”

“But have you always been?”

I thought back, way back to my last girlfriend, and the one before that, and the one before that. “Yes. I’ve always been a gentleman.”

I sensed she’d stepped back. “You should make an exception for me.”

“You don’t want me to treat you like a lady?”

“I am not a lady.”

“You’re my lady.” I grinned, enjoying this unexpected exchange.

“Yes.” She sounded thoughtful, serious; I felt her eyes on me as she continued in a whisper, “I’d like to be yours.”

That admission, more than anything, more than the kisses yesterday, more than the hot looks today, had my breath catching, my heart jumping, and my throat burning. It was a promise of what was to come, and what the future might hold, and I ached.

Then be mine, and I’ll be yours, I wanted to say, but I didn’t. I wouldn’t be able to keep the roughness or the hopefulness out of my voice, and I didn’t want to scare her off by coming on too strong too fast.

I heard her faucet turn off and I sensed her retreat. “I’m going upstairs to change.”

“Can I open my eyes?”

Shelly sounded further away when she answered, “You didn’t need to close them.”

I blinked my eyes open, catching the sight of her as she strolled to the stairway. She was wrapped in a towel and her shoulders were bare. I glanced down and saw her clothes—all of her clothes—in a pile by the corner of the sink, and released a ragged breath.

Either she was trying to drive me insane with want, or the woman had no sense of modesty. In either case it didn’t matter, the end result was the same.

Standing there, soapy, shirtless, dripping, and staring like a fool at the evidence of her recent nakedness, I remembered suddenly that Cletus was upstairs in the office working on the books. A shock of something primal and possessive had me hastening to rinse and towel off, hurriedly twisting the faucet and jogging to catch Shelly.

It wasn’t my decision to make, but hell. I didn’t want her changing in front of my brother. I’d been so focused on hurrying, I almost collided with Cletus as I opened the door at the base of the stairs.

“Whoa there, Beauford.” Cletus held up his hands. “Shelly asked me to give her a moment, she’s changing.”

I stopped myself before I laughed my relief, instead swallowing the impulse and nodding as I stepped to the side, allowing Cletus to pass.

“Sure, sure. I’ll wait here until she comes out.”

Cletus shrugged, glancing around the garage. “You could probably go up now. I reckon she’s got the important parts covered by now.”

I stared at my brother, cocking an incredulous eyebrow at his casual dismissal of Shelly’s privacy. “The important parts?”

He pressed his lips into a stiff line, studying the closed roller door with an air of distraction; I got the sense he hadn’t heard me. “Say, uh, you’re still okay closing up the shop on Friday afternoon by yourself?”

“It’s fine.” Now that I didn’t need to rush, I took a moment to towel dry properly.

“And you mind riding with Billy on Saturday morning to Nashville for the thing? He’s working late Friday, too.”

“‘The thing’ being your show with Claire?” I studied his profile. He sounded funny, anxious. “You nervous?”

“No.” He answered too quickly, his gaze settling on the Master Lock toolbox closest to us. “I’m impervious to nerves, you know that.”

“Sure, Cletus.” By some miracle, I didn’t roll my eyes.

“You’ll be, uh, picking up Ms. Sylvester on the way Saturday morning. I expect you to behave like a gentleman. She’s not equipped to parlay with a flirt of your magnitude.” My brother’s attention returned to the toolbox and he cleared his throat.

“You mean Jenn?”

His eyes cut to me, sharp and suspicious. “You don’t know the lady well enough to call her Jenn.”

That had my mouth dropping with surprise even as I grinned. “Oh really?”

“No.” He crossed his arms and lifted his chin, challenge etched on his features.

“Well then, maybe I’ll use the drive to Nashville to know her better.”

Even though my brother was now squinting, the fire behind his eyes was plain as the sun and twice as hot.

I kept on grinning.

“You’re in a good mood. Why’re you in a good mood? Today isn’t Tuesday.”

Clapping my hand on Cletus’s shoulder, I gave it a small shake. “Just looking forward to the car ride on Saturday is all. You know how much I love making new friends.”

Before he could respond or see me laugh at his discomfort, I turned from my brother and took the stairs two at a time.

“Beauford Fitzgerald Winston—”

“G’night, Cletus.” I waved him off without turning. “No need to stick around. I’ll lock up.”

The intensity of his ire was so strong, I felt the heat of it boring into the back of my head as three thoughts occupied my mind:

One: The ungentlemanly part of me hoped Shelly wasn’t quite finished covering all the “important parts.”

Two: Not that there was any doubt before, but Cletus had it bad for the Banana Cake Queen (aka Jennifer Sylvester) and he clearly had no idea.

Three: Messing with Cletus held second place for the most fun I’d had all day.

First place belonged to Shelly, and every moment we’d spent together.

15

“To understand the heart and mind of a person, look not at what he has already achieved, but at what he aspires to.”

― Kahlil Gibran

*Beau*

UNFORTUNATELY, SHELLY HAD already finished dressing by the time I walked into the office. She turned and glanced at me, doing a double take and giving me another almost smile.

“Do you mind?” I teased, my grin giving me away as I crossed to my locker.

Now clothed in a long blue summer dress that ended at her ankles and matched the color of her eyes, Shelly closed the door to her locker and leaned a shoulder against it.

“I don’t mind at all.” Her gaze moved over me in a blatant perusal. She was growing bolder, more comfortable around me. I liked it.

“I meant, I’d like some privacy.”

“Oh, then I do mind.”

That made me laugh, and I shook my head at her, casting the woman a sideways glance as I untied the sleeves of my coveralls from my waist.

But when I pushed them down my hips, Shelly did look away. She turned, and I watched her shoulders rise and fall with what looked like a deep breath.

My gaze caught on the sight of her back and arms; the thin straps of her dress showcasing an expanse of delectable skin.

I had to swallow once before saying, “That’s a nice dress.”

“Thanks,” she said, her voice soft.

My heart thumped wildly as I changed. I stole glances at her long form, the curve of her hip, her neck, the strands of curls that had pulled free from the braid crowning her head and now cascaded down her back.

I like it a lot when you touch me.

You can touch me whenever you want.

I'd like to have sex with you.

I suspected that we could skip dinner, proceed straight to the physical portion of the evening, and she wouldn’t complain.

But honestly, I would.

I liked this woman. I liked her a lot. I liked her maybe too much, and perhaps I was putting the cart of turnips before the horse.

Settle down, Beau. She’s not going anywhere. Take your time.

I’d just pulled on my shirt when a knock sounded on the office door. Shelly’s head turned toward it, then to me in question.

I shrugged, because it wasn’t like Cletus to knock before he entered a room. He was the bursting in, paying no mind to peoples’ privacy or wishes type. At least he was at the house.

My shirt half-buttoned, I called, “Come on in, Cletus.”

The door opened and I stiffened, my fingers fumbling on the next button. The man standing in the doorway wasn’t Cletus, but I recognized him immediately.

He was Quinn, Shelly’s brother, and he was conducting a sweep of the office as though looking for threats.

“Hey there, Quinn.” Recovering quickly, I stepped forward, reaching a hand out to the big man. I’d recalled him being tall, but I didn’t remember him being this tall.

His eyes came to rest on me and they were exactly the same shape and color as Shelly’s, which I then labeled disconcerting aqua.

“Beau,” he said, low and grumbly, taking my hand easily and giving it a firm shake. “The door downstairs was locked. I walked around the back and let myself in.”

“That’s fine,” I said easily, even though I got the sense he wasn’t asking for permission so much as gently reprimanding me for having lax security.

And how did he know I was Beau and not Duane?

“You’re welcome anytime. How’s Janie?”

He did another quick once-over of the office—me included—until his eyes came to rest on his sister. Shifting back, I glanced between the two of them, seeing more than a family resemblance. They shared the same sharp angles, high cheekbones, symmetrical features, and hair color.

Shelly stared at her brother steadily, but made no move to embrace him. Or greet him. Or otherwise welcome the big man.

While she stared, Quinn studied her from head to toe, as though taking stock of goods rather than a person.

“Janie and Des are great,” he answered finally.

“Des?”

His attention returned to me. “Our son.”

“Y’all had a baby?” My grin was automatic. Babies were definitely something to grin about.

He nodded once, his eyes flickering to Shelly and then back to me. “A few months ago.”

“That’s so great. Congratulations. Jethro and Sienna are expecting in the spring.” After I volunteered this last bit of information, I cringed at my loose tongue. “Sorry, I wasn’t supposed to say anything. They’re trying to keep it quiet until after the wedding.”

Jethro and Sienna were keeping their happy news on the down-low. My brother had just recently told us but no one else was supposed to know.

“Don’t worry about it. I already knew. Congratulations to your family.” He said this evenly and genuinely enough, but his tone held an edge of reserve, distance.

“Why’re you here?” Shelly finally spoke, though she didn’t move otherwise. Had it been prior to last night’s revelations, I would have presumed she was unhappy to see her brother. But now I saw her stillness as something quite different.

She was happy to see him, I could tell by how her eyes hadn’t left his face since he’d walked in. She drank in his presence, basked in it, even as she held herself away.

But she was also frustrated and anxious, and because of her confession yesterday, I now understood why.

Quinn inspected his sister for a long moment, and then gathered a deep breath. “We need to talk. Privately.”

“Okay.” She nodded, agreeing immediately and grabbing her bag from where it sat next to her feet. “We can go.”

My eyes widened and a protest was on the tip of my tongue, but then good sense had me biting back the words.

What was I going to do? Contradict the woman? Remind her that we had plans? Demand she see to her brother later?

No. That way was nonsense, and I’d been raised better than that. He’d flown from Chicago, needing to speak with her privately. There was no call to insert myself.

That said, good sense might have prevailed, but good sense didn’t mean her apparent disregard for our plans—and me—without a thought or hesitation, didn’t ruffle my feathers any. No excuse, soft words or promises, a suggestion of a raincheck, not even a look. It was like I’d ceased to exist.

It was her indifference that stung.

Shelly hurried to the door as I backed away, my shoulders coming to rest on the lockers as I waited for them to leave.

A fair amount of surly disappointment must’ve been visible on my features because Quinn frowned at my expression, his hawkish eyes narrowing and sliding from me to his sister, and then back again.

“Did I . . . interrupt something?”

Shelly started, her gaze coming to mine, her lips parting like she was about to speak or she was caught off guard by my presence. It was as if she’d forgotten I was there. Or maybe she hadn’t forgotten, but had grown too distracted and absorbed in the shock of seeing her brother that I had completely faded to the background.

“No.” I shook my head, giving Quinn a mollifying smile and waving them off. “Not at all.” Then to Shelly, I gave a single nod. “See you at work.”

Shelly twisted her fingers, fiddled with the strap of her bag, her glare intense. She took a breath as though to speak, but instead snapped her mouth shut. Abruptly, she turned and disappeared down the stairs.

My eyes moved to Quinn. He watched me.

“Have nice night,” I offered easily enough, swallowing bitterness that tasted like disillusionment.

“You, too.” His tone was distracted, conflicted, like he didn’t know whether to stay and question me, or follow his sister.

With one final assessing squint, he turned, left, and shut the door quietly behind him.

16

“No great mind has ever existed without a touch of madness.”

― Aristotle

*Shelly*

THE FIRST THING I said to Dr. West on Friday was, “Quinn visited me.” Even though what I really wanted to talk about was how horrible I’d been to Beau.

“What? When?”

“Wednesday. He showed up after work.” I took the seat across from her, noting that the air purifier was turned off.

“How is he?”

“I don’t know.” Quinn was better at hiding his thoughts and feelings than I was. “He seemed happy when he talked about Janie and the baby.”

“Did you embrace him?”

“No. I tried to, a few times, but I couldn’t. Every time I got close, I choked.” I breathed out a laugh.

“Is something funny?”

“One of the times I tried to hug my brother, I literally choked. On a chip.”

“Oh no.” Dr. West also breathed a laugh and gave me a sympathetic look. “What happened with the chip?”

“Let me start at the beginning. After work, he followed me to my house. He still thinks—or I’m assuming he still thinks—that I have trouble in public places.”

“Why didn’t you correct him?”

“It didn’t occur to me. I was . . . flustered and upset about what I did to Beau.” Crap. Crap. Crap. There it is. I’m a terrible person.

My chest felt too tight and my molars hurt.

Why do my molars hurt?

Dr. West gave me a commiserating smile, writing something down in her notes. “We’ll get to Beau in a moment. One thing at a time. Tell me what happened with Quinn. You choked on a chip?”

I was thankful for the reprieve. “We arrived at my house and I put out tortilla chips and salsa.”

“Good!”

“Yes,” I agreed, feeling a little proud of myself despite everything.

Before therapy, I’d never been able to think past the worries in my own mind when someone came to my house. Moving past the big anxieties to the normal niceties had felt impossible.

I would focus on things that ultimately didn’t matter during a visit. Did they brush their teeth that morning? When had he or she had their last dental checkup? Were their parents still alive? And, if not, how were they coping with the loss? If a woman was in my house, I worried about her HPV vaccine status.

But Dr. West had provided a checklist of the things I should focus on, like taking a bag or a coat and placing it someplace accessible. Putting out food, offering something to drink, asking about the person’s day.

When she spelled it out for me, it made complete sense. Getting over my embarrassment—for not figuring this out on my own—took me longer.

“Then I offered him something to drink. He said he could get it himself. I’d just taken a bite of a chip as he turned away, and I decided I would try. I could hug him. I felt a sense of clarity, really and truly saw how ridiculous my previous fears and avoidance had been. In that moment I believed it.” And I wanted to do it before the clarity passed, before the doubting voice in my head increased in volume.

“Then what happened?” Dr. West was on the edge of her seat.

“I stepped forward, planning to hug his back, and I took a deep breath, and I . . . inhaled a chip.”

“Oh no.” She set her chin in the palm of her hand, shaking her head. “Don’t beat yourself up too much about it.”

“No. The chip already did that,” I mumbled.

Dr. West sat up straighter, like I’d surprised her, and then barked a laugh. I also laughed, allowing myself to see the humor in the situation. But then I stopped, because ultimately, it had been a disappointing moment. And I’d spent the last two days mourning lost opportunities—not just with Quinn, but with Beau as well.

When she spotted my mood swing, her laughter tapered. Her eyes, both warm and shrewd, examined me.

“I count this as a victory, Shelly. Look at the big picture. You were able to move past being flustered, focus on the checklist, and you had a moment of clarity. Three steps forward, one step back.”

I nodded, seeing her point, but still too raw over the events of the last few days to concede it.

“What else happened? With your brother? What was his reason for coming?”

I dropped my eyes to my hands. “He wants me to move back to Chicago. He wants me to be an aunt to Desmond.”

“That is great. See?”

“What?”

“All your worries about Quinn, about him writing you off, about it being too late to be a part of your family. It’s not too late. Your brother loves you and wants you in his life.”

“Yes. Yes, he does.” I should be happy.

Be happy. Be happy. Be happy.

I felt her eyes on me, still examining. “Why don’t you sound happy about this?”

“I am happy.” I nodded, closing my eyes.

I heard Dr. West flip through her papers. “When you came to me originally, your main goal—and these are your words—was, ‘Frequent, normal, affectionate interaction with my family.’”

“That is still my goal.” And I needed to focus on it. I owed it to my family to put them first.

She was silent for a moment before asking, “What’s going on?”

I opened my eyes and tried to find the right words. “You are here, in Tennessee. I see a difference in myself, and I don’t want to lose that. I’m getting better.”

And then there’s my art space, and my little house, and the auto shop and . . . and Beau.

She considered me for a moment, still warmly, still shrewdly. “Did you show Quinn what you’ve been working on?”

“Yes. He liked them.” I considered the accuracy of my words, then decided to amend my statement. “Actually, he loved the angels. He said he was proud of me, said it was the best thing I have made.”

My face flushed, heated at the memory, but in a good way. After not seeing my brother in two years, I was glad we’d ended the visit with the angels. My brother didn’t smile often, he was more prone to observe than to join. His smiles and praise were a welcomed surprise.

“Do you think he came to check on your progress?”

“No,” I answered honestly. “That is not like Quinn. He knows, despite everything, if I say I’m going to finish a project for a client he’s lined up, I will do it. He did not ask about my progress. I was the one who offered to show him.” It was the least I could do.

“Anything else you want to tell me about the visit with your brother?”

“Two other things happened that you should know about.” A deep breath was required prior to continuing. “He is sending his plane in November for me to go to Chicago and visit. To meet Desmond.”

Concern flashed behind her eyes before she could completely mask it. “How do you feel about that?”

“Hopeful, but worried.”

“Do you think you’re ready?”

“I don’t know.”

Dr. West considered me for a few seconds, her expression blank. “I suggest you be honest with your brother about the fact that you might not be able to hold your nephew—or touch him—while you’re there.”

“I think he knows that.”

“May I suggest you spell it out. Maybe it’s time to sit him down and explain what your diagnosis means, what you’ve been doing about it over the past several months, as well was what your goals are moving forward.”

“I will think about it.”

Her answering smile was warmer, less shrewd. “Good. What is the second thing?”

This was less easy for me to discuss. “When we got to my house, the first thing he did was check my arms and legs.”

Her expression grew sober. “But you understand why he did that.”

“Yes.” I understood, but it didn’t make it any less humiliating. It had been humiliating when Beau tugged my arm toward him in the car on Tuesday, and it had been humiliating when Quinn had insisted checking for new scars on Wednesday.

Dr. West’s gaze turned searching and she repeated something she’d told me at a previous session. “It’s very difficult for people who haven’t lived it to understand why others self-injure. It’s easy to assume all attempts at harm are rooted in suicidal thoughts.”

I don’t want to talk about this.

I slid my teeth to the side, forcing myself to respond. “I know.” But it doesn’t make it any less humiliating.

She must’ve sensed my mood, because she changed the subject. “You said earlier that something happened with Beau?”

“Yes.” I didn’t press my nail into the skin of my wrist, but I really, really wanted to.

“Something about,” she checked her notes, “you said you were upset and flustered about it?”

“Yes. I was very wrong and I need to apologize.”

“This was after I spoke to him on the phone? On Tuesday?”

I rolled my lips between my teeth. Unbidden, the memory of our kiss flooded my consciousness, suffocated me with longing to see him, to do it again, to make things right and apologize.

“It happened Wednesday when we were supposed to go to dinner. But then, right before we left, Quinn showed up and I—” I searched for the right way to explain what had happened. I’d been so surprised to see my brother, surprised and excited, and nervous. And worried. “My mind became too loud. I didn’t forget Beau was there, I forgot I was there. Does that make any sense?”

“Tell me what happened next.”

“Quinn said he needed to speak with me privately. I heard those words, responded to those words, and said yes, then moved to leave with him.”

“And where was Beau at this time?”

“He was in the room.” I groaned this confession, covering my face with my hands and peeked at my therapist through my fingers.

Dr. West leaned back in her chair, her eyes moving over my shoulder. “I see. You and Beau were supposed to go out and Quinn showed up unexpectedly. Focusing on Quinn, you didn’t think about your plans with Beau.”

“Correct.” I rubbed my forehead. “I was so awful, it was awful. When I realized what I had done, I didn’t know what to say. And he looked so hurt.”

“Have you talked to him? Since Wednesday?”

“No. I worked Thursday. He had Thursday off and was scheduled to come in today after I left. He is probably at the shop now.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I was hoping you would tell me that.”

This drew a small laugh from her. “You know it doesn’t work that way, not when what you’re thinking and feeling are completely natural.”

“What is it I’m feeling?”

“You tell me.”

“Remorse. Frustration with myself, that I’m not normal.” I shook my head, studying my fingers. “Maybe he deserves more than I’m capable of giving.” No. I know he deserves more than I’m capable of giving.

“You and I have discussed deserving at great length. And you agreed you would stop deciding what people deserve. What Beau deserves is his choice. What your brother and parents deserve is their choice. You can only be yourself. You must let them decide.”

“You are right.” I nodded fiercely. “I decide what I deserve; they decide what they deserve.” It was a good mantra, so why did it feel like a cop-out? Why did it feel like an excuse for bad behavior?

“What will you do about Beau?”

“. . . Apologize?”

Dr. West grinned, shaking her head at me. “If that’s what you want to do, then apologize.”

“I do want to apologize. He deserves it.”

“And what do you hope will happen after you apologize?”

He’ll kiss me again. And I’ll never make another mistake with him. I’ll be perfect. And he’ll want me.

I twisted my lips to the side. “I hope he gives me another chance.”

“A chance for friendship?”

“No,” I answered without thinking.

Dr. West turned her head slightly, like she’d heard me wrong. “Not friendship?”

“I really want to be with him.”

Ahhhh crap. Crap. Crap. Crap.

Dr. West stared at me with wide eyes for a protracted moment, and then her features were awash with concern.

“Yes, I know. I know this is not part of the plan.” I exhaled a tortured sigh, wincing at the competing and conflicting thoughts in my head, each vying for dominance.

Think of your family. You’re doing this for your family.

But Beau—

You owe them, you need to make things right, you need to be the daughter and sister and aunt they deserve.

But Beau is amazing. Being with him is so . . . effortless. Nothing has ever felt effortless before. And he wants to be with me.

Maybe not anymore, not after what happened Wednesday.

“Shelly . . . I’m worried this is very fast.”

“I’ve known him for over a month.” I didn’t know why I was defending myself. She was right. I knew she was right.

“Yes. And the month has brought many changes. You’ve made it through your first ERP. You’re working with and around people. You’ve made great progress in therapy. Beau is the first person you’ve allowed yourself to touch in a long time. It’s very natural for you to have feelings for him.”

“But?”

“But . . .” she stared at me, holding my gaze, obviously considering her next words very carefully, “is the plan still for you to move back to Chicago? When you’re ready?”

“I’m being selfish.” I glanced at my hands and realized I’d been pressing my thumbnail into my wrist then rubbing my finger over the marks. The ridges soothed me, helped me breathe easier.

“I wouldn’t say that. Tennessee isn’t so far from Chicago. I’m not going to discourage you from living a full life and I do not think you have to choose one or the other. It’s not a choice of being with someone or your family. But I will caution you to take things slowly. Let Beau know you first, let him see who you are before you invest too much.”

“You think what he sees will scare him away?”

“Not at all. Your OCD is a big part of your life, and it always will be to varying degrees, but it isn’t the sum total of who you are. You’re a world-class artist, I’ve read articles describing you as a genius. You’re also a gifted mechanic. You donate your time and money to worthy causes. You’ve fostered countless animals. You have a great deal of empathy and a lot to offer a person.”

I didn’t know why, but I felt like crying. I couldn’t manage anything more than a rough, “Thanks.”

Unexpectedly, Dr. West leaned forward and captured my hand, forcing my gaze to hers. “Let him see these parts of you, give him time to discover how great you are. Then—when or if the obsessive thoughts start—you’ll have a solid foundation. You’ll be able to reason your way through it. You’ll have a level of confidence in him, that he knows who you are and that’s why he’s with you. If you rush into things, it’ll be easy to doubt, both him and yourself.”

“Okay. That makes sense.” I liked how she explained things, how she always had good, logical, defendable reasons. It made believing her so much easier.

“Do you think he’ll still want to help?”

“With my therapy?”

“Yes.” Her expression was patient and encouraging.

“I don’t know.” I took a deep breath, feeling tense about what she had planned.

Are you ready for this?

I didn’t know the answer. We’d drafted the ERP plan for my touch aversion weeks ago, but without someone for me to touch, someone I trusted, I couldn’t initiate it.

As though sensing my reluctance, she asked, “What is it?”

“Specifically, what will you request Beau do? I mean, what is the plan for when he comes next week?”

“Oh, yes, I have a paper for you to give him.” Dr. West pulled a blue folder from her lap and handed it to me. “Please make sure he reads it and that he calls me this week.”

“What is it?”

“Frequently asked questions relating to Exposure and Response Prevention. The paper will give him an overview and when he and I speak on the phone, I’ll go over the details.”

“Okay.”

“Shelly, this is the first step. You understand, this means you will be initiating your ERP plan to overcome touch aversion. Depending on how things go next Friday—and I’m very optimistic based on how much self-directed progress you’ve made—you will be expected to follow the plan between sessions.”

“I understand that.”

She studied me. “The other two options we’ve already discussed—you coming in to the office five times a week for your exercises so you can be monitored, or checking yourself into a facility so you can be monitored—are still on the table.”

“No, I can do this. I’m ready to do this.”

“Please also understand that the only reasons I’m considering this method instead of insisting on one of the others is because it’s been a very long time since you’ve engaged in self-harm and because you’ve shown remarkable ability to follow self-guided ERPs. You’ve resisted the compulsion to self-harm entirely on your own, even when avoidance of touch wasn’t possible. And you’ve always reached out, called me when you’ve felt overwhelmed.”

“Understood.” My knee began to bounce.

This was where I lived my life, being afraid of the things I wanted the most.

I can do this. I can do this. I will do this.

“What’s on your mind, Shelly?” she asked conversationally, like she’d just told me about the chance for precipitation in the forecast.

“It’s just . . . I do not want to use him.”

“Use him how?”

“I don’t want him to feel like I’m using him, for my treatment.”

She gave me a blank stare, like I’d confused her. “But we are going to use him for your treatment.”

“I know, but I do not want him to think that I’m just using him. I would never do that. If he didn’t want to help, I’d still want to be with him.”

Dr. West lifted her chin, like she was absorbing my point. “From what you’ve said about Beau, and from my short conversation with him this week, he seems disposed to think only the best of you, Shelly.”

“That’s just how he is. I do not want to take advantage.”

“But if he wants to help,” she reasoned, like she was trying to lead me to a shared conclusion, “then it’s not taking advantage. Right?”

Right.

I stared at her.

Say it.

I opened my mouth, then closed it, swallowing.

Just say it.

“Shelly?”

“Right.”

She was right, of course. It wouldn’t be taking advantage.

But if he helped me move past this, the most fearsome of my obsessions, how could I ever repay him? What could I possibly offer him in return?

17

“I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind.”

― Emily Brontë, Wuthering Heights

*Beau*

AFTER SHELLY LEFT me on Wednesday, I went home and sulked.

I tried fixing the toilet in the upstairs bathroom, but the damn thing didn’t want to be fixed. So, naturally, I drank bourbon instead. Then I passed out. And because all my dreams were drunken fantasies about the woman I was trying to forget, I woke up hungover and sulked some more.

Exacerbating matters, there was a new message from Drill on my phone Thursday morning—a missed call and a text. I didn’t listen to the voicemail, but I did glance briefly at the text,

DRILL: Last chance asshole. U pick a place or she will.

GRUMBLING TO MYSELF, I turned off the screen and shoved the phone in my back pocket. I didn’t need to meet with that crazy psychopath Christine St. Claire if I didn’t want to, and no amount of cryptic bullying from Drill would persuade me otherwise.

Sulking wasn’t like me and I didn’t much like doing it. By mid-morning Thursday, I resolved to stop being such a cranky ass and I called Hank to see about going fishing. We did, and that helped a little. Then I bartended at the Pink Pony. That didn’t help at all.

Firstly, Tina Patterson was working—Duane’s ex-girlfriend—and she and I don’t like each other much. When she wasn’t on the stage giving me dirty looks, she loitered at the bar, trying to sneak free drinks and giving me dirty looks.

Secondly, I couldn’t help comparing Shelly’s long, strong, beautiful body to all the lady strippers. Which meant I spent the whole night thinking about Shelly naked.

Desperate for a distraction, I tagged along with Drew on Friday morning for one of his trail runs. Keeping busy and wearing myself out seemed to help. By the time I made it to work Friday afternoon, Shelly was already gone to her appointment. I’d couldn’t figure out if I was relieved—because I was so tired—or disappointed—because I’d lost out on a chance to see her.

Disappointed. Definitely disappointed.

Bonus, watching Cletus torture himself over Jennifer Sylvester all day Saturday helped more than anything else. All of us, Jennifer Sylvester included, had gone to Nashville to watch Cletus and Claire McClure participate in a music contest. Usually, I would have used the opportunity to flirt with Jenn, rile Cletus up a bit.

Turns out, riling Cletus was not necessary. He’d already riled himself. The looks Cletus sent Jennifer at dinner were pathetic. Not having a death wish, I kept my trap shut.

Unfortunately, a tortured Cletus on Saturday led to a rampaging Cletus on Sunday. Most everybody attributed his short tempter to residual nerves about the contest, but I knew the real story. And now I also had firsthand experience how a woman could wreck a fella without him consenting to be wrecked.

I wasn’t wrecked, not by a long shot. But I’d come precariously close to standing on the edge of that cliff and thinking to myself, I wonder what’s down there?

Yeah, no. No thanks. No me gusta. None of that for me.

Duane and I drove into work together Monday morning. He needed to borrow my car, and leaving early with my twin was much preferable than suffering through Cletus’s current mood. I pulled into the auto shop just after 6:30 AM and both Duane and I were surprised to see Shelly’s car in the lot.

“She’s here early, right?” Duane unbuckled his seatbelt.

“Yeah, real early. Usually she’s here at seven thirty.” The rubber band around my chest made a reappearance and I chased it off, threatening another trail run with Drew Runous. Lord knew, nothing worked to numb a mind and body like a twelve-mile trail run with Drew. It was like getting in a fistfight with yourself. And maybe a bear.

I sensed my twin’s eyes on me so I spared him a glance. “What?”

“Jess asked if Shelly wanted to get together sometime.”

“Why’re you asking me?”

“Jess says y’all are friends.”

“Why would she say that?”

“I reckon because of the way you were with her at Genie’s that one time, how you chased her out of the bar.”

“I didn’t chase her.” I did sorta chase her. “We’re not friends.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Good,” I grumped, glaring at Shelly’s Buick GSX. It reminded me that I still had her potholders in my car, just behind the driver’s seat, so I reached behind me for the bag. “Like I said, we’re not friends.”

“So you said.” Duane lifted his chin toward the bag in my hands. “What’s that?”

“Potholders.”

“What for?”

“For Shelly. She doesn’t have any, she’s been using a towel for weeks.”

Duane blinked at me, just once, his expression unchanging.

I squirmed in my seat. “I don’t want her to burn her hands.”

He blinked again, slower this time.

“She mentioned it to Jenn Sylvester last week and I overheard, so I picked them up when I was at the store. No big deal.”

Now Duane was shaking his head, real slow.

“You got something to say, just say it.”

“I ain’t got nothing to say about you and Shelly Sullivan at the buttcrack of dawn, o’dark thirty in the morning. Just get out of this car so I can get to Knoxville.”

“Fine. Leave.” I didn’t give my brother a chance to respond.

I gripped the Piggly Wiggly bag to my chest while Duane and I exited at the same time, him walking around the front as I strolled toward the garage.

“Hey,” he called, forcing me to stop and turn back to him.

“What?”

“You know . . .” He hesitated, took a deep breath, then started again. “If something is up with you, if you need anything, you can tell me.” He sounded concerned, but he also sounded frustrated. I got the sense he was trying to communicate something without coming out and saying it.

I studied him, unable to read his meaning. And the fact that I couldn’t read my twin’s mind—like I’d done countless times in the past—was depressing.

We were going in two different directions, he and I. He had his path, I had mine.

“Sure.” I nodded, clearing my expression.

Duane looked disappointed, but said nothing. He gave me a once-over and then slid wordlessly into the GTO.

Just before he shut the door, I called to him, “You take good care of her.” Meaning my car, of course.

“You know I will.” Duane switched her into drive and set off, not even giving the engine a superfluous rev.

Duane was by far the best driver in our family. He’d cut his teeth at the dirt races in the canyon and he always won. Well, except that one time he’d totaled his Road Runner because he was in a fit about Jessica James.

See? That’s what I’m talking about. Getting wrecked over a woman. What kind of crazy must a man be to enter into such a state?

First Duane, then Jethro, now Cletus. More reckless than a pig at a barbeque, that’s what they were.

“Beau.”

My steps slowed at the sound of my name, my spine straightening, and I braced for the sight of her. But then I decided I didn’t need to see her. I could keep my eyes lowered. I didn’t need the double-heart-skip of doom.

I’d made it inside the garage and halfway to the supply closet before she’d called to me. Seeing no reason to stop, I kept going.

“Morning, Shelly,” I said placidly to the general direction of her voice, tucking the Piggly Wiggly bag under one arm.

By the time I made it to the closet and had it unlocked, she hovered at my elbow.

“Here.” I pushed the bag at her, which she accepted automatically, and opened the door to the closet. “These are for you.”

Not waiting for a response, I stepped into the closet and scanned the farthest shelf for the car part I’d ordered and received last week for Joyce Muller’s Pinto. The woman was crazy about that Pinto, loved it more than her husband, even though it broke down ten times a year. I’ve rebuilt the damn thing seventeen times already and—

“Beau.” Her voice was behind me, but I didn’t turn. Couldn’t.

Or rather, I didn’t turn until I heard the door shut. Then I turned, pointing my scowl at the door.

“You want something?”

“I am really sorry about last Wednesday.”

I shrugged, not giving her my gaze. “Don’t worry about it.”

Was I still sore?

Yeah.

Yeah, I was. I was what my sister Ashley called butt-hurt.

But I’d get over it. I’d told myself I was moving too fast and I was. Shelly had proved me right last week. Now I knew. I wouldn’t make the same mistake again, diving in when I should have been testing the water with a toe.

Something about this woman made me want to jump. To leap first and look later, or maybe not look at all. It wasn’t like me. I needed to guard against the impulse, and against her.

“Beau.”

“Yeah?”

“Look at me.”

I closed my eyes and released a sigh through my nose. “It’s okay, Shelly. I understand.”

“What do you understand, Beau?”

I turned my head, opened my eyes, and glanced to the right of her, beyond her, to the shelves of machine parts. “Family comes first.”

“I didn’t expect Quinn to show up,” she blurted, trying to move into my line of vision. “He didn’t tell me he was coming.”

“Okay.”

“I was surprised.”

“I noticed.”

I made to move past her and she stepped to the side, blocking my way. “Beau, last Wednesday was the first time I had seen my brother in a long time.”

The edge of desperation in her voice drew my eyes to her person. She was twisting her fingers, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

“How long?”

Our eyes met, my wits scattered, and I gathered a deep breath. The air tasted like irritation and futility. I hated how defenseless I was to this woman.

Shelly hesitated, her gaze searching mine. “Over two years.”

“Two years?” I’m sure I looked shocked, because I was. “I thought y’all lived close to each other? In Chicago.”

“We do, a few hours. My house in Illinois is on an old farm, surrounded by several acres. I used to go into the city on Saturdays and we would have breakfast together. But I stopped, just after Quinn and Janie married.”

“Why? Janie seems nice.”

“She is nice. She is wonderful. I’m the problem.”

That had me frowning, but I said nothing, waiting for her to explain.

Clearly sensing my reticence, she made a small sound in the back of her throat, like a pained groan. “Please do not be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad.”

“You are mad,” she said on a rush.

“I’m not mad, I’m just—” I shook my head, looking beyond her once more, hoping the interior of the closet held the words I sought.

“We had plans, and I was thoughtless.”

“We did and you were.” I spoke plainly, bringing my hands to my hips.

“Do you have plans tonight?” Her voice was very small.

I looked to her. She’d inched closer.

“Yes.” I did have plans. Duane and I had promised to help Jethro and Sienna at the carriage house, assembling furniture and unpacking boxes.

Shelly winced and then grimaced. “Oh. Okay.” Her eyes fell as she stepped back and nodded repeatedly, struggling to swallow. To my astonishment she looked close to tears. “I am sorry. I will leave you alone. I am sorry.”

Acting on impulse, I caught her by the arms and pulled her close. I waited until she lifted her gaze to mine before speaking, also on impulse. “But tomorrow, my plans are with you and a hamburger at Daisy’s, assuming more of your family doesn’t show up.”

Instant relief spread over her features and she launched forward, kissing me. I released her arms and they came around my neck, holding me tightly as she planted her lips all over my face.

Damn this woman. Damn her for making me weak. Damn her for being able to wreck me.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I will make it up to you.”

The exuberance of her apology and fervor of her relief did wonders to settle my nettle. Also, the feel of her body beneath my hands helped a lot, too.

’Cause I’m a guy.

And a willing woman’s body is the universal antidote for being butt-hurt.

“You don’t need to make it up to me. Don’t forget I’m in a room again and we’ll call it even.”

“I definitely won’t. I’ll never forget. I’m so sorry.”

“Stop apologizing, Shell.” I caught her mouth as it brushed over mine, turning and easing her against the door so I could kiss her good and proper.

But good and proper soon became naughty and dirty, and I grew dizzy with the feel of her.

One minute she was frantically covering my face with kisses, and the next she was arching against me, her fingers working to unzip my coveralls while I’d already half unzipped hers.

Essential madness, that’s what it was.

My hands moved around to her back, then lower, cupping and kneading her backside. Holy Moses, she had a great ass. Just . . . fucking great. I wanted to tell her how great but instead all I could manage was a growl.

I trusted the growl communicated my point.

Her hands slipped under my T-shirt, lifting and then yanking it over my head. She shuddered as her fingers danced along my stomach and ribs, her mouth ravenous beneath mine. Shelly bit my lip, sucking it into her mouth and I groaned, fire in my veins, needing to touch her everywhere.

Grabbing one of my wrists, she redirected my hand to her breast, pressing herself into my palm. Her breath hitched as I bent, giving her nipple the same treatment she’d given my lip, her nails digging into the back of my head, anchoring me to her.

“Oh God, Beau . . .”

Curious and turned on, I skimmed my fingers down her long torso, enjoying the silk of her skin, and into her panties—which I noted were also lacy. I parted her. Pulling down her bra straps, I recaptured the tip of her breast, swirling my tongue around the peak as I invaded her body with my finger.

I could have told her how wet she was, how hot and slick and intoxicating she felt. Instead, I growled again. And again, it was just as effective as words.

She gave me an answering moan, tilting her hips, her nails now scratching my back and sides.

“Please, Beau,” she panted. “Please. Please.”

I’ve always been a sucker for a woman asking nicely, and her plea was so sweet, ripe with raw vulnerability. I wanted to taste it, but I also wanted to tease, so I trailed wet kisses over her breast to her neck, sliding my lips and teeth along her jaw. I nipped at her bottom lip while I stroked her hotter.

Shelly chased my mouth. I lifted my chin, not giving her what she wanted while giving her exactly what she needed. I added a second finger to my invasion and the skill of my thumb. She whimpered, her head falling back, her nails scoring my skin where her fingers dug into my sides, her eyes at half-mast.

“Kiss me.” Shelly’s hands slid lower, into my boxers, moving with purpose. Her hands weren’t soft and small, tentative and teasing. They were strong and demanding. I was completely unprepared for how necessary her hands felt on my skin. How her touch, so uniquely her, drove me wild. A trail of searing heat, a rush and force of aching need both inebriated and sobered me, reminding me that we were still moving too fast, too soon.

Although I believed her when she’d apologized, I couldn’t count on her. Not yet. I wanted this woman. I wanted her body—desperately—but not until I had her trust and respect first.

“Shelly, honey—” I turned my hips, angling out of her reach.

“Let me touch you, please.” Her eyes were hazy and her breath was coming short. Even so, she rolled her pelvis, riding my fingers and looking so damn beautiful and sexy I had to hold my breath against the shards of painful longing threatening to eclipse my self-control.

“Not yet.” My voice emerged rough, gravelly as my gaze greedily memorized and stored every detail: the high flush on her cheeks, her parted lips, the rapid thrum of her pulse, the soft sway of her luscious breasts, the sheen of perspiration coating her perfect skin.

For a moment, all I could hear was the sound of her ragged breathing and the pounding of my heart between my ears. Her stare locked on mine, looking a little lost, a little surprised, and a lot mindless.

Good—I couldn’t help think, some of my own thirst quenched by her submission—I hope this distracts her for a good, long while. I hope it’s all she can think about. I hope thoughts of this, of me, haunt her.

“Beau,” she moaned, the sound helpless, panicked. “I think I’m coming. Fuck. I’m coming.”

She tensed, her fingers digging into my shoulders for purchase, her eyes rolling back and closing, her body stiff as a bow as wild sounds of surrender stole past her lush lips. Her loss of control was stunningly erotic, all thoughts of restraint fled my mind, leaving only a fierce need and determination to be buried inside her the next time.

And there was definitely going to be a next time.

Maybe tomorrow.

Maybe now.

Fire in my lungs, I pulled her away from the door and held her, surrounding her, wrapping her in a firm embrace. She was still shaking with aftershocks and snuggled close, and then even closer, like she wanted to fuse our bodies together, or merge them into one.

We stood like that for a long time, but not long enough for the want in me to temper.

Do I have a condom?

She’s probably on birth control.

Uh, disease?

. . . she seems clean.

Against the door? In the supply room?

Hell. Yes. And then maybe in the backseat of her car after.

For now, I tasted her on my arousal-soaked fingers, and it was nearly my undoing. I barely held back another growl as I fought with wanting to collapse onto my knees and devour her.

Why don’t I? I need to devour her so badly. Just one more taste.

I exhaled a short laugh, pushing these crazy thoughts and accompanying flashes of carnality from my mind even as baser desires began to bargain and plead, desperate to make use of her body. I was made foolish by the craving and promise of so much hedonistic gratification.

Needing to immediately silence the dissent, I asked myself sharply, What would Darrell Winston do?

Swallowing tightly, clenching my jaw and releasing a sobering breath, I had my answer.

Meanwhile, Shelly had stirred. And she was touching me. Trailing the pads of her fingers along my stomach, ribs, chest, and shoulders, as though on an expedition to learn every inch of me.

“Your mother named you well,” she said, her voice made hoarse from her earlier abandoned cries. “Every single part of you is beautiful.”

I placed a kiss against her temple, wishing I could hold her properly, in a bed, on a couch, in a big comfy chair. Anywhere soft enough to lay and be still.

She shifted, her palm covering my heart. “Do you . . .”

“What?”

“Do you think I’m beautiful?”

I huffed a stunned laugh, holding her by the shoulders and separating us enough for me to see her face. She lifted her chin, her eyes landing on mine, looking hard and bracing. Like she was struggling to erect that ice sheet between us. Like she regretted asking the question because she wasn’t certain how I would answer.

“Shelly.” I caressed her cheek, tenderly angling her jaw so I could press my lips to hers, and then whispered against her mouth, “You must know how beautiful people find you. Everyone thinks you are unequivocally stunning.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. I don’t care about people. I’m asking what you think, about me.” Her fingers curled into the skin of my chest, like she wanted to reach inside and take a piece of my heart. “Do you think I’m beautiful? Or that I could be?” She whispered this time.

I could have responded in so many ways, all of them painfully true.

You are so beautiful, when I look at you I hurt.

I dream of you every night.

You’re all I think about.

You give new and glorious meaning to the word exquisite.

I can’t wait to know every part of you by heart.

But instead, caution and a measure of good sense had me answering with the most tepid of responses.

“Yes.” I kissed her nose. “I think you are beautiful.” And I think beautiful is a gross understatement.

A hesitant smile tugged her mouth to one side.

“I’m trying, I’m really trying,” she said, like it was a confession, adding just before kissing me, “And you make it easier.”

18

“The pendulum of the mind oscillates between sense and nonsense, not between right and wrong.”

― C.G. Jung

*Beau*

I KEPT A close eye on Shelly for the rest of the day and the next. If our encounter in the supply closet had overwhelmed her, I saw no sign of it. She was as she’d always been—cool, focused, aloof.

Except when our eyes met.

She’d blush and I’d give her a small smile. Then she would look away, looking like she was fighting a smile of her own.

Nevertheless, throughout Tuesday, I was distracted and tense, waiting for the proverbial shoe to drop, for the unexpected emergency, for something to get in our way and spoil our plans. Again.

Surprisingly, nothing did.

We left the shop at 7:00 PM and arrived at Daisy’s Nut House just after 7:15. Now that we’d finally made it, I relaxed.

Wanting her skin against mine, I reached for her hand as we walked into the restaurant. I’d been craving the feel of her, but hadn’t acted on the impulse during work hours. Our unexpected interlude inside the supply closet Monday morning notwithstanding, keeping a professional distance at work seemed like a good idea.

What if things didn’t work out between us? The thought was unsettling, but I couldn’t discount the possibility. Shelly feeling uncomfortable on my account at her place of employment was just plain unacceptable.

But now, away from work, now that I had her all to myself, I wanted to know everything about her. And I wanted to know she trusted me enough to tell me. That was my plan for tonight.

Next week, assuming things continued going well, I’d touch on the future, on

exclusivity and what I wanted.

But not tonight.

Don’t get ahead of yourself, Beau. This is the just first date and she ain’t going anywhere.

“Do they serve pancakes here?”

I tugged her closer, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. “Yes. They have several kinds of pancakes.”

“I’m going to order pancakes.” She looked determined, like I might try to talk her out of ordering pancakes.

“You should.” Guiding her through the door, I paused for a second to search for Daisy.

Unsurprisingly, she was nowhere to be seen. Daisy Payton had been one of my momma’s best friends and Daisy’s daddy owned the mill where Billy worked. The last name of Payton carried so much clout in Tennessee, Daisy’s husband Trevor had taken it when they married.

But Daisy was an impressive businesswoman in her own right, having franchised Daisy’s Nut House some years ago.

Spotting Beverly, one of the staff servers, I pointed toward a booth at the back and she nodded her head in understanding. It was smaller than the other tables, meant for two, and isolated. Its placement would allow us to have conversations without being overheard or easily spotted.

Everyone in this town knew me and I was friendly with just about all of them. Though the crowd inside the diner was sparse, I guided Shelly to one side of the booth, releasing her hand, then took the seat facing away from the entrance and the rest of the restaurant for myself. I didn’t want our date to be interrupted by well-meaning neighbors.

I picked up the menu, scanning its contents, even though I knew it by heart. “I’m probably going to get the hamburger, but I can’t decide if I want French fries or tater tots.”

“Tater tots with a hamburger?”

“Yeah. Have you ever tried them?”

“Yes. I love them.”

Of course she does, because she’s awesome.

“Do you want to get some to share?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“They don’t go with pancakes.”

“Says who?”

Shelly blinked once, and very slowly. “Are you serious?”

“Serious as a gas engine full of diesel.”

Her nose wrinkled, her eyes narrowed, and once again I was faced with an almost-smile. That was seven almost-smiles in one day. But who’s counting?

“Hey, what can I get you?”

Reluctantly, I glanced away from Shelly to our server. I had a small shock because instead of Beverly, it was Daisy’s daughter Simone.

“Simone?”

“Hey, Beauford. How’s it hanging?” She grinned at me, placing her hand on the back of the booth.

“What are you doing here?” Not even thinking about it, I skootched out of the booth and gave the girl a big hug.

She laughed, squeezing me back, then broke the embrace and shook her head at me. “You look exactly the same.”

I noted her accent was diluted, she almost sounded like a Yankee. But that made sense based on where she’d gone to college—Washington, DC I remembered hearing. As I leaned away I took note, Simone did not look exactly the same.

For one thing, her hair was different. Growing up, her momma had kept it in long strands of tight braids. But now she had it unbound, in a curly halo around her pretty face.

Also, she no longer looked like a girl. She looked like a woman. And that thought had me wondering if Roscoe knew she was in town.

“Simone, this is Shelly Sullivan, she works with us down at the shop. Shelly, this is Simone. Daisy’s daughter and a real pain in the ass.” I turned to Shelly, finding her watching us with interest.

Simone hit my stomach with the back of her hand, drawing my attention just in time for me to spot her mock-aggravated look.

“Nice to meet you, Shelly.” Simone gave Shelly a little wave and a full smile. “What did Beauford do to trick you into going out with him? Hide your keys?”

“He kissed me.”

I pressed my lips together, giving myself a moment to inspect the table before glancing at Simone.

Her mouth had dropped open, likely at Shelly’s candor, but then she laughed. “I like her.”

I grinned at Simone and then at Shelly who was still inspecting us with curiosity. “Me too.”

At that, Shelly’s almost smile became a true one and my heart skipped five beats, maybe more. Truth is, I lost count. I was momentarily stunned by the sight of her beaming up at me and missed half of what Simone said next.

“. . . with the menu? Or do you know what you want?”

“Pardon?” I asked, pulling my attention away from Shelly’s grin with great reluctance. Simone was giving me a sideways look.

“I said, do you need a moment with the menu or do you know what you want?”

“He wants a hamburger with cheddar cheese, tomato, lettuce, pickles, onions, but no mayo, and a side of tater tots. I’ll have the buttermilk pancakes, banana on the side—not sliced, not peeled—butter on the side, no powdered sugar,” Shelly answered for both of us, turning her soft smile to Simone.

“Sure thing.” Simone had whipped out a notepad and wrote down our order. “Anything to drink?”

“Water for me, no ice, no lemon. Strawberry shake with no whip, Beau?” Shelly looked to me.

I examined her, this woman who ordered for me with such thorough knowledge of my preferences. “Yeah, strawberry shake.”

“Sounds good, I’ll be back with your drinks.” Simone nodded once, turned on her heal, and left us.

Staring at Shelly, I took my seat in the booth and waited expectantly. “Well?”

“What?”

“How did you know how I like my hamburgers?”

“It’s what you always order from here.”

“Is it?”

“Yes.”

I glared at her in mock suspicion. “Are you planning to order for me every time we go out?”

She shrugged, and it was the first time I’d seen her make such a careless gesture. “Only if I know what you want.”

“You like ordering for people?”

“No.”

“So just me?”

“Yes.” Her smile returned, smaller than before but just as genuine and stunning.

It occurred to me in that moment, transfixed by her exquisite smile, that Shelly likely didn’t know how to be disingenuous. She may have hidden behind her defenses, but whenever I flat-out asked her a question she always answered with honesty—sometimes brutal, but always real.

The thought brought me comfort, made me like her even more. I would never need to guess with this woman, not if I had the courage to ask.

Honesty, what a novel idea.

Shelly met my gaze, but I must’ve been staring for a while because eventually she shifted in her seat and cleared her throat, lifting her chin toward the diner counter. “She seems nice.”

“Who? Simone?”

Shelly nodded, rearranging the condiments so the salt was to the left of the pepper and the mustard and ketchup were perfectly aligned.

I grinned, hoping she would return it. “Like I said, she’s a pain in the ass.”

“What makes you say so?”

“Growing up, Simone and Roscoe—my youngest brother, I don’t think you’ve met him yet—were best friends. She was always over at our house, and that’s how I know.”

But something had happened their freshman or sophomore year of high school and they’d stopped talking. I’d missed having Simone around after their spat. She baked darn good cookies, with macadamia nuts and white chocolate. Plus she was smart, knew stuff and wasn’t stingy about sharing knowledge—unlike my brother Cletus.

“Why was she a pain?”

“Oh jeez, let me see.” I glanced at the ceiling, searching my memories. “She and Roscoe had this monopoly game going for years; they had to invent new currency that went up to millions of dollars and instead of hotels, they had industrial complexes. I think Roscoe learned this from Ashley, ’cause she had a game going with Jackson James for years. So, none of us could ever play Monopoly or touch the board, or else Simone would get us.”

“Get you how?”

“She replaced our toothpaste with caulk.”

Shelly’s lips parted and her eyes went wide. “That sounds disgusting.”

“It was.” I laughed, scratching my cheek. “One time she and Roscoe filled our—Duane’s and my—shoes with Vaseline.”

“Why?”

“Because we touched their Monopoly game. She was a huge prankster.”

Shelly’s gaze dropped to the table and one side of her mouth hitched, her eyes losing focus. I got the sense she was remembering something from her own childhood.

“Hey.” I tapped her shin with my foot, bringing her attention back to me. “What are you thinking about?”

Her smirk still in place, she leaned forward like she was about to confess something big. “One time, I welded my older brother’s driver’s side door shut.”

I was surprised, but grinned at her sneakiness. “What did Quinn do?”

She stared at me for several seconds, and most of her good mood seemed to dissolve. “Not Quinn, he is younger. My older brother was Desmond. Quinn and Janie named their son after him. It’s also my dad’s name.”

I blinked at her use of the word was, as in past tense, and searched her gaze. She wasn’t icicle Shelly again, but something about her posture and the brittle look in her eyes made me want to reach out to her.

“My brother died.” She confirmed my unasked question, her tone flat as the brittleness turned hard.

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged, her attention moving to some spot over my shoulder. “Happened a long time ago.”

Deciding to assuage my curiosity, I asked, “What did your brother want? Wednesday, when he came by.”

Shelly pulled a napkin from the metal dispenser and placed it flat on the table in front of her. “Assurances.”

“Like?”

“Like, he wanted to make sure I was okay, living here. He worries more than he should about me.”

Her tone and the frustration in her expression implied a different meaning to her words, something like, He worries more than I deserve.

“He’s your brother, of course he’s going to worry.”

“He should be focusing on his family.”

“You are his family.”

She folded the napkin in half. “You know what I mean.”

“Until Quinn said something last week, I didn’t know you had a nephew. Congratulations.”

“I haven’t met him.”

“Yet.”

Shelly’s eyes cut back to mine, held. “Yet,” she agreed, sounding determined.

“Does your brother know why you don’t touch people?”

She swallowed, considering me for a second before shaking her head. “He knows I’m in therapy here, in Tennessee. We’ve corresponded via mail and he still manages my commissions, so I wrote him a letter and told him that I was in therapy But Quinn doesn’t know my diagnosis, we haven’t discussed it.”

Commissions?

“Commissions?”

“Yes. He’s always handled my contracts.” Shelly looked like she was going to explain further, but was interrupted by Beverly dropping off a whole banana and a side dish of butter.

Shelly picked up her banana, cut off the very top and the very bottom with her butter knife, then meticulously peeled it, one panel at a time. She set the peels to the side, one on top of the other, then sliced into the banana, cutting it at precise intervals and arranging the circles in a spiral design on her side plate.

I was so mesmerized by her meticulous banana peeling and cutting ritual that I forgot what we were talking about.

She considered the peeled fruit as though considering a weighty manner, saying, “He knows I cut myself. He was the first to find out. I think that’s why he worries.”

I blinked away from the intricate design of her banana slices and brought her back into focus. “Cutting your wrists is a good reason for a brother to worry.”

“I don’t want to die. Cutting is not about that. It has a stigma, an association with suicide that isn’t always valid, and it confuses people.” Her forehead wrinkled with clear consternation. “I want to live, I’ve always wanted to live. That is why I’m here.”

“I believe you.”

If she said so, then I believed her.

And for the record, thank God.

“Good.” She seemed to breathe easier after the words left my mouth, her attention returning to the napkin. “He checked my arms, and my legs, last week.”

“Your legs?” I sat up straighter. “Did you used to—”

“No. But he wanted to be certain. It’s why he let me stay, because I haven’t been cutting.”

I raised an eyebrow at that, unable to imagine a world where anyone let Shelly Sullivan do anything.

She scratched the back of her neck, her eyes darting to me and then away. “This is a horrible first date conversation. Sorry I am so depressing.”

“It’s not depressing and I don’t mind. I want to know about you.”

“But everything out of my mouth is about self-harm, overprotective brothers, fractured relationships, and death.”

The way she said this made me smile. And then she rolled her eyes at herself and my smile stretched into a grin.

“I promise, I’m not morbid. I have hobbies.”

Giving her a disarming grin, I decided a change of subject was in order. “So, about these hobbies . . .”

“I don’t knit, if that’s what you were going to ask. My sister-in-law crochets. I would like to learn how to do that.”

“I wasn’t, but good to know. I was going to ask if you like getting dressed up, going out, and doing things.”

“You mean other than to get pancakes?”

“I was thinking more like going to a wedding.”

She inspected me, like I’d confused her. “Going to weddings is not a hobby of mine.”

She sounded so serious I had to suppress a laugh. “No, honey. Sorry. That was my roundabout way of inviting you to go with me to Jethro and Sienna’s wedding.”

“Oh.” She sat straighter as her eyes moved up and to the side. “I . . . I don’t know. I mean, I don’t do well in crowds.”

“I’ll protect you.” I tried to sound teasing.

“I’m not the one who needs protecting.” Her gaze came back to mine. “Won’t you be a groomsman?”

“Ah, yes.” I hadn’t thought of that. She’d be on her own, in a crowd, trying not to accidentally touch people.

“Maybe I could go to the reception?” she offered.

“Oh yeah. Sure. Think about it. No need to decide now. There’s no pressure.”

Shelly nodded and how her brow furrowed made me uneasy. She seemed to be frustrated with herself, or maybe growing frustrated with the turn of our date.

This woman had so many layers, and I wanted to know them all. I could be patient. I didn’t want to push her away by coming on too strong.

And yet, she’d been so open with me. Maybe she needed to know I could be equally open with her, so I changed direction a little. Drawing in a large breath, I studied the uncertainty and embarrassment plaguing her features, and decided something.

“My mother died last year.”

She flinched back a fraction of an inch, but much of her frustration melted away. “How?”

“Cancer. She was forty-seven.” . . . I think.

“That’s very young.” The embarrassment and uncertainty melted from her features, leaving only concern.

“It was, it is.” I moved my gaze to the table, thinking back on her last birthday and realizing I couldn’t remember if she’d turned forty-seven or forty-six.

“You miss her.”

“Yes, I do.”

We were quiet for a time and Shelly placed her hand on the table, her fingers just a half inch from mine. Glancing at her, her expression was one of frustration as she stared at my hand. Now that I knew her better, I could see desire—to comfort me, to touch me—was written all over her face.

I covered her hand and watched as she turned hers palm up, entwining our fingers and giving mine a squeeze. She also released a sigh.

“You miss Desmond?”

She nodded, her attention still on our hands. “He was the best person.”

“He’s the best? What about Quinn?”

Shelly visibly hesitated and seemed to be debating how to respond. “He was and is also the best person, but very different than Desmond.”

“How so?”

“Like you and your twin.”

“You mean Desmond was handsome and charming, and Quinn is boring and surly?”

Shelly pressed her lips together like she was fighting another grin and lifted her gaze to mine. “Something like that.”

“What are your parents like?”

Her eyes fell away. “They are also the best.”

“You’re very close?”

“No.”

“No?”

“It’s my fault.” Wrinkles appeared on her forehead and she withdrew her hand. “I’ve never been able to be what they deserve.”

Now that was a heartbreaking statement.

“They said that?”

She shook her head. “I’m not stupid. I know what I am.”

“And what’s that?”

“Exhausting.” She rubbed her forehead. “I exhaust myself. Or, I used to. I feel like I’m much better now, less . . .”

I studied her. “Because of your disorder?”

“I’m the only person responsible for my actions and decisions.” She lifted her chin but still didn’t lift her eyes. The way she said the words, it was like she was repeating a mantra, and that mantra was important to her.

On the one hand, I agreed with her—for obvious reasons. Personal responsibility was a big deal to me given the fact that I grew up with an abusive father who blamed everyone and everything else but himself for his actions.

If you’d listened the first time, I wouldn’t have beat you.

If you’d stayed out of my chair, I wouldn’t have locked you in the shed for two days.

If you’d had my dinner ready on time, you wouldn’t have that black eye.

People who thought initiating violence was ever justified weren’t people I wanted to know.

On the other hand, Shelly’s disorder meant she was a victim of her own mind. She didn’t want to be rude, to be cold, to be exhausting.

But maybe, more than that, she doesn’t want to be a victim.

I decided it was best to neither agree nor disagree. Stepping carefully, talking people out of a mood was a specialty of mine. I’d perfected it over the last twenty-four years, being Duane Winston’s even-tempered twin. I’d spent my life translating for my brother in an effort to keep us both out of trouble.

So I said, “And recently, you’ve been making some great decisions.”

That brought her eyes back to me. Since I had her attention, I made the most of the opportunity, unleashing as much charm as I could manage with an evocative grin.

Now she did smile. I had to blink against the blinding brilliance of it. Held transfixed, I knew I could easily grow addicted to seeing this woman smile.

“An example being?”

I lowered my gaze suggestively. “Following me into the supply closet.”

When I brought my eyes back to Shelly’s, she was watching me with that hazy expression. “You’re an excellent distraction, Beau.”

“How so?”

“Sometimes, when I look at you, all my thoughts, all the plates I’m spinning in my head, they stop. And for a few seconds, it’s peaceful. You make me witless.”

I shrugged, twisting my lips to the side so I wouldn’t laugh at the irony of her statement. “I have that effect on people.”

“Yes, you do.”

That did make me laugh. “I was joking.”

“Then it was a bad joke.” She leaned forward, setting her elbows on the table, giving me the impression she wanted me to understand something important. “I don’t want to creep you out, but I’ve been watching you for over a month. Everyone likes you.”

“No, not everyone.”

“Name one person.”

“My father.”

Dammit.

The admission erupted before I could catch it. Silence fell between us, thick and heavy, as she inspected me.

“Tell me about your father.”

I shook my head. “You don’t want to hear about him.”

“Please tell me.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re perfect. I want to know why. I want to know what formed you.”

“I’m not perfect.” I glanced over the back of my booth distractedly, looking for Simone. She should have returned with our drinks by now.

“Please.”

I looked to Shelly, who was watching me with an echo of her “please” and I blinked, startled by the desire there. Was that desire to know me? I couldn’t remember a time when someone had ever asked me about my father. For that matter, I couldn’t recall a time when someone had ever asked about me, my childhood, let alone what formed me.

My siblings knew. There was no need to discuss it.

Folks in town knew. Or, if they didn’t know for sure, the rumor mill kept them well fed with hearsay.

No one asked about who I was, what made me me.

Unsettled, I cleared my throat and shifted my attention to the window behind her. The sun was in its last throes of setting, lighting up the sky with soft pinks and purples. Daisy’s sat high on a hill, where the Valley road connected with the Parkway, and the view of the mountains was spectacular. Misty peaks, usually blue, now dotted with the reds, yellows, and oranges of fall, and shrouded in the warm glow of sunset.

I loved this place, this Valley and these mountains, but I’d never known anything else. Shelly spoke of her parents as being the best, and my momma fit that description. What would it have been like to have a father I looked up to? Rather than one whose actions were a roadmap of how not to be, whose behavior was the opposite of what I wanted for myself and those around me, and whose presence I despised.

“Beau.”

“I’m not all that interesting.” I scratched my jaw.

“You’re completely fascinating.”

“No. Stop. Please, no. Don’t flatter me. I hate it when people flatter me. Anything but that.” I kept my tone deadpan, knowing she had difficulty deciphering sarcasm and wanting to make the job easy for her.

She narrowed her eyes in a reprimand, but her mouth tugged to the side with barely suppressed amusement. “You are fascinating. Nothing irritates you.”

I gave her a sly smile. “You irritated me, but—”

“I irritate everyone.”

“You didn’t let me finish. You don’t irritate me now.”

“Sooner or later I will.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“I irritate myself.”

“That doesn’t make you special. Everyone—well, everyone with any self-awareness—gets irritated at themselves.”

“When have you been irritated at yourself?”

I squirmed in my seat. “All these questions.”

“What’s wrong with my questions?”

“Nothing is wrong with them, it’s just—”

“Here you go.” Simone appeared abruptly at my elbow, hurriedly plucking dishes from a tray and arranging them haphazardly on the table. My burger, Shelly’s pancakes, tater tots, and two waters.

“Where’s my shake?”

“We don’t have ice cream, we’re out. You’ll get plain old apple pie instead. I’ll bring it over in a minute.” Simone dismissed my irritation with a flick of her wrist, turning a smile to Shelly. “Do you need anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

“Okay, just give me a wave if you do.” And with that, she turned on her heel and left.

I glowered my disappointment for a half second.

No shake?

But apple pie.

Okay. That’s cool.

Shrugging off the last of my discontent—and anticipating apple pie for dessert—I reached for the ketchup.

“You’re not upset?”

I glanced at Shelly, pulling the plate of tater tots toward me. “Pardon?”

“About the shake?”

“Nah. I like apple pie fine. Actually, it’s my favorite, so it all worked out.”

“You are ridiculously easygoing.”

I sent her a mock-glare of suspicion. “Is this your way of telling me you’ve changed your mind about the tater tots? Because it’s too late. They’re mine and you can’t have any.”

“You don’t talk about yourself. You’re not used to it.” She said these words like she’d just solved one of life’s most important puzzles. “You focus on others, you draw them out, and you’re unfailingly accommodating. That’s why everyone likes you.”

“And here I thought it was the magnificence of my beard.”

She ignored me. “People like you because of how you make them feel. That’s why people don’t like me, or it’s one of the main reasons. I don’t know how to do that.”

“I could teach you how.”

Shelly examined me for the space of a heartbeat before saying, “I can practice on you. Let’s start now. Tell me about your father.”

I chuckled at her cleverness. “Wow. I’m impressed. Way to bring the conversation full circle.”

“Do you look like him?”

“You are relentless.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Yes. Unfortunately.” I took a bite of my hamburger; I couldn’t talk with a mouthful of food.

As she cut into her pancakes, she pummeled me with questions. “Is he here? In Green Valley? Do you speak to him? When is the last time you saw him? What makes you think he doesn’t like you? Why did—”

“Cool your engine, woman,” I said around the bite of food.

“Fine. Where is he?”

I eyed her over a sip of water and decided she was brave. Maybe the bravest person I knew. She’d answered every question I’d asked, even when the answers didn’t paint a pretty picture of her. She didn’t shy away from the ugly parts of her past, or her present.

The least I could do was return the favor.

“In prison,” I responded finally, setting my hamburger down. “For attempted kidnapping and assault.”

She didn’t even blink. “Who did he attempt to kidnap?”

“Ashley.”

“Ashley?”

“My sister.”

Her eyes grew impossibly wide. “Wow.”

“Yeah.”

We traded stares for a moment, then she asked, “Is she okay?”

“Ashley?”

“Yes. Was she hurt?”

I hesitated for a moment, and then finally said, “No. He didn’t get a chance.” That time.

Shelly nodded, like this news was a relief and I hid my discomfort by taking a bite of my burger.

Darrell had hurt Ashley—and me, and my momma, and all my siblings—on more than one occasion. Despite Shelly’s bravery, this fact stuck in my throat and I couldn’t speak it. I wasn’t used to talking about my father, or what he’d done to us, and I recognized in that moment I wasn’t likely to share it willingly.

And I wasn’t ever going to be brave about it.

“What happened? Why’d he do it? How old was she?”

After I swallowed my bite of food, I answered her questions in reverse. “It was just last year, the day of our momma’s funeral. He did it ’cause he was hoping to leverage my sister for money. Our momma comes from an old family in these parts called the Olivers. That was her maiden name. She owned our family home, and he didn’t own a stick of it. The house used to be called The Oliver House. And, along with property, Momma had money. Not a whole lot, but enough that Darrell—that’s my daddy—had been plotting for years to get his hands on it. As for what happened . . .”

I moved my gaze beyond Shelly once more. It was now dark and I could see my reflection in the window. When I spoke next, I spoke to this reflection.

“He and two of his motorcycle brothers—my father is a captain in a local motorcycle club called the Iron Wraiths—jumped Ashley and Billy in the library parking lot, where the reception was. The rest of us were inside. It was just after the funeral at the cemetery and it felt like the entire town had come to say goodbye to my mother. Darrell took advantage, catching them unawares, knocking out Billy first. But my sister, she’s fierce. She got away, flagged down a sheriff’s deputy, and Darrell was caught.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. They were stuffing Billy into the back of a car, he was out cold.” I shivered a little at the memory, bringing my eyes back to Shelly’s.

She was watching me with an open expression, open and curious, like I was reading her a tale instead of relating a true story.

“Your brother Billy is okay?”

“He didn’t suffer any long-term damage from being knocked out, we were able to revive him immediately.”

“Good. That is good.” Shelly slanted her head to the side, studying me, and then her pancakes. “I’m glad your father doesn’t like you.”

“Pardon?” I’d been in the process of lifting my hamburger when she’d spoken. Now I held it suspended, halfway to my mouth, certain I’d misheard her.

She took a bite of pancake, chewed, swallowed a gulp of water, and repeated, “I’m glad your father doesn’t like you.”

“And why is that?”

“He sounds like a tool. If he liked you, I would think there’s something wrong with you.”

I gave her a sideways look. “That . . . sorta makes sense.” I tilted my head back and forth, considering and ultimately seeing her point. “He likes Ashley, but I think that’s because he thinks she’s weak, he thinks he can manipulate her like he did to our momma, because she’s a woman. And Ashley looks a lot like him. The rest of us, he could take or leave.”

“He thinks she’s weak because she’s a woman?” Shelly made a face, her nose scrunching, her brow furrowing. The level of expression looked foreign on her face. Even so, I liked her expressiveness. It felt rarely bestowed and consequently more valuable.

“Yes.”

“Tool.”

“Yes.” I chuckled, taking another bite of burger.

“My dad always told me how strong I was. Capable. He’s quiet, like Quinn, but when he speaks it’s always something worth hearing.”

“Like you?”

Shelly considered the question, taking an expansive breath before responding, “No. I’m not quiet, not in my natural state. When I’m at home, I talk to my dogs all day.”

“And Oliver?”

“Yes, Oliver too.”

“Just not humans?” I teased.

The side of her mouth threatened a grin again. That’s eight. “I talk to you, do I not?”

“Yes, you do. So why don’t you talk to other people?”

“I guess. . .” she paused, like she was giving the question real thought, “I don’t want to bother anyone.”

“You think you’re a bother?”

“I notice things. I can’t help it. And when I notice things, I say them. It can be bothersome.”

“What do you mean? Notice what?”

“Patterns.”

“Really?”

She nodded once.

“You’ve never said anything to me about it.”

“I think that’s because when I’m with you, I notice only you.” Again, she said these words thoughtfully, like she was working through a problem out loud.

So by the time she’d realized what she’d said, I was already wearing a giant smile meant just for her. “Is that so?”

Shelly pressed her lips together, narrowing her eyes into slits. “Let’s talk about something else.”

“Okay, fine. Let’s talk about all the things you notice about me.”

That made her laugh, which made me laugh. Her laugh also gave me the distinct sensation of being weightless and warm, unbound by time or worries.

In other words, she had a great laugh.

Movement in the window behind her—in the reflection—caught my attention, as did new voices. My smile slipped gradually as my eyes focused on the scene there, on the image of several huge, leather-clad bikers walking into the diner.

And the redheaded woman with them.

I winced. “Oh . . . shit.”

“What?”

“Don’t look up.”

“Okay.” She didn’t look up, instead becoming eerily still.

I squinted at the window and slid lower in the booth so my head wouldn’t be visible. But I could see the rest of the diner just fine.

“Behind me, a few fellas and a woman just entered.”

“Okay.” She didn’t look up to confirm, instead keeping her attention fixed on me.

“They’re members of the Iron Wraiths.” I counted their number—six total—and tried to add names to faces. Drill was there, his shiny bald head and burly build gave him away. “The woman is Christine St. Claire, the president’s old lady.”

Dammit. I reprimanded myself for my foolishness. I should have called Drill back. Instead of avoiding his calls, I should’ve just told him I wasn’t interested.

“Old lady? She’s his mother?”

“No.” I grinned at Shelly despite the situation. “His woman.”

“Girlfriend?”

I winced, because I saw three of them—at least—were carrying guns. They weren’t holding the guns, just carrying them out in the open over their T-shirts but under their jackets, being real obvious about it.

“Something like that.”

She gave me a face, like she found my response irritating. “These people are a part of your dad’s motorcycle club?”

“Yes.”

“The ones who tried to kidnap your brother and sister?”

“Yeah, but those two guys—the ones who helped Darrell—they’re in prison.” Still tracking the group’s progress in the reflection of the window, I watched as Drill approached the counter, a younger guy with a beard trailing behind him. If I wasn’t mistaken, the younger guy was Isaac Sylvester, Jennifer Sylvester’s brother. He was a recruit, not a full member. But he was also big and tall, muscular, retired Army.

“They must’ve seen my car out front,” I mumbled to myself.

“So these guys, these Wraiths, they don’t like you?”

“Something like that.” My response was distracted, because I needed to extract Shelly from this situation as quickly as possible.

I was under no illusions. This is exactly what Drill had meant in his text. Christine was here to see me, likely to take me someplace of her choosing whether I wanted to go or not.

If they saw Shelly and I together, they’d take us both, because that’s how they operated. They’d use her for leverage to get what they wanted and there was no way in hell I’d let that happen.

“Stop saying ‘something like that.’ Vague statements confuse me. Yes or no, they like you or they don’t.”

“It’s complicated. We need to get you out of here. I’ll distract them and you sneak out the back.”

Drill was moving his head from side to side, scanning the restaurant while the rest of them tried to appear nonchalant, lining up against the diner counter. They blended in about as much as a keg stand at a tea party.

I spotted movement from the entrance to the kitchen—Simone poking her head out—and I heard her say something like, “I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Crap.” I reached for my wallet, pulling out a few twenties and dropping them on the table. “Shelly, you need to go.”

“Why?”

“Because they’re here for me. And if they see you, they’ll take you, too.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

My eyes cut to hers and I glared at the obstinate set of her features. “Shelly.”

“No. We leave together.” Her expression and tone were fierce.

“You don’t know them, what they’re like. They’re bad people.”

“Stop wasting time. How do we get out of here together?”

Chewing on the inside of my bottom lip, I considered this stubborn woman and the likelihood that I would be able to talk her into leaving before the shit hit the fan. I decided the probability of success was zero.

“I wish Duane were here.” I thought about quickly sending him a text, but decided against it. My brother was as good as gone. I needed to figure out how to get out of these messes without him.

Shelly’s gaze flickered to a spot behind me, then back to mine. “Why?”

I gave her an apologetic look. “We gotta disappear.”

“Obviously. But what does us disappearing have to do with Duane?” Her voice lowered to a whisper.

“Because we could use a getaway driver and he’s the best.” No need to beat around the bush, especially since I was just about to tell her to make a run for the back door. “Sorry about this.”

Shelly’s eyes widened and she sat up a bit straighter in her seat, angling her chin. “I’ll do it.”

“What?” I was splitting my attention between her and the reflection of the Wraiths in the window.

“I’ll do it. I’ll be our getaway driver.”

“Shelly.” I’m sure my dismay and confusion were apparent, because her eyes narrowed on me in challenge.

“I’m a great driver. I’ve been spending my free time driving the back roads. I like to drive fast around curves and corners. And you have a fast car. Give me your keys.”

Unsure what to do, I licked my lips, my fingers digging into my front pocket for the keys but moving no further.

She must’ve sensed my hesitation, because she gave me a small smile. “Trust me, Beau.”

Shelly placed her hand on the table, palm up, and extended it toward me. Her hand was steady and her expression was as cool and collected as I’ve ever seen her.

But . . . it’s my GTO.

Oh good Lord. Just give the woman your keys.

Fine. But if she wrecks it, I’m buying that Plymouth Fury from the shop.

Heart galloping, I withdrew my keys and placed them in her hand, closing her fingers around them. “This is what we’re going to do. You get up and make like you’re going to the bathroom. The back door is in the same alcove, leave through there. Go around the north side of the building, behind the kitchens, so they don’t see you through the windows. Get to my car, watch for me, and get ready.”

“What are you going to do?”

“There’s no way I can sneak out. They’ll see my hair a mile off.” I scanned the scene in the window. “I’ll have to talk to them and leave through the front door, act like I’m going without complaint. Then I’ll say I need to get something from my car, but I’ll get in the passenger side instead. And then you take off, got it?”

“Got it.” She nodded, the smile still hovering around her lips.

I lifted an eyebrow at her expression. “You look like you’re looking forward to this.”

“I’ve been hoping you’d let me drive your car.” Her lips quirked, giving me a saucy smile.

I shook my head at this crazy—but in the best way—woman as she slid from the booth and strolled to the bathroom alcove, cool as a cucumber.

As soon as she was out of sight, I sent a silent prayer upward that she emerged from this situation unscathed and that Drill didn’t spot her.

If anything happens to her, I swear to God—

Whoa there, feisty britches.

—they won’t find the bodies.

Okay. Settle down. No need to pull the Rambo card.

I gathered a deep breath, counting to five before straightening in my seat to ensure she had enough time to make it around the building.

And then, because I really did love the GTO, I said a quick prayer for my car.

19

“People in their right minds never take pride in their talents.”

― Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird

*Beau*

AS SOON AS I saw Simone leave the kitchen, I stood from the booth. I suspected her momma didn’t like the Wraiths being in the diner, and I knew without a doubt Daisy didn’t want her daughter interacting with their kind.

So before Simone reached them, I called out, “Can I help y’all with something?”

Seven sets of eyes—the Wraiths’ plus Simone’s—turned in my direction, but I was careful to keep my stare on Christine St. Claire. She would be the one calling the shots, which meant she expected to be the sole recipient of my focus.

Growing up, going to picnics with the other club members and their families, visiting the club with my daddy, fishing with Isaac and Drill and Catfish, I had no problem navigating their sub-culture and norms. It was a respect thing with these people. Club business had a strict order even as they spread chaos elsewhere.

But just because I could navigate their world didn’t mean I wanted to be a part of it.

“Beau.” Drill stepped forward, wearing a smile like a grimace, and extended his hand for me to shake.

I accepted the handshake, studying his expression, and reading something like, I tried to warn you.

“You know the fellas,” he gestured to the other members of his group, none of which gave me even so much as a nod of the head.

“Sure.”

“And Razor’s old lady, Christine.”

My attention moved back to the woman. She was watching me closely, like she was waiting for me to react in a certain way.

“Ma’am.” I tipped my head but made no move to extend a hand. Club members were particular about their old ladies. A guy could get a broken nose for glancing at another man’s woman without asking permission first. However, sometimes these fellas lent out their woman like a bicycle.

Regardless, Razor was a psycho. That tire fire of volatility didn’t require any additional fuel.

“You’re coming with us.” Christine’s voice was softer than I’d expected, and the way she searched my eyes struck me as peculiar. “We need to have a chat.”

I shrugged, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Sure thing. Lead the way.”

If my willingness surprised her, she didn’t show it.

But Drill was giving me a dirty look. My guess, he was irritated I’d caused him a heap of trouble over the past month just to acquiesce so easily now. The other fellas seemed to relax, clearly assuming their job was essentially done.

Truth be told, I was tempted to leave with them.

Shelly was safe in my car. I doubted their plans included keeping me indefinitely. My absence would be noticed. If they kept me for any length of time, Billy would throw a raging fit, as was his habit when situations involved the motorcycle club. And Billy was friends with people in high places.

Yeah, I was pretty well convinced to go with them, get it over with. The old lady wanted to have a word, and clearly she wasn’t going to leave me in peace until she had her say. Hopefully, it would be a quick conversation.

Sure, Shelly would be pissed.

She’d also be safe.

But then, as soon as we were out the door, Drill lifted his chin toward a bike I recognized as Razor’s and said, “You’ll ride with Christine.”

Other than a slight widening of my eyes, I was able to keep my expression clear despite the sinking sense of doom in the pit of my stomach.

Ride with Christine? On Razor’s bike? Uh, that’ll be a hard pass.

My plans took a real sharp U-turn. There was no way I was getting on Razor’s bike with Razor’s old lady. Seeing how things were going to be, I was hugely grateful to Shelly that she’d insisted we leave together.

“Ah, jeez. I left my wallet in the glove compartment. Let me grab it.” I walked backward away from them.

Isaac and another of the bikers stiffened, but then relaxed as I moved along the hood of my car toward the passenger side. I kept my eyes trained on them as I reached the door, opening it and bending into the car.

Only Christine was watching me, the rest were mounting their bikes and must’ve decided I couldn’t escape without sitting in the driver’s seat.

Then Shelly turned the engine.

The sound of my GTO coming to life cut through the night and the Wraiths looked up, visibly dumbfounded. I’d just shut my door as Shelly reversed out of the space, twisting the wheel and taking off quick as lightning.

“Seatbelt,” she said, not pausing at the edge of the lot before pulling onto the main road and speeding like a demon outta hell.

She shifted fast, much faster than I’d ever managed. Instead of using the brakes, she downshifted just as we approached the first turn. The engine roared as we flew around the curve, but the lower gear gave her the control she needed to clear it.

I knew better than to speak, or flinch, or make any movement other than holding on. I’d been in similar situations several times with Duane.

My attention cut between Shelly and the side mirror, and I kept waiting for any sign of pursuit. Thus far, there were no headlights, no sounds of motorcycles. Shelly, however, kept her eyes forward, never once looking behind us, her features an impassive mask of concentration.

We raced down the mountain road for a good while. Or at least, it felt like a good while. Abruptly, she downshifted and braked just before a switchback and I glanced at her in alarm. Our speed reduced to a near stop, Shelly turned the wheel, shutting off the lights, and taking us on a dirt road. I understood immediately why she’d slowed, kicking up dirt would be like shining a spotlight on our location.

But I was also concerned, because I knew the road. It led to a vacation rental—really, a fishing shack—owned by Mr. Tanner. The gravel drive was long and twisty with no offshoots. If they followed us, we were trapped. And if Mr. Tanner had tenants, they might not take too kindly to our parking in their drive. The kind of folks that rented from Mr. Tanner usually didn’t care much about comfort, and usually didn’t stay long.

Shelly seemed to know the road by heart; with no headlights and the darkness of the surrounding forest, it would’ve been easy to steer us into a ditch or a tree. She didn’t.

My siblings and I could see better in the dark than most folks. Cletus attributed this to our Yuchi ancestry on our daddy’s side, a Native American tribe that lived in the East Tennessee River Valley until the seventeenth century. But even I was having trouble following the line of the road.

Not twenty seconds after we pulled off, I heard the telltale sounds of motorcycles approaching. I held my breath, straining to hear, bracing. But then they raced past the drive, rumbly engines slicing through the night, close enough to give me chills. And then the sounds faded into the distance.

I blew out the breath, telling my heart to quit slamming into my ribs. Shelly was still coasting, rolling forward on momentum, and when we reached a certain point, she tugged the wheel just slightly to the right.

“She’ll go in the garage. If they come down this way, she’ll be hidden.”

Comprehension was slow to arrive. “You’re renting this place?”

“Yes.”

“From Mr. Tanner?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t like this fact one bit. Sure, it was on several acres, with a private slope on Bandit Lake. Launch off the dock was possible even though it was in severe disrepair. The location was ideal, but if memory served, the place was little more than a lean-to.

We rounded the main structure; calling it a cabin would’ve been too generous. Shelly flicked on the parking lights, illuminating a Quonset hut similar to the one on our property.

“I don’t remember this being here.”

“I added it.”

That had me looking at her. “Mr. Tanner let you add it?”

“I didn’t give him much of a choice.”

“How so?”

Her eyes darted to mine, and then back to the corrugated structure. “I didn’t ask.”

I chuckled. “Well, that’s one way to do it.”

“It’s pre-fabricated. When I go, I’ll remove it if he wants.”

When I go . . .

I tensed at that, and for a moment I was struck dumb by the words. Before I could ask whether she meant When I move someplace else in Green Valley that’s not a shack, or When I return to Chicago, she’d placed the car in neutral, engaged the emergency break, and hopped out.

It took me just two seconds before I unbuckled my seatbelt and exited the car to follow her. I heard her dogs barking from the direction of the house; clearly our stealth wasn’t stealthy enough for the giant animals.

By the time I reached her, she’d bent to unlock the thick-gauge padlock; the lock anchored a roller door to the ground.

Now wasn’t the time to question her about leaving, seeing as how the Wraiths might still double back and search private driveways. But something about how she’d said it, like leaving was inevitable, rubbed like sandpaper in my armpit.

Clearing my throat, I helped her lift the metal door, noting conversationally, “You know he’s the junkyard man, and he’ll probably use it for storage . . . when you go.”

She made a noncommittal sound, and then turned, jogging back to the car and slipping inside. Kicking a patch of dirt, I tried to curtail the impulse to mention the issue again.

I could wait.

I should wait.

We had plenty of time. I hope.

Distracted by this train of thought, I moved to one side, glancing into the interior of the semicircular structure, and started in mild surprise by what I found there.

It looked like a workshop, which wasn’t surprising. Everyone knew Shelly did metal work, engineering car parts and casting them on her own. But the source of my astonishment were the huge sculptures along the back wall. Metalwork, from the looks of it. The three figures were lined up, and each one must’ve been twelve or fifteen feet tall. They looked like birds.

Shelly pulled forward, casting more light on the shapes and I saw they weren’t birds, they were angels. My breath caught. Each had feathery wings made from what appeared to be silver. Strong male bodies, entirely nude.

Drawn to them, I walked into the hut without thinking, navigating past machinery I might’ve admired if not for the sculptures. As I drew near, I realized the wings were made from reclaimed utensils. One had forks, one spoons, and the last knives.

Barely aware that Shelly had cut the engine but left on the lights, I reached forward and touched the wing, found it was moveable. The metal fabric created by the reclaimed silverware bent and moved like chicken wire, plus the entire wing seemed to be on a hinge.

“Holy shit.”

“They’re for a plaza, in Berlin. Over time, the wings will soften.”

I glanced at her, startled to find her at my elbow. “You made these?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit.” This time, I said the words to her. “You’re an artist.”

She shrugged. “My major was sculpture.”

“In college?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you go?”

“The Art Institute in Chicago.”

Wow. Impressive.

I turned my attention back to the angels and stared at the face of the one closest; he looked fierce, but not angry. “How long did these take you?”

“Three months.”

“Are the wings—”

“Made of silver, yes.”

“They must be—”

“Worth a lot.”

I huffed a laugh at her ability to finish my thoughts. “What are the bodies made of?”

“Copper. The bone structure of the wings is also copper.”

I thought about that, copper bodies and silver wings. Eventually both would oxidize, but neither would rust. The copper would turn green, and the silver black.

Absentmindedly, I said, “Unless they’re polished, their colors will fade.”

“Like a person.”

“Pardon?” I returned my gaze to her profile.

“People need to be polished, to be stroked, touched,” her tone was abstract, “and when they’re not polished, their colors fade. They fade, they change, warp, become something different.”

She overwhelmed me in that moment, her words, the enormity of her talent. Here I thought I was courting an auto mechanic with a few peculiarities.

Instead, this woman was an artistic genius. Picture pieces snapped together and Shelly Sullivan came further into focus.

“Incredible.” You’re incredible.

“Thank you.” She accepted the praise easily, assuming I meant the statues, her attention affixed to the right-most angel. “I’m not finished, but almost.”

“They look perfect to me.”

My eyes were drawn to the angel with silver knives for wings, a knot of unease in my stomach at the sight of the blades. She’d said she didn’t own any knives. I supposed maybe Shelly didn’t consider sculpting supplies actual knives. Plus, I saw they weren’t of the sharp variety. More like glorified butter spreaders.

The knot eased, leaving me with a sense of . . . unworthiness.

Yep. That’s what it was. I didn’t like it. I pushed it away, clearing the thought from my mind.

She was saved from responding by the hum of a lone engine in the distance. From the sound of it, the vehicle was still on the main road, and I couldn’t tell if it belonged to a bike or a souped-up car.

We both jumped into action. Shelly made for the GTO, turning off the lights and withdrawing the keys. I jogged to the roller door, pulling it down halfway until she exited, then closing and locking it.

“Come with me.” Shelly reached out her hand and I grabbed it. She steered us to the side door of the shack. Once there, she unlocked it, and pulled me through.

The room was dark, but I could see outlines of furniture, the space much larger than I remembered. Soon, the sound of galloping paws and excited barks greeted us, followed by dark outlines of the beasts themselves.

“Brace for impact,” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

She didn’t need to tell me twice. I turned to the side, spreading my feet apart, and opened my arms for whichever of the two mammoths pummeled me first.

One swirled around Shelly’s legs, wagging its tail excitedly. The other leapt on me and licked my beard and neck.

“Down, Laika.” Shelly reached for the dog around the chest and I tried to help, which allowed Laika to lick my face more fully.

“This dog has made it to first base.” I laughed, turning from the dog’s ardent attentions.

Shelly laughed too, wrestling with the canine. But as soon as Laika was within her grip, the other dog aggressively stuck its nose in my crotch.

“And this one has made it to third.” I struggled to push its head—which was as big as a horse’s—away.

Shelly was laughing so hard she snorted. And then she snorted again, presumably finding the first snort hysterical.

Of course I was laughing too, and I almost forgot about the sound of the engine that had spurred us inside until the dogs suddenly grew stiff and alert. In the quiet, our eyes locked and I was certain we’d both heard the same thing.

An engine, coming up the drive. Shit.

Laika and the other dog were barking again in earnest, adding a snarl or two, and running for the front door.

Shelly started after them, but then there was a thud as some part of her connected with a piece of furniture. “Shit!”

“Hey, hey,” I whispered, coming to her side. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. I just stubbed my toe.”

“Where are the lights?”

“Should we turn on the lights?” Her face was directly in front of mine, our mouths two or three inches apart. Despite the situation, my body took note of her closeness. And the dark.

The sound of the engine cut—or at least I thought it did. It was hard to tell with the dogs causing such a ruckus and my mind turning to more agreeable matters.

“You’re right. I don’t want you answering the door.” I slid my arm around her waist, bringing her tighter against me . . . for her safety. Yeah. That’s why I did it.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Laika and her friend kept barking and snarling. I doubted anyone outside could hear us.

“They might’ve seen you behind the wheel when we left.” Best we ignore them and make-out instead. “Let the dogs handle it.”

These dogs sounded terrifying. No one owning sense would dare enter with those two beasts making such a ruckus.

I could just decipher the lines of Shelly’s face, the movement of her eyes. She searched the darkness, her brow furrowing.

“You sound different.”

I slid a hand up her arm, over her shoulder to cup her jaw.

Her eyelashes fluttered. “There might be a man with a gun outside, and you want to kiss me?”

“I always want to kiss you.”

Shelly shivered and she turned more completely against me. “Beau—”

“You driving my car was the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.” I lowered my head, pressed the flat of my tongue against the junction of her shoulder and neck, and swirled it against her skin, giving her a small bite.

She shivered again, twining her arms around my neck. Shelly tilted her chin, offering more access even as her shoulder lifted in an automatic reflex.

“That feels good.” Her voice was breathless. “Do not stop doing that.”

I skimmed my fingertips down the other side of her neck, to her chest, cupping her breast over her dress. “Can I do other things?”

“Yes. All the things. Do all the things.” She was pressing herself against me. The barking dogs, the potential danger outside now forgotten.

She smelled heavenly, like lavender and gardenias and sugar. I took another soft bite of her neck, loving the way her nails dug into the back of my head, loving how she arched and rubbed against me, like she couldn’t help herself.

She groaned, her breath hitching as I tugged on the center of her breast through the fabric.

“Beauford Winston! I know you’re in there.”

I stiffened, my eyes flying open, because I would know that voice anywhere.

“Duane,” Shelly whispered, though she didn’t move.

“Come on, Beau. I saw your car in the garage out back. Open the door and call off Cerberus.”

“I’m here, too,” Jessica hollered. “And I have pie.”

MY TWIN GLOWERED AT ME. I was used to his surly moods. His glower didn’t affect me any. Plus, truth be told, I wasn’t too happy with him either. His nosy self had just interrupted a moment. And now, instead of making out with Shelly—or more than making out with Shelly—I was on the receiving end of my twin’s tremendously unsexy frown.

When he was done glowering, he turned softer features to Shelly. “Mind if we come in?”

“Yes. Please come in.” Shelly waved them forward, still looking a little hazy from our earlier encounter.

Before opening the door, she’d put the two dogs in the bedroom. They were still barking, but were no longer snarling.

“How many dogs do you have in there?” As they entered, Duane sent a wary look toward the bedroom door. “Twenty?”

Jess huffed at Duane and then turned her smile to Shelly. “I’m Jessica.”

Shelly stiffened, and I witnessed her panic war with frustration.

But before Shelly could say anything, Jessica continued, “Duane told me not to try to shake your hand, so don’t worry about that. Honestly, I hate shaking hands. I never know how long to hold a handshake. And then, who does the shaking? What if no one shakes? Then I’m just standing there, holding some stranger’s hand. It’s the worst.”

One of Shelly’s almost smiles made an appearance as her gaze moved over Jessica.

Finally, she said, “I’m Shelly.”

“Yes. I know.” Jessica beamed at her, then held up her pie. “I brought pie.”

“You said that already.” I squinted at my brother’s girlfriend.

She was acting funny. Sure, she’d always been a little zany, but this was different. Jess looked excited and nervous; it reminded me of how she used to act around me when we were kids, when she had a crush on me and struggled to string three words together.

“Did I?” Jess continued to smile, her attention never leaving Shelly’s face.

“Come into the kitchen, I have plates.” Shelly waved my brother and Jess forward, flipping on a light by the door.

I didn’t follow. I could hardly believe my eyes. The interior of Mr. Tanner’s shack had been transformed. It was still small, but it was no longer shabby.

The room where we stood, because the front door opened onto a room, was lined with bookshelves. She’d placed a brown leather couch and ottoman in the center of the room along with a lamp. Furniture was sparse, but it was nice furniture. It looked comfortable, definitely high quality.

A console table stood directly opposite the front door with a large, brass tray on it. I spotted screws and bolts and other various and sundry widgets scattered on its surface, along with a thick brown wallet.

The place used to have visible pipes and electrical wiring; that was no longer the case. The walls not lined with shelves were covered with drywall and fresh white paint. The installation looked brand new. Upon the walls hung a collection of captivating paintings, drawings and prints—all framed and precisely aligned.

“In a minute,” Duane called to Shelly. “I need to speak with my brother.”

“Take your time,” Jess called back, sounding giddy.

Meanwhile, I was dumbfounded by the transformation of the place. It was unreal how much different—better—it looked.

“Looks nice.” Duane was now standing at my elbow and had closed the door while I gaped like an idiot at Shelly’s place.

“It’s completely different.”

“She must’ve done a lot of work on it.”

That pulled my eyes to my brother. “You think Shelly did this?”

“Well, old-man Tanner didn’t do it, and he didn’t hire anybody either.”

I nodded, slowly at first, then faster as I decided Duane was right. She must’ve done it all herself. At this point I wouldn’t be surprised if she could also perform brain surgery.

“Hey, why’s Jess acting like that?”

Duane wiped a hand over his face. “Oh, good Lord.”

“What?”

“She found out who Shelly was.”

“What do you mean?”

“I guess Shelly is some famous artist or something? I don’t really know.”

“Jess knows who she is?”

“Yeah, that’s why she’s been pestering me about us getting together. After seeing her at the bar, she looked her up.”

“Huh.” I let that sink in.

After seeing her sculptures in the hut, and knowing the one there was going to Berlin, it wasn’t too farfetched to comprehend that her art was famous.

What did surprise me was that Shelly hadn’t brought up the fact that she was both an artist and world famous.

If we hadn't stumbled across her statues earlier, would she ever have told me?

“Listen.” Duane stepped farther into the room, his hands coming to his hips as he peered at me. “I got a call from Simone Payton. She’s in town, but I suppose you already know that.”

“Yeah. We saw her at Daisy’s. How’d you know where Shelly lives?”

“Cletus mentioned she was staying here a few weeks ago, it was on her application paperwork. When Simone called, told me what happened, I thought y’all might come here.”

“What did Simone say?”

Duane’s mouth pressed into a hard line. “Simone called in a panic, saying you were at the diner. Then the MC shitheads ganged up on you, tried to get you to leave with them. Then she said you and Shelly got away and the Wraiths set off in pursuit.”

“That’s right.”

Duane’s peering intensified and I got the sense he was trying to control his temper. “Why didn’t you call me?”

“Why would I?” I asked honestly, then immediately winced.

Damn. Dammit, damn, damn.

Duane reared back, and his control on his temper slipped. “Why would you? Are you serious with this shit? The Wraiths come after you, they come after all of us.”

I sighed, shaking my head. “What I mean is—”

“Handling them on your own is going to buy you nothing but trouble.”

“Okay, fine. If you would—”

“Remember last year? You were the first person I told when they came after me.”

“I know that.” I ground my teeth, my frustration mounting.

“You should have called me, or texted if you needed a driver.”

“Shelly got us away, and she did a damn fine job, too.”

Duane pushed his lips together, his glare darting over me. “Shelly drove?”

“Yes.”

“She drive the GTO?”

I nodded. I was still recovering from how incredible she’d been. How competently and expertly she’d navigated the tight switchbacks, knowing when to turn, when to downshift. As in other aspects of life, she was a tactical, clever, self-possessed driver.

“She as fast as me?”

“Maybe faster.” And a lot sexier.

Duane nodded, some of the tension easing from his shoulders. “Well that’s good. I’m glad she was there.”

“Me too.”

“Now you want to tell me why you got the Iron Wraiths after you?”

“No,” I said through clenched teeth, growing tired of his questioning.

The previous tension—plus heaps more—returned and his eyes flashed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean what I said. No. I don’t want to tell you.”

Duane looked truly shocked, and his eyes lost focus for a moment, like he was trying to figure out my motive for keeping information to myself.

Abruptly, his stare cut back to mine. “Are you in trouble?”

“Not really.”

He threw his hands up. “What the hell is going on?”

“Nothing—”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it.” He took a deep breath, clearly trying to rein in his temper, and lowered his voice. “For weeks now you’ve been giving me the silent treatment.”

“I’ve been giving you the silent treatment? That’s hilarious.”

Our entire life had been one giant episode of Duane giving everybody the silent treatment interrupted by short bursts conversation, mostly initiated by me.

“Ain’t nothing funny about it, Beau. You’re acting like me leaving next month means I’ll cease to exist.”

“Well, don’t you?”

“No. Hell, no.”

I laughed, exasperated. Why the hell is he giving me such a hard time? He’s the one who is leaving.

“Yes. Hell, yes. You’re going halfway around the world, and who knows when we’ll be seeing you again. Not anytime soon. Why would anything going on with me be your business?”

Duane’s eyes widened to their maximum diameter and his face grew red as I’ve ever seen it. He charged at me, keeping his volume low even as his tone was enraged. “Because I’m your twin brother, you fucking asshole!”

His sudden vehemence had me snapping my mouth shut. When he was like this—lost in a fit of temper—the best and only thing to do was let him wear himself out.

Crossing my arms, I braced my feet apart and prepared to wait.

“Don’t fucking do that.” He spoke through clenched teeth.

“Do what?”

“You know what. Like I’m throwing a temper tantrum.”

“Aren’t you?”

“No. No, Beau. I’m not. I’m trying to tell you something, and you don’t want to listen.”

“Just say it.”

“My leaving has nothing to do with you.”

I winced despite myself, despite years of practice weathering Duane’s surly moods.

“I’m very clear on that.”

“Dammit, I didn’t mean it like that.”

I shrugged, giving him a blank stare. “It doesn’t matter.”

Duane made a frustrated grabbing motion with his hands—like he wanted to wring my neck—then paced away. “What would you have me do? Hmm? Break things off with Jess? Tell her to go without me? You’re acting like I’m a traitor for being happy and it’s pissing me off. I’ve never spent more than a few days away from you, dummy. Yet you think leaving y’all is going to be easy for me?”

We stared at each other, and I saw his torment. It hadn’t occurred to me that leaving us, leaving his sister and his brothers, might be hard on him as well.

Duane was more than my brother.

He was literally the other half of me.

“No.” I cleared my throat because I had to. “No, of course not.”

“Then stop.” His anger diffused, becoming desperation. “Stop telling me the shop ain’t my business, and stop cutting me out of things that matter.”

I glanced to the left, to where Shelly had placed several bookshelves. They were overstuffed, and most of the spines were blue, but I didn’t really see them.

What I saw were snapshots of my past. I saw having somebody, the someone I never had to explain shit to, my someone who just knew. He knew it all. And I also saw someone who had needed me, someone I’d cared for and took care of, from birth to now.

“He’s your responsibility,” my momma had said. “I’m counting on you.”

And then I saw the future, and him leaving, and nothing ever being the same.

“This sucks,” I said to Shelly’s blue books.

“It does.” Duane’s reply was rough, his voice like sandpaper. He also cleared his throat, adding in a steadier voice, “So don’t make it harder by being an asshole.”

20

“We do not have to visit a madhouse to find disordered minds; our planet is the mental institution of the universe.”

― Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

*Beau*

DUANE AND JESS had wisely decided to borrow Billy’s truck. The Wraiths wouldn’t think twice about stopping and harassing any of us except Billy.

A few summers ago, I must’ve been seventeen or eighteen, two recruits had been harassing Billy on one of the back roads. The way Drill told the story, Billy sped up around a switchback until he was out of sight, then turned his wheel, blocking the road.

Not seeing him in time, the recruits plowed right into Billy’s 1985 Chevy Silverado. Billy called an ambulance and both fellas ended up in the hospital, but not before he broke both their noses, threatened to kill them if it happened again, and scared the shit out of them by driving away and leaving them in the middle of the road.

The story Billy told the police was completely different. Unsurprisingly, the police believed my brother.

Drill had a dozen or so stories of a similar nature about Billy. All of them started with some dumbasses at the club thinking they could harass my brother, and ended with those same dumbasses in the hospital. His hatred for the motorcycle club was no secret and no joke.

Billy’s truck was absolutely the right choice for picking me up from Shelly’s and taking me home with them.

But, before we all left, pie.

“So . . . you and Shelly, huh?” Jess’s crooked grin was enormous. I could see why my brother liked it so much.

Duane, Jess, and I were in Shelly’s small kitchen, eating pie. Shelly had just left to check on her dogs. They’d continued to bark, but they’d also started to whine.

I shrugged, trying to appear blasé about it and failing. No doubt my grin gave me away.

“Ahh! That is so exciting.” Jess did a little wiggly dance in her seat, shaking her fists back and forth in front of her.

“I can’t believe how different this place looks. The kitchen is brand new.” Duane, meanwhile, was currently opening and closing cabinet doors. He’d finished his pie before the rest of us. “Did you see what she did here? How this whole apparatus is on hinges?”

“When did it happen?” Jess leaned her elbows on the table, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Duane won’t tell me anything.”

“Look how easy it is to find stuff in here. This is genius.” My brother had moved on to the pantry.

“It’s not official or anything yet.” I glanced in the direction where Shelly had disappeared. “Tonight was our first date.”

“Well, I think it’s awesome.”

“Thanks, Jess.” I had to agree with her, I also thought it was awesome.

My twin strolled up to the table. “What I want to know—”

“Good Lord, Duane. There is plenty of time to admire the finer design elements of this fantastic kitchen. But right now I am gossiping with Beau over pie. Give it a rest,” Jess huffed at my brother.

I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing outright, but I couldn’t stop my shoulders from shaking.

Duane planted a kiss on Jessica’s forehead and claimed the seat next to hers. “Alls I was going to say is, I want to know what happened at the diner, with those assholes. Why were they after you?”

Rubbing my beard, I decided it was time to bring Duane into the loop. “Drill came to the shop a few weeks ago, told me Christine St. Claire wanted a meeting.”

Duane looked surprised by this news. “Why’d she want a meeting?”

“I don’t know. I put Drill off as long as I could. They cornered me tonight at Daisy’s.”

“What happened?” Now Jess looked concerned.

I told them the gist of it, how the Wraiths had shown up, how Shelly and I had faked them out, how we got away. Duane was impressed—mostly by Shelly’s driving—and so was Jess. And for that matter, so was I.

“And you have no idea why Razor’s old lady wants to speak with you.” Duane glared at me, the muscle in his temple jumping as he clenched and unclenched his jaw. This was his thinking things over face.

“No. Drill said he couldn’t say.”

“You think it’s a trap? They might be aiming to involve you in their chop shop again.” Jess split her attention between the two of us.

“I don’t think so. Cletus has that thing he’s holding over their heads, so I don’t think it’s about the chop shop.” I leaned to the side as the sound of a door closing down the hallway was followed by a sad bark.

“I wonder what it could be.” Duane moved his glare to the tabletop.

Jess sat up straighter as Shelly appeared, her face lighting up. “How are the dogs?”

“They feel neglected.” Shelly walked to the sink and washed her hands.

“You don’t have to keep them in your room on our account.” Jess twisted in her seat to face Shelly. “We love dogs.”

“I don’t know,” Duane stole a bite of Jess’s pie while she was distracted, “those things sounded dangerous.”

“They’re only dangerous if you’re short.” I pushed out Shelly’s chair as she approached.

Shelly reclaimed her seat next to mine. “They miss me. I’ll take them for a run tomorrow and they’ll be fine.”

“Speaking of missing,” I glanced around the kitchen, “where is Oliver?”

“Who is Oliver?” Duane positioned his fork to take another bite of Jess’s pie.

“Oliver is her parrot.”

“You have a parrot?” Jess smacked Duane’s hand even as she smiled at Shelly, her eyes filling with wonder.

With the way she was looking at Shelly, and if I didn’t already know Jess was ass-over-ankles in love with my brother, I might’ve been jealous.

“Yes. I have a parrot.” Shelly’s shoulders tensed and she glanced at me, like she wished I hadn’t mentioned it.

“What’s wrong?” A furrow of concern appeared between Jess’s eyebrows. “Is there something wrong with your parrot?”

Shelly sighed, hesitating, so I decided to answer for her. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with Oliver. But I’m pretty sure he used to be a sailor.”

Shelly’s eyes cut to mine and narrowed. “He wasn’t a sailor.”

“A pirate?”

“No.” Her lips twitched, but she kept on squinting.

“Oh, I get it. He knows dirty words.” Duane, giving up on stealing Jess’s pie, cut himself a new piece.

“He’s a rescue.” Shelly held the pie dish as Duane scooped out his slice. “His previous owner was a film producer.”

“Cut me a piece, too.” I held my plate out. “And what kind of films did this guy make?”

“Oliver’s owner was a woman and she made, uh,” Shelly scratched the back of her ear, and then said on a rush, “dominatrix films.”

“No shit?” Duane spoke around his bite of pie, looking like he was trying not to choke.

“She was a sadist.”

“Oh no.” Jess’s face contorted with distress. “She didn’t hurt Oliver, did she?”

“No. I don’t think so.” Shelly’s features softened at Jess’s obvious worry. “But she taught him some colorful phrases and left him alone a lot. I’ve been trying to teach him new vocabulary, but I think he’ll always revert to his earlier training.”

“Can I meet him?” Jess asked hopefully. “I have a cat—”

“Sir Edmund Hilary. He keeps trying to murder her,” Duane explained, then shoved another bite of pie in his mouth.

“—but I always wanted a parakeet. Natalie Mason’s mom had two and they used to sit on our fingers. They were so beautiful.”

“Sure.” Shelly nodded, not sounding at all sure, and pushed back from the table. “I put him on the porch when I leave in the morning, so he has more room. He’s through here.”

“This place has a porch?” Duane looked from Shelly to me. “When did that happen?”

“I’ve made improvements.”

She is amazing. Was there anything she couldn’t do?

Jess followed Shelly while my brother and I ate our second helpings of pie.

Once they were out of earshot, Duane tapped on the table. “Hey, you should ask Claire.”

“Ask her what?”

“Ask her about what Christine might want. Claire might have some ideas what her momma wants with you.”

I scratched my chin, debating the merits of this idea.

But before I could respond, we were interrupted by a terrified-sounding shriek that had Duane and me sharing a stare of alarm.

Jumping into action, we both darted for the back of the cabin, tracing the steps Shelly and Jess had taken moments prior. We busted onto the porch just as another shriek filled the air.

Duane pushed past me and charged toward Jess, turning her to him and holding her close. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s fine—”

“That’s how he says hi.” Shelly’s face was scrunched in a grimace. “He screams when I introduce him to new people.”

Oliver let out another blood-curdling screech.

“Holy hell.” Duane backed away from the parrot, now perched on a leather sleeve covering Shelly’s arm.

“Hell. Hell. Hell.” The bird chanted.

“I try not to curse around him because he’ll immediately repeat it.” Shelly looked sadly at Oliver. “You’re a good bird.”

“Good bird. Darin is a good bird,” he echoed dutifully.

“Who is Darin?” Duane’s face scrunched in confusion.

“See?” Shelly turned a hopeful look toward me. “He can change.”

But then Oliver said, “Bend over, fuckface.”

And Shelly’s smile fell.

“Oh my.” Jess and Duane traded a look.

“He has a line about roosters, too,” I warned.

“Roosters?” Jess glanced at me questioningly.

“I think he means c-o-c-k-s.” Duane tried to whisper, but we all heard it.

And apparently, Oliver could spell, because he announced, “Cocks are for closers!”

In the silence that stretched following Oliver’s pronouncement, I shared a quick look with Duane and knew we were both thinking about the same thing, the same night over a year ago, and jokes about roosters. But I couldn’t hold his stare without laughing, so we both looked to the ceiling, rolling our lips between our teeth.

“It’s not funny,” Shelly said, like she was reprimanding herself. Her statement drew my attention back to her. She was also pressing her lips together and looked close to losing it as well. But she also looked guilty, like she was beating herself up for the urge to laugh.

“It’s sorta funny.” Duane gave her a rare smile, then reached over and patted her on the arm.

I stepped forward and rubbed her back, needing to explain why Oliver’s phrase had struck a funny bone with us. “The week before our momma died, we all traded rooster and chicken jokes, just to hear her laugh.”

Duane gave Shelly’s arm a squeeze before letting his hand drop. “Sometimes, things are sad and unfortunate. But finding the funny in a situation can make the sad and unfortunate more bearable.”

I DIDN’T CANCEL on Hank, but I wanted to.

Instead, I woke up at the same hour criminals went to bed, loaded up on coffee, and dragged my ass up to his place on Bandit Lake for Wednesday fishing.

“You look like shit.” He smiled, and then lifted his chin toward my ride. “Where’s the GTO?”

“You don’t want to know.” I grabbed my fishing gear from the back seat of Cletus’s old beater and walked past Hank, bypassing his McMansion and making a beeline for the dock.

He fell into step beside me. “Late night?”

“Yep.”

I sensed Hank hesitate before asking, “You and Patty?”

Stopping short, I peered at my friend. “What is wrong with you? I know you got a thing for her since the spring. What kind of friend would I be if—”

“Settle your feathers.” He held his hands up. “I was just asking.”

“Well, don’t ask stupid questions.” I continued my march toward the boat, seeing red and spitting nails.

Here I was, making a point to come out fishing after cancelling on Hank last week, wanting to be a good friend. And what does he do? Accuse me of going after the woman he’s interested in. What the hell?

“I—uh—I have something I need to tell you.” Hank leaned in close as we walked, his voice hushed.

“What about?”

“Don’t get mad. Slow down.”

I didn’t slow down; I was ready to get fishing.

I glanced at him again. “What did you do?”

He grimaced. “It’s no big deal.”

“Then why’re you making that face?”

“Because—shit.” Hank tugged on my arm, bringing me to a stop, his attention affixed to some point in front of us.

Confused, I followed his line of sight and my stomach dropped. No more than six feet away stood Christine St. Claire and Drill.

To her credit, the woman’s expression wasn’t smug. She wasn’t smiling. She was just looking at me expectantly, like Let’s cut the shit, shall we?

Releasing a gigantic sigh, I closed my eyes and shook my head. I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so pissed off at Hank.

“We’re going to give you two some privacy.” Drill’s rumbly voice had me opening my eyes a slit and peering at Hank.

My friend had the good sense to look guilty. He also had the good sense to refrain from offering excuses for his shitty behavior. He grabbed my fishing gear, giving me a tight, remorseful smile, and moved off with Drill toward the boat.

I watched them walk off, making all sorts of plans for retribution. Perhaps I would consult Cletus on the matter. He was the king of retribution after all.

Razor’s old lady cleared her throat, bringing my attention back to her. “I’ll say what needs saying and then leave you in peace.” Her gaze flickered over me, then she added, “If that’s what you want.”

“Whatever it is, the answer is no.” Channeling my inner Duane, I crossed my arms.

“I’m not here to ask you questions, or favors.”

Yeah, we’ll see. I didn’t trust this woman. Even if my momma hadn’t warned me that she was a bad lady, I saw how she treated her daughter—like Claire was property of Razor Dennings, like the man could do whatever he wanted because she was his blood—and as far as I was concerned, Christine St. Claire was irredeemable.

Christine shoved her hands in her back pockets. She was wearing tight jeans, a blue tank top, and a black leather jacket. I’d never seen her without the leather jacket; it marked her as Razor’s property.

“You’re not making this very easy on me.” She looked out over the lake, a bitter-looking smile on her features.

“Lady, I’m tired. In case you forgot, I was out late last night.”

“About that,” her gaze flickered to mine and then away, “I see now I was wrong, ganging up on you like that. I should’ve known better. That’s why it’s just Drill and me this morning. I didn’t want to scare you off.”

“I wasn’t scared. I was irritated.”

“I don’t mean you no harm. I told them boys not to chase you.”

“Okay.”

“You had Duane in the car? He’s always been a great driver.” She gave me a small smile, like she knew Duane, like she knew my brother.

And it was the small smile that set the fine hairs on the back of my neck standing in alarm.

This isn’t right.

I tensed, taking a small step back.

I need to go. I need to get out of here.

My heart kicked up, warning me of imminent danger. Instinctually, I glanced around the woods lining the lake, searching for a threat and finding nothing but early morning stillness, silent trees, and serene grass.

This isn’t right. Something isn’t right.

“Beau—”

“I don’t have anything to say to you.” I shook my head, knowing intuitively that I wasn’t going to like whatever she had planned to say.

I’d turned halfway, intent on leaving my fishing gear with Hank and getting the hell out of here when she blurted, “I’m your momma, Beau.”

I stopped.

I stopped because my heart stopped.

My breathing stopped.

Time stopped.

In life, there are three periods of time: before, after, and now. It’s happened very rarely, but there have been a few instances where I’ve experienced the limbo of now with any clarity: When our daddy first put Billy in the hospital and we all thought he was going to die. When Duane fell out of a tree and was knocked unconscious. When Ashley left for college and I knew, I knew she’d never come back. When my momma died.

This moment was now. There was no escaping it. There was no going back to before and I had no desire to live in the after.

“Did you hear me?”

Tangentially, I was aware she’d moved closer. I saw her in my peripheral vision, her hands still stuffed in her back pockets, her eyes on me, her leather jacket still in place, marking her as the property of Razor Dennings.

I breathed.

My heart started.

And time began again.

21

“Nothing is so painful to the human mind as a great and sudden change.”

― Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein

*Beau*

I DROVE HOME. I parked Cletus’s car right where I’d found it. I went inside, walked to the library, and I pulled out the family albums dated the year before Duane and I were born.

There weren’t many pictures of Momma—of Bethany—she was usually the one taking the photographs. So I flipped and flipped, searching.

August, September, November, December . . .

Four pictures. She didn’t look pregnant in any of them.

“Shit.” I shoved the book away, my hands shaking, and stumbled to one of the chairs.

My thoughts were very loud, and circular, and all-consuming, and completely involuntary. I couldn’t see and I couldn’t hear and I couldn’t think.

I pressed the base of my palms into my eye sockets and breathed, unable to do anything other than just sit there, caught in an undertow of chaos and misery.

“Beau?”

Someone was shaking my shoulder. I glanced up. It was Billy.

“Hey.” His eyes moved over my face. “What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, not knowing what to say. How could I say it? How could I even think it?

Billy stared at me, his brow pulling together by degrees as his concern visibly increased. Tearing his eyes from mine, he glanced around the library until he spotted the picture albums where I’d haphazardly dropped them on the floor.

Leaving me, he picked up the album, flipped through a few pages, and then stilled. I heard him exhale.

“How did you find out?”

I choked.

On nothing.

Actually, I choked on shock.

“What?” My voice cracked.

He turned to face me, his eyes sober, knowing. “How did you find out?”

“Christine told me,” I said automatically, because I wasn’t sure we were talking about the same thing. How could we? How could he know?

But he does know.

Billy the brave. Billy the fearless. Billy the strong. Billy our great protector.

He looked ashamed. “She shouldn’t have done that.”

So many questions. I couldn’t figure out what to ask first, but my mouth was forming words even though I hadn’t decided what to say. “Who else knows?”

“In the family, just me. Grandma Oliver knew. Daisy knows, Judge Payton, and Mrs. Cooper . . . I think. They helped move through the paperwork.”

A thought occurred to me and it turned my stomach. “Did the Pooles know?”

It took him a moment, but then I saw he realized who I was talking about. “No. I don’t think the Pooles knew.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“Beau,” the muscle at Billy’s temple jumped, “that girl did you a favor. That whole family looked down their nose at all of us.”

“Yes, but she didn’t want to marry me,” I pointed to my chest, “even though she thought she was carrying my baby.”

“She wasn’t pregnant. It was a false alarm. You didn’t love her.”

“But she didn’t know that at the time.”

“Beau, stop being crazy. Andrea Poole being young and stupid had nothing to do with you, and everything to do with her being young and stupid. Lots of sixteen year olds don’t want to . . .” he paused, closing his eyes and rubbing his jaw before finishing, “marry their high school boyfriends. It’s not ’cause you were adopted.”

“Adopted.” I repeated the word. It was a word I would have to get used to. I’m adopted.

“A couple of folks in town—folks who’ve been around long enough—know you and Duane weren’t Momma’s. Not the Pooles,” he reemphasized, “ because they moved here much later. But nobody who remembers the adoption knows who your biological parents are.”

“And nobody ever said anything.”

“Why would they?”

I didn’t know how to answer that because it seemed so obvious to me. You don’t hide the fact that a person is adopted. Unless . . . unless . . .

“Who is the father?” I felt very far removed from the conversation, like we were talking about other people.

Billy looked taken aback by my question, like it confused him. “She didn’t tell you?”

“No. Is it—”

I couldn’t speak the words. I couldn’t ask. Growing up, I’d reconciled myself to the fact that Darrell Winston was my father. He was a piece of trash, but Razor Dennings . . .

“Darrell.” Billy closed the album and crossed to me, setting it on the side table. “Darrell and Christine. They are your biological parents.”

I breathed out, closing my eyes, and leaned back in the chair. I never thought I’d see the day I was actually relieved that Darrell Winston was my father. And now I knew that asshole not only beat on my momma, but cheated on her as well . . . and kept the collateral damage under her roof.

Such. A. Bastard.

But then again, I’d always thought the good in me came from my mother, from Bethany.

“It doesn’t matter, Beau.” The urgency in Billy’s voice had me opening my eyes. My brother—my half-brother—was sitting in the chair opposite mine, his elbows on his knees, leaning toward me. “You were Momma’s. Duane is Momma’s. She didn’t tell you because she didn’t want you to think differently.”

“Why did she tell you?”

Billy’s eyes lowered to his hands. “She didn’t. I found the adoption paperwork and I confronted her about it.”

“You didn’t remember? Her not being pregnant? Coming home with two babies?”

He shook his head. “No. I was barely six. Jethro was barely seven. She’d been telling us for a while she was going to have another baby. Then she left one afternoon, said to take good care of Ashley while she was gone. She came back the next day and she had two babies. She said she was doubly blessed.”

I closed my eyes again. I couldn’t stand it. My throat worked. I couldn’t swallow.

“It didn’t occur to me,” Billy continued, his tone faraway. “And if it didn’t occur to me, then you know it didn’t occur to Jethro.”

I didn’t move. Part of me hoped this was a dream, a nightmare, and I clung to that hope. I mentally shook myself, told myself to wake up. I didn’t.

“Beau—”

“Stop talking. Please.”

What was I going to do now? This wasn’t the end of the world, but it felt like the end of mine. I wanted to feel betrayed by Momma—Bethany—but I didn’t. I felt grateful. I never wanted to know the truth, and I wish I didn’t.

“She’s a terrible person.” Again, my mouth was forming words without me deciding what to say.

“Momma?”

“No. Christine.” I lifted my eyelids, and peered at my brother. “Last year, she was going to let Razor cut on Duane.”

“What?” Billy stiffened. “When was this?”

I waved his question away. I didn’t have the energy to answer his questions. “She was going to let him carve his name in Duane. She was going to let him. She didn’t do a thing to stop him.”

Billy continued to glare at me, and I could see he was holding himself back from asking for more details.

“I don’t want that woman to be my mother.” I shook my head. “I don’t want her to be Duane’s mother.”

“Don’t tell him.” Billy’s eyebrows ticked up, his expression stark, like he was issuing me an order. “You save him from what you’re feeling. Don’t you tell him. He doesn’t need to know.”

He’s your responsibility, I’m counting on you. You keep him safe.

“Where does the good come from?” I asked. “How can we be good if those are our parents?”

Billy’s features softened considerably. Not with pity, but with understanding.

“No. Don’t think that. You and Duane, and . . . Claire for that matter, you’re the best people I know. You three have that in common.”

Claire.

I started, sitting up straight. “Claire.”

Billy pressed his lips together like he was grinding his teeth.

“Claire is my sister.”

He nodded, just once. I noticed a shift in him, like he was withdrawing, stepping away even though he sat perfectly still.

“Does she know?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Billy shook his head, his voice rough and ragged.

I thought on that. I’d known Claire my whole life, mostly in periphery. She’d been Jethro’s and Cletus’s friend. I didn’t know her as well as either of them.

Would she want to know me?

And how could I tell her the truth without telling Duane as well?

“LOOK WHO FINALLY decided to show up.” Cletus greeted me with both hands on his hips, standing just outside the garage. “I was about to send out a search party, but none of Hank’s exotic dancers are awake at this time of day.” Cletus paused thoughtfully, and then added, “Except Hannah.”

I walked past my brother and into the garage, heading straight for the stairs leading to the second floor. Billy had taken me to Daisy’s for a cup of coffee and a doughnut, then dropped me off at the shop. We hadn’t spoken much, and I wasn’t hungry, but sitting with someone who knew the truth and understood the depth and breadth of my dilemma made a heap of difference.

It was like being caught in a storm, blinded by rain and wind and darkness of my own making, of my own wishes and longings.

My mother is alive.

But she’s not Bethany.

I have another sister.

But she can never know.

My mind was still a mess, but there was shit that needed doing. Oil needed to be changed. Tires needed to be rotated. I figured I could work on cars and work through the morning’s revelations at the same time.

Thankfully, Cletus didn’t follow me up the stairs. I was able to change in relative peace until the sound of someone shutting the door had me looking over my shoulder.

It was Shelly. I blinked, startled, because I’d completely forgotten about her. I’d been so wrapped up in my own mess, it was like she’d faded into the background of my thoughts.

Oh. So that’s what it’s like. And now I feel like an asshole.

“Hi.” She was giving me her almost smile. “I was worried about you.”

“I’m sorry. I, uh,” I hesitated, licking my lips. I didn’t want to lie. But I couldn’t tell her the truth either. No one else could know, not until I decided what to do.

She crossed to me until she was standing directly in front of me, her lovely gaze moving over my face. “I have something I was supposed to give you, but I forgot.”

“Oh?”

Shelly passed me a folded piece of paper, and then snatched her hands back. “For Friday, for our appointment. It’s about exposure therapy, also sometimes called flooding therapy.”

Opening and then scanning the paper, I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

“And I lied,” she added in a rush. “I didn’t forget to give you the paper. I wanted to, but I worried about it, after last week and how I behaved with my brother. I didn’t want you to feel pressured to help.”

I lifted my gaze to hers, taking solace in the now precious-to-me double skip of my heart.

“I’ll be touching you. On purpose. In order to interrupt my compulsions to—” She was twisting her fingers, shifting her weight from side to side. “You don’t have to come. I can tell Dr. West that you had something come up.”

“No. I want to. I’ll be there. I want to help you.” My voice sounded sandpapery, likely due to guilt.

How could I forget about her? How could she be anywhere other than the forefront of my thoughts?

“Are you okay?” Her eyes narrowed just slightly and she tilted her chin up. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” I responded immediately, my hands coming to her arms. “No. You are amazing. Thank you for last night. Thank you for being an excellent driver.”

Some of the worry eased from her brow, but her tone was solemn. “Yesterday you said I was a sexy driver.”

“And you are.” I nodded, with enthusiasm, pulling her into a tight hug. After a moment’s hesitation, her arms came around me and squeezed.

She felt just right. Soft and strong, solid and real. She felt like an anchor in this new storm. Safety.

“You give the best hugs.” I felt her cheek curve with a smile.

I lowered my lips to her shoulder, kissed her on the spot I knew she liked. “Then we should hug forever.”

“Then how will we work?”

“We can work and hug at the same time.” I forced teasing into my voice, good humor I didn’t feel.

I needed this. I needed a touchstone. I needed normal. And somehow, so quickly, Shelly had become what I needed.

She huffed a laugh. “I’m sure your brothers will not mind. And it wouldn’t be at all difficult to work while hugging.”

I leaned away, smiling down at her. “Was that sarcasm of the playful variety?”

Shelly bit her bottom lip to disguise a smile, her eyes bright as she peered up at me.

Pulling her close again, I gave her a kiss. And then another, and another. And that was my mistake.

She caught my hand on the way to her breast. “Beau—”

“You feel so good. I love how you feel.” I dug my fingers into her backside.

“Wait.” She lifted her chin, turning her face from mine. “Beau, wait, stop.”

I did. I stopped. I lowered my forehead to her shoulder. Breathing hard, my head swimming with the feel of her body, the smell of her, the heat of her mouth.

Just let me drown in you, I wanted to beg.

Her nails combed through the hair on the back of my head, then threaded through my beard. She waited, petting me, giving my temple kisses.

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know where to start.”

Her hands paused, likely due to the desolation of my tone. “We didn’t make new plans last night.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

Squeezing my eyes shut, I sighed, hesitated, talked myself out of dark impulses.

It would be so easy, so easy, to lose myself in this beautiful, complex, compelling, remarkable woman. She didn’t deserve that. She didn’t deserve to be that for me. She wasn’t my escape. I needed to sort through my own shit, not take advantage or weigh her down with my troubles.

I was supposed to be helping her. She was the one with a diagnosis.

Straightening, releasing her, taking a step away, I rubbed my forehead. “Let’s see . . .” Twisting back to my locker, I tried to parse through my disordered mind enough to concoct a believable excuse. “I woke up early this morning, to go fishing with Hank, and I reckon I won’t be good company tonight.” Technically true. “How about tomorrow? Or Friday after the appointment?”

I felt the weight of her eyes on my profile. “Friday is fine,” she said, sounding faraway, distracted.

I nodded once, knowing I’d made the right choice even as my chest constricted, making it near impossible to breathe.

By some miracle, I managed a small smile. But I couldn’t look at her as I said, “Great. Let’s get to work.”

I MADE MISTAKES, thoughtless ones, all day Wednesday.

Like using SAE 5W-30 motor oil for a change when I should have used SAE 10W-30. Or when I stripped a bolt during a routine tire change and had to use a kit to remove it. Then I disregarded the torque spec, didn’t pay attention to the switch direction, and the tire fell off.

Each time I blundered, Shelly was there, stepping in, helping me to fix the issue.

“Sorry,” I’d murmur, “and thank you.”

“You are welcome,” she’d say. But that soon became, “I’ll do it for you.”

When she wasn’t straightening my messes, I felt her eyes on me. Each time I looked up to find her staring, her glare would intensify, like she was trying to both read my thoughts and communicate hers at the same time.

I couldn’t see clearly, I couldn’t read Shelly because I couldn’t read myself. I was distracted.

Complicating matters, I couldn’t quite make eye contact with Duane—so I avoided him—and Hank was calling me non-stop. He left a voice message each time. Eventually, I turned off my phone completely. I wasn’t ready to deal with him. I couldn’t even think about him, not with so much going on. His tricking me was way, way, way down on the list of my worries right now.

Where does the good come from? turned into, Maybe there’s more to Christine than meets the eye. Maybe there’s some good in her, which had me wondering, What was her childhood like? Maybe there’s an explanation for her choices. Maybe I should give her the benefit of the doubt.

But every time I came to that conclusion, I remembered how she’d stood by while Razor Dennings threatened to cut on Duane last fall.

There was no excuse for that. There was no explaining away letting someone do that to your child.

Since I was running behind all day, I finished work much later than anticipated. Cletus was scheduled to close up and Shelly hadn’t left yet, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anybody.

When I was finally done with my last job, I marched upstairs to grab my stuff. As soon as I opened my locker, I spotted the paper Shelly had given me earlier in the day.

I took it. I opened it. It was entitled, Exposure Response Prevention Therapy for OCD. I also saw Dr. West had written her name and number on the paper with instructions to call her prior to the appointment on Friday.

Curious, and glad for the distraction, I read the whole paper on the short walk to one of the shop’s loaner cars. The GTO was still at Shelly’s and I didn’t want to wait around for Cletus to finish, so a loaner would do fine for me.

“Beau!”

I glanced up from the paper, turning over my shoulder to find Shelly jogging toward me.

“Hey.”

Her gaze flickered between me and the paper. “Are you leaving? Do you want me to drive you to my place so you can pick up your car?”

“No, thanks. I’ll take one of the loaners.”

“Okay.” She nodded, glancing at the POS car behind me. “Are you sure? I don’t mind. I’ll just be a minute.”

“It’s fine.”

“Are you fine?”

We traded stares, and in the moment I almost told her. I almost told her about the missile that had detonated on my life earlier in the day.

Don’t burden her with this.

“I’m always fine.” I gave her a grin, and slid into the old beater. “See you on Friday.”

She watched me through the windshield for several seconds, like she wanted to say more, and then turned and strolled back to the shop. I watched her go, a sinking feeling in my chest. When she made it back to the shop, I pulled out my cell and powered it up.

Ignoring Hank’s twenty or so messages, I left the shop and drove a few minutes until I reached a pull off. Sitting idle but mostly hidden on the side of the road, I navigated to my phone’s browser and spent the next ten minutes reading about exposure therapy.

And then I drove home, certain that the best use of my time on Thursday—which was my day off—would be researching and learning everything I could about the topic. And then I’d call Dr. West.

I wanted to be prepared to help Shelly.

I REACHED OUT to Dr. West Thursday morning and she called me back that afternoon.

“Sorry for the delay in calling.” I didn’t want to say that Shelly’s reluctance to give me the informational paper—and Dr. West’s phone number—had been the reason for my tardiness.

It had been, but I wasn’t going to throw Shelly under the bus.

“It’s perfectly fine. And know that you are under no obligation to come tomorrow if you’d rather not.”

“No. I definitely want to come.”

“May I suggest you withhold your commitment until after we speak?” I heard the doctor take a deep breath. “You might change your mind.”

I shook my head even though she couldn’t see me. “I’ve been researching Exposure Response Prevention Therapy all morning. I know it can be difficult to watch. On the other hand, it also seems like it’s been proven to help a lot of people. I do have concerns, but first I wanted to ask you about Shelly’s fear of touch.”

“Go ahead. I’ll answer what I can.”

“It doesn’t seem consistent. Sometimes, if I’m already touching her, then it’s like she doesn’t have any fear about touching me anywhere. And sometimes, even if I’m already touching her, it’s like she can’t reach for me.”

“The only answer I can give you is that the patterns and rules for some obsessions make more logical sense than others. Sometimes they don’t seem to make any sense at all. They don’t have to, they’re all irrational. One person’s experience with OCD can be night and day different from another person’s. The rules for what triggers anxiety can change daily, or it might never change over the course of a person’s life. The finer details and patterns surrounding Shelly’s aversion to touching being somewhat unevenly applied—based on whether you’re already touching—doesn’t surprise me.”

“Hmm . . .”

I hadn’t delved too deeply into the different types of OCD, but I did read everything I could find on Exposure Response Prevention Therapy as a treatment for the disorder. The gist of the procedure was to expose the patient—Shelly—to what she feared, and then prevent her from ritualizing her response, as the scholarly papers described it.

One of the examples I found was about a woman who was afraid of germs. She was forced to stick her hands in a toilet and then keep them there for hours. She’d screamed and pleaded. And then, after a time, she’d calmed down. And then she had to follow a plan for months where she was exposed to her fear and had to work through it. When it was over, and in her interviews over the next few months, she talked about how it had changed her life for the better. That it had saved her life.

The sites I read described the therapy as a way for a person to face their fear in a safe environment, realize the fear was irrational, and stop the person from engaging in the compulsion as a way to avoid the fear.

It made sense. But it also made me worry for Shelly. She’d clearly been struggling with initiating touch for years, and now we were going to be able to fix that? It didn’t seem likely.

But that wasn’t my biggest concern.

“How are you going to make sure she doesn’t self-harm later? At home when she’s alone?”

“That’s not Shelly’s pattern. When she was cutting, she had to do it immediately after touching a person. She’d excuse herself to the bathroom. She carried packets of razors on her. She had to do it right away.”

“But didn’t you just say that the compulsion can change?”

“No, I said the aversion—the fear, the obsessive thought—which is usually the most irrational part of the equation, it can change and is difficult to nail down. But the compulsion, the part that provides relief, most of the time has to be followed precisely. But again, each case of OCD is different. I won’t ever speak in absolutes about this disorder.”

“Okay. I think I get it.”

“Good. Let’s see, the session tomorrow will be several hours long and she’ll have no opportunity to self-harm. I’ll have a male nurse present."

What the?

“What?” I asked sharply, unable to keep the spike of alarm from my voice. “No, no, no. She doesn’t like it when people touch her, but she trusts me.”

The doctor didn’t respond right away and I got the sense she was going to argue, so I added, “Take it or leave it. I’m not coming if you bring in a stranger.”

Just the idea of someone else’s hands on her against her will, it made me want to break something. A lot of somethings.

“What if I have him wait outside? And if you’re unable—for whatever reason—to keep her from injuring herself, we’ll ask him to come in.”

“Okay. That’s fair.” But I’ll keep her safe.

“Let’s get to the details. There are five conditions that must be met.”

Dr. West went through the next several minutes explaining about the mandatory conditions of the therapy: graded, prolonged, repeated, without distraction, and without compulsion. Then she went over the meaning of each, how they would be applied in the initial attempt, and guidelines for how they should be followed over the next week.

“From your perspective tomorrow, your role in this will be to sit quietly while she touches you. She may not succeed this time, and that means we’ll have several weeks of sessions ahead of us. And if she does make an unexpected breakthrough, then it’ll need to be constantly reinforced. She has a plan, which she and I drafted together over a month ago, specifically for her aversion to touch. She’s done one plan before, for a different obsession, and it worked well for her. She has confidence, but I need you to understand this is only the first step.”

“Yes.” I closed my eyes, rubbing my forehead. “I understand.”

“Also, Shelly will become extremely agitated. She might scream, or cry, or try to run. It will be very difficult to watch.”

“I understand. I’ve . . . I have experience seeing someone I care about in pain, making decisions for someone when she couldn’t make them for herself. I can do this.”

“Good. Good.” She trailed off and then released another sigh. “I’ve seen this therapy do wonders. Instead of avoiding her fears, she’ll be forced to look at situations realistically. Those with OCD must learn to rationally evaluate the risks of their actions. Touching a person, laying her hands on them, holding her nephew, hugging her brother—these things cause no harm. Until Shelly truly accepts that her fear of touching people is absurd, she’ll never be able to strive for the life she wants, because she’ll always be frightened by the consequences.”

Dr. West paused, as though giving me a moment to think about her statements, and then added, “When viewed from the outside, this approach can appear cruel. But it’s not. It works, not every time, but most of the time when done correctly. And it might be Shelly’s only hope.”

SHELLY and I left work around two on Friday afternoon, intent on grabbing a quick lunch before heading into town.

I was nervous. But I was also determined.

She’d been watching me like a hawk early in the day, but once I proved I could change an oil filter and replace a radiator without needing my hand held, she seemed to relax. Duane didn’t arrive until the afternoon—he was scheduled to close up the shop—which meant I didn’t have to avoid his probing, perpetually dissatisfied glare of suspicion for very long.

I could understand his frustration with me; it was clear I was avoiding him. Especially after our talk earlier in the week, my walking in the opposite direction every time he appeared seemed to really piss him off. I was being the asshole he told me not to be.

But I didn’t know what to do about it. I couldn’t tell him about Christine, not until I figured out what was best for him. Instead of figuring it out, I decided to focus on Shelly and helping her first. That was something I knew I could do.

Once again, we were at Daisy’s, sitting in the back-most booth. And once again, Shelly ordered buttermilk pancakes, an unpeeled banana, with butter on the side.

“What time do you think we’ll be back from your appointment?” I asked, taking a bite from my club sandwich and trying to ignore the way she was glaring at my food.

I’d realized my mistake too late, after I’d already ordered the club. Shelly appeared distraught when I didn’t order my usual meal. And once it arrived, she kept giving the sandwich dirty looks, like it couldn’t be trusted.

I should have known better, especially based on my phone call with Dr. West and all the reading I’d done yesterday.

“I usually make it home around seven.” Shelly was still giving my sandwich the side-eye. “After meeting with Dr. West, I go to the mall and walk. It’s good practice.”

“Practice for what?”

“Being around people.”

That had me arching my eyebrows at her. “Say what?”

She gave a self-deprecating shrug. “After I left art school, I lived by myself on a secluded farm, visiting my brother Quinn once a week at most. He hired a driver to take me back and forth.”

“Holy Moly Moses. Are you serious?”

Shelly grinned at me. “Did you just say, Holy Moly Moses?”

“I did, and I meant every word of it.”

“I love how you speak.”

“How do I speak?”

“Adorable. Funny. Entertaining.”

“Just wait ’til I tell you my joke about the fishing pole.” I grinned at her and she gave me a barely there smile in return. “But back to Chicago, you never went out in public? Other than to see your brother once a week?”

Shelly began her banana peeling-slicing ritual. “No, not really.”

“How did you buy groceries?”

“Quinn had them delivered, or he brought them.”

“How did you make money?”

“Selling commissioned pieces mostly. I also fixed up old cars, but I donated those to animal shelters to raise funds.”

“And your art paid your mortgage?”

“I don’t know.” Shelly shifted uncomfortably. “Quinn handled the bills. Or he did, until I moved here.”

I studied her downcast eyes, the line of her mouth. “I’m sorry, am I being impolite? We can talk about something else.”

“No, it’s fine. Quinn was trying to help. He did help. But . . .”

“What?”

“I think it enabled me.” She’d finished peeling the banana and was now arranging the slices in the spiral design.

“To avoid people?”

“Yes. And indulge obsessions. Dr. West says I need to interrupt the pattern, every day. I need people, distraction, surprises, ‘normal’ stress. Routines are okay as long as they reinforce good habits, like running in the morning, walking the dogs at night, or arriving to work on time. They keep my anxiety low because they’re part of making responsible decisions and keeping me healthy. But other routines, those that I put in place only to avoid anxiety, can become like a prison.”

I nodded, staring unseeingly out the window behind her. “Makes perfect sense to me.” Bringing my attention back to her, I added, “And isn’t that true with anyone, not just people with OCD? Getting in a bad routine, a rut, is the same as developing and sticking to bad habits. There’s a reason they say bad habits are hard to break.”

“Or people who are habits,” she mumbled.

“Pardon?”

Shelly finished arranging her banana and lifted her gaze to mine. “People can become bad habits.”

“I suppose that’s true.” I slanted my head, considering this. “Like my—my momma and Darrell.” I stumbled over calling Bethany my momma. It didn’t seem right, knowing what I knew now.

But I didn’t have time to dwell on the issue. I needed to focus on Shelly, so I pushed it aside.

“You think your father was a bad habit for your mother?”

“Well, he wasn’t a good habit. Until he went after Billy in front of her, Bethany kept letting him back in our lives. And when he treated her well, when he’d compliment her, or make her feel special, she was so happy, her feet didn’t touch the ground. He walked on water. It was like she was addicted to him.”

Shelly nodded thoughtfully, her features more serious than they’d been just moments prior. “You deserve the best, Beau.”

“Thanks. So do—”

“I mean it. Don’t let anyone in your life who isn’t the best, and don’t hesitate walking away from a person who can’t give you what you need.”

“O-o-o-okay.” Something about her tone raised the hairs on the back of my neck, had me sitting straighter and peering at her. “You referring to anyone specifically?”

Shelly used her fork to spear a piece of banana, then a piece of pancake, saying quickly before shoving the bite in her mouth, “No one specifically, just crazy people in general.”

22

“The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”

― John Milton, Paradise Lost

*Shelly*

“THIS IS A lot harder than I thought it would be.”

Beau reached for my hand and tangled our fingers together. God, that feels nice. So nice.

“I can go, wait outside until you’re done talking. No pressure.” He squeezed my hand in a way that made me think he might withdraw his, so I tightened my hold.

We were sitting on a couch. The couch was new. I’d never seen the couch before. The couch was distracting.

“Where did the couch come from?”

Dr. West’s tone was as patient as ever. “I have it brought in when needed.”

“Did you bring it in so Beau and I would be sitting together?” I didn’t mean for the question to sound like an accusation, but it did.

“Yes.” She turned a warm smile to Beau. “I wanted Beau to be comfortable and I wanted you both to be on the same piece of furniture, so we can practice—”

“Touching,” I blurted. “You want me to practice touching him.”

My therapist nodded. “Yes. That’s why he’s here, Shelly.”

“Can we do the other stuff first?” I glanced at our entwined fingers, at the stain of grease under Beau’s fingernails that matched the stains under mine. I liked how our hands looked together. They looked useful, like they could tell stories, and some of the stories they told might even be the same.

“We can . . .”

I sensed her hesitation, which had me seeking out her gaze again. “What?”

“We can talk about your week, about what’s going on with you. But do you want Mr. Winston—”

“Call me Beau. Mr. Winston is my brother Billy.”

Dr. West turned a charmed smile to Beau—because he was charming—and continued, “Do you want Beau to be here for that conversation? I’ll be asking you about any new obsessions and we’ll be working through how to overcome them. And I have questions about your relationship as well.”

“Fine. Let’s do it,” I agreed quickly, sucking in a breath and holding it.

Anything to put it off, anything to postpone it.

She studied me, assessing, like she was trying to make up her mind.

Eventually, she conceded. “How about we talk for a while, then practice, then talk again after that? I’ve cleared the entire afternoon. We have plenty of time.”

“Okay.”

“Okay then.” She gave me an encouraging smile. “Has this situation with Beau caused any new obsessive thoughts?”

I sensed his hand tense in mine as I endeavored to focus on her question. “What do you mean?”

“Your relationship with Beau, are you having any thoughts in particular about him that you believe might be leading to new compulsions?”

I chewed on my bottom lip, not able to meet her eyes, heat crawling up my neck.

But I responded honestly. “Yes.”

Beau didn’t tense this time. He held still.

“Please tell me.” My therapist sounded so calm, reasonable, and it reminded me that we did this all the time. We had these conversations every Friday and sometimes during the week if I felt overwhelmed.

And Beau needs to know. He needs to see what he’s dealing with..

I lifted and then squared my chin, meeting Dr. West’s gaze evenly. “I can’t stop cleaning tools.”

“Please describe that.”

“At work, I can’t stop cleaning and organizing the tools or the garage. I worry that he’s going to catch something, a disease. Then he’ll get sick, because the tools aren’t clean.”

Dr. West nodded, writing something down in her notes. “And how long has this been going on?”

“About three weeks.”

“Okay.” She didn’t sound judgmental or disappointed in me, but then she never did when I revealed new compulsions.

I didn’t let Beau’s silence or stillness bother me. I distanced myself from it, from him. But I couldn’t completely, because he continued holding my hand.

And then I felt Beau sweep his thumb over my knuckles. Gently. So gently. My stomach gave an answering flutter.

He’s still here.

And my heart was sent racing, because what I’d just revealed about myself didn’t send him running. “But, the good news is that sometimes I’ve been able to speak in sentences with an even number of words, increasing the frequency over time. Beau does it, frequently. And he’s the least violent person I know. I told myself that if he does it, then it can’t be terrible.”

“Good.” She grinned approvingly, her gaze flickering to Beau and then back to me. “Good job reasoning through that. This is a victory, remember this victory.”

She was right, but it hadn’t felt like a victory during the times I’d had to tell myself over and over that expecting violence because of the number of words in my sentences was irrational. It had been a struggle for weeks, until it suddenly wasn’t.

I’d been wondering if she’d ask me about it. Perhaps she hadn’t picked up on how I hadn’t been obsessing, maybe other issues had simply taken precedence and she’d let it slide.

But it was a relief to not be counting every single sentence. I hadn’t known how taxing it had been until I stopped. Finding the control and determination to finally stop counting had made me feel less exhausted, and therein was the true victory for me.

“Thank you.” I paused, making sure she realized my last sentence only consisted of two words.

She smiled, tipping her head in acknowledgement. “You’re welcome.”

I squirmed. “Let’s not go crazy with the even-worded sentences.”

She laughed, so did I, and so did Beau, withdrawing his fingers from mine. He slid his arm along my shoulders and pulled me against him for a quick squeeze, like he couldn’t help himself.

As we separated, I glanced at him. So handsome.

I loved his red beard and thick, unruly red hair. I loved the angles of his jaw and cheekbones and strong nose. I loved his big eyes that twinkled and sparkled with meaning and mischief I couldn’t always decipher. But I didn’t care if I had trouble reading him all the time, because he was good all the time. And that’s what I loved most.

But the way he was looking at me now set my heart racing again. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to touch him.

“Let’s talk about your need to clean the tools.” Dr. West continued, “How can we interrupt these compulsions? Should we develop a plan?”

I heard her, but I was caught in a moment of bravery, one of those singularities where I knew I could succeed. I would succeed.

There’s nothing to fear from this. He’s here. He’s safe. He’ll be fine. You don’t have the power to hurt others by touching them. Give yourself this. Give this to him. Be strong for him.

I leaned away from Beau until his arm was no longer around my shoulders. He resettled it along the back of the couch. Holding my stare, his gaze grew questioning.

I reached out.

He is safe.

He is well.

And then a whisper . . . but what if—

In a rush, I touched him.

I cupped his face with my hand, before the small what if became a monster. And as soon as my skin connected with his, anxiety hit me.

A punch to the stomach.

A hand around my throat.

A knife in my chest.

My heart beat between my ears, growing louder, louder, louder.

Oh God, what have I done?

Beau covered my hand with his, pressing it to his cheek, looking at me with pride and happiness.

How could he be happy about this?

What have I done?

“Shelly.” Dr. West was speaking, but I couldn’t focus on hearing her.

I’ve touched him before and nothing bad happened—at the bar, at the shop—he’ll be fine.

Not this time. Not this time.

You’ve done it. It’s your fault. When it happens, it’s your fault.

I needed . . . I need . . .

“Beau, let Shelly drop her hand.” Dr. West was closer now, sitting on the couch with us. As soon as Beau released me, she removed my hand from his face. “Shelly, look at me.”

I did, I looked at her, at her lips, because she was speaking again.

“Touch Beau again.”

I shook my head.

“Please.”

I shook my head.

I couldn’t swallow. My stomach rolled. My ears were ringing.

“I can’t.”

“You have to be the one to do it, Shelly. You have to be the one to make the choice, to overcome the fear.”

“I can’t.”

“The time is now, Shelly.”

The time is now, Shelly.

So I did.

I touched his face again. His sweet, handsome face.

It will be your fault. It will be your fault.

Scratchy and soft hair on his incredible cheeks.

The time is now, Shelly.

He’ll be in danger because of you. His family will hate you for hurting him. You’re hurting him!

Soft skin beneath my fingertips.

The time is now, Shelly.

I can’t do this. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t.

And then I heard the loudest keening, oddly familiar, and my heart ached. Tore from my rib cage.

What is that sound?

My arm felt like it was on fire.

Make it stop.

My ears were ringing.

Let go. Let go. Don’t hurt him.

I felt tears dampen my cheeks.

My throat.

And then I knew who the anguished sounds belonged to.

They were mine.

23

“The mind once enlightened cannot again become dark.”

― Thomas Paine, A Letter Addressed to the Abbe Raynal on the Affairs of North America

*Beau*

INTENSE.

That’s what it was.

Incredibly intense.

I glanced at Shelly where she was slouched low in the passenger seat. She stared out the window, her elbow resting on the sill, her hand covering her mouth. She looked exhausted.

But she’d done it.

After several hours, touching me over and over—my face, my hands, my arms, my neck—over and over, until she didn’t struggle, didn’t flinch, didn’t cry.

My stomach dropped, remembering the crying.

At first she’d seemed completely lost to it, to fear. Her eyes were wild with panic. And her doctor, that woman had nipples of steel. Or something like it.

When we’d first walked into the office and I’d met Dr. West, she’d seemed so kind and accommodating. But the merciless way she’d encouraged Shelly to confront her fears, over and over, with no reprieve, almost had me second-guessing her sanity.

But then it got easier. Little by little. Touch by touch. Until Shelly touched me, and along with the fear were wonder and resolve.

Dr. West said she wasn’t cured, that there was no curing OCD. But that Shelly had taken a giant step. Now she would follow the prescribed plan over the next week, and hopefully none of the exercises would be as difficult as the first.

It was almost sunset, and we were just miles from her place when my stomach grumbled.

“You should have had the hamburger.” Shelly said this to the window, her voice monotone and slightly nasally from her earlier crying.

For the first time in hours, I smiled. “You’re right, I should’ve had the hamburger.”

On a whim, I placed my hand between us, palm up. I saw her glance at me and then at my offered hand.

She straightened in her seat, shifting away from my offering. “I’m not ready yet.”

“Okay then.” I reached for her, twisting our fingers together and bringing her knuckles to my lips. “Are you hungry?”

“No.” She tugged our joined hands to her lap, began tracing the lines of my bones with her fingertip. “Thirsty, not hungry.”

“Let’s just get you home then.”

“I have food.”

I gave her a teasing look. “Bread?”

A whisper of an almost smile drifted over her features. “Yes. Bread.” But then it was gone.

She was so absorbed in the lines she was drawing on the back of my hand, she didn’t notice we’d already arrived to her cabin until I’d cut the engine and said, “We’re here.”

Shelly stirred. “Already?”

I opened the driver’s door, and stepped quickly to open hers. Shelly took my hand as she climbed out, and I noticed she seemed to be moving gingerly, like she was stiff.

“Do you want me to carry you?”

That earned me an irritated look. And the look made me grin.

“What? Maybe I’m just looking for a reason to get my hands on you.”

“Or you think I’m an invalid.”

Before I could catch the impulse, I teased, “Or I think you’re a sexy invalid.” And I immediately worried my penchant for being playful had been insensitive.

Shelly tried to duck her head and walk around me, but I caught the beginning of her smile and the slight shake of her head as she strolled to her door. I followed.

Her dogs were already barking as we approached the cabin. She opened her front door and they bounded forth, wrapping their big bodies around her legs and mine, jumping up to lick my face and wish me welcome. I couldn’t help but smile at their enthusiasm, wondering why we’d never replaced our family dog.

Then I remembered why. I pushed the inconvenient thought away.

“We need to take them out. Let me go check on Oliver. Their leashes are by the door, do you mind?”

“Sure.” I followed her inside, the dogs happily trailing after us.

By the time I’d found their leashes, dodged their kiss attacks, and had them ready to go, Shelly had returned. She’d changed into those black exercise pants worn when not exercising—the more modern version of sweat pants, just a whole lot sexier—and a tank top.

“Would you mind walking the dogs? I need to lie down.”

“Sure,” I agreed readily, sliding my hand into her hair and pressing my lips to her forehead. “We’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Thank you.”

“You are welcome.”

That earned me another shadow of a smile. It wasn’t much, but I’d take it.

SHELLY WAS STILL ASLEEP when I returned with the dogs and hadn’t woken up by midnight. Leaving her a note with a promise to return in the morning, I borrowed her garage key to free my GTO and drove home.

I didn’t sleep well.

Images of Shelly’s fearful face transposed with my mother’s painful last days hit me. And then there was Christine, a menace or an angel in the background. I couldn’t tell which.

Since sleep was elusive, I left early and drove back to Shelly’s. But when I knocked on the door, no one answered. Nor were any dogs barking.

I walked around the cabin, spotted Oliver on the porch, and waved to the bird.

He responded with a robust, “Bend over, asshole.”

As I was coming around the other side of the house, I spotted Shelly jogging up the drive, both of her dogs with her on leashes. She saw my car first, then seemed to search the front of the cabin, her steps slowing to a walk when she caught sight of me.

Meeting her halfway, I placed a kiss on her cheek and fell into step beside her. “Do you want to go get some breakfast?”

“No, thank you. I have work to do.”

“Work?”

“The angels.”

“Ah, yes.” I nodded absentmindedly, a sense of panic flaring in my chest. Scrambling for a reason to stay, and not deal with the current hurricane of excrement in my life, I asked, “How are you? After yesterday?”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yes.” Her tone was firm. “I’m okay.”

“Can I do anything for you?”

I felt her eyes on the side of my face as we approached her front door and she opened it. “Like what, Beau?”

I shrugged, following her inside, and was about to suggest I install some gutters for the cabin, when she bristled. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

No. But I do.

“I know.” I nodded quickly, trailing after her—along with her dogs—as we all moved into the kitchen.

She filled their water bowls while I filled their kibble dishes and I felt her frowning at me from across the room.

“Unless . . .”

I glanced up, finding her watching me with a squinty stare. “What?”

“Do you want to have sex?” Shelly asked, carrying the water bowls where I stood next to the dog food.

I reared back an inch. “Pardon?”

She set the water on the ground. “We should have sex.”

“Is that so?” I reached for her hand, bringing it to my lips, trying for charming even as my mind was working overtime to figure out how we’d arrived here.

“Yes.” Shelly sounded so matter-of-fact about it, that her other hand reaching for my belt buckle caught me off guard.

“Shelly—”

She stole a kiss, and with it my breath, then said, “Kiss me.”

I moved my grip to her shoulders, enjoying the feel of her skin too much. “You’ve been through a lot. I don’t think that’s a great idea.”

“No big deal. It’s just sex. It’ll be fun.” She’d made quick work of unbuckling my belt and had already moved to the button of my fly before I caught her hands.

Holding them until she gave me her eyes, my stomach sunk to my feet. What the hell has gotten into her?

“It’s a big deal to me.”

Her gaze searched mine, the muscle at her jaw jumping. “Is it a big deal because sex is a big deal? Or because it’s me?”

I hesitated, because this question sounded like a trap.

A woman trap.

The most perilous of all traps.

I could answer honestly, and say both. Sex was a big deal for me and I hadn’t been with anyone since high school, because I wanted to know. I wanted to be certain. I wanted assurances and promises.

And sex with her, with Shelly, was also a big deal. Because it just was. She was a big deal to me.

My life was overflowing with uncertainty at present. Almost two weeks ago, I’d stood on the edge of this cliff and wondered what was below. Now I’d jumped, and I was falling, and I needed to know she would be there when I hit the bottom.

In the end, I took too long to answer. And she took my silence as an answer of its own.

Shelly snatched her hands away and turned, pacing away from me.

“Can we—can we take the day off?” I asked, taking a step over the dog bowls and following her. “Can you give yourself some time to sort through what happened yesterday?”

She shook her head and crossed her arms. “No. I need to know why you’re here.”

I wracked my brain, trying to figure out what that might mean, and guessed, “I’m okay. I’m not hurt.”

“That’s not what I meant. I know you’re not hurt. I can see you.”

“Then what do you mean?”

She mumbled something that sounded like, “You don’t need anything from me.”

“What?”

“I’m not a refrigerator.” She turned halfway, giving me her profile but not looking at me.

“What are you talking about?”

“Those refrigerators, the ones you fixed up and donated, the first week I worked at the shop.”

I shook my head, unable to follow her train of thought. “I don’t think of you like a refrigerator.”

“Then stop making me feel like one.”

“I don’t understand, what—”

“I don’t want a babysitter. I want—” She turned abruptly, cutting herself off and pacing further away from me, toward her room.

Instinct had me reaching for her arm, bringing her into my embrace before she could get too far. She let me hold her, but she made no move to hold me back.

“Shelly. I don’t want to be your babysitter. But I’m not leaving you. Not until I know you’re okay.”

“Then you’ll leave me,” she said against my chest, her tone dull. “Like a refrigerator.”

“Honey—”

“Please.” She pushed out of my hold, turning her back on me and walking into her room, calling over her shoulder just before shutting her bedroom door, “Leave me alone.”

I stared at her closed door for a long while, debating what to do. Then I sat on her couch and opened up one of her blue-spined books. It was one our momma—Bethany—had made us read, Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. I selected it because it was one of the only ones I recognized and I remembered liking the adventure parts.

But worry nagged at me.

Dr. West had said that Shelly wouldn’t self-harm after therapy, but what if she did? What if she already had?

Other thoughts, more selfish ones, also plagued me. What if she’s cured?

No. Not cured.

It was my understanding that people were never cured of OCD. But what if she’s in remission?

What if she could touch people now? Where did that leave us? Would she go back to Chicago? She was a world famous artist. Why in tarnation would she stay in nowhere Tennessee?

She wouldn’t. She won’t.

I thought back to seeing her angel sculptures for the first time, how she’d talked about what Mr. Tanner might do with the Quonset hut.

“When I go . . .” Not if. When.

Nothing was keeping her here.

The worrying became too loud for me to focus on the book, so I set it aside and walked to Shelly’s door, knocking softly.

“What?”

“Can I come in?”

“To have sex?”

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head at this infuriating woman. “No. To check on you.”

She didn’t respond, and at first I thought she wasn’t going to. But then I heard her footsteps approach rapidly just before the door swung open. I stepped back at the sight of her, dishonorable thoughts assailing me like thieves. She was in a white T-shirt and nothing else.

Shelly was so right. I wanted her.

Essential. Madness. Need. All consuming.

Fire burned in my lungs as my blood rushed south.

I wasn’t finished looking my fill—not by a long shot—but my brain gave me a swift kick, sending my gaze to hers. Two beats, thoughts scattered, no wits.

She glared at me. Then she lifted her arms, wrists out, continuing to glare. “See? No cuts. You can leave.”

In the next moment, she’d shut the door in my face.

Shit.

Which one of us was the refrigerator now?

“YOU’RE DRUNK.”

I glanced up, or I tried to. I couldn’t quite manage lifting both eyes, so I peered at my youngest brother through one eye. One eye was better than no eye.

“Hello, Roscoe.” I gave him a wave and ended up spilling bourbon all over my pant leg.

He put something on my shoulders, it might’ve been a blanket, and sat next to me on the porch steps. “It’s cold out here.”

“Is it?”

“It is.”

I nodded, but once I started I couldn’t stop. Nodding.

Then my brother asked, “Why are you drunk?”

“I think I just fucked things up with the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Roscoe cocked an eyebrow at me, grinning, and opened his hand. “Pass the bottle.”

I chuckled and handed it over. My youngest brother took a swig, hissing in through his mouth with the initial burn.

Saturday night. At home. Drunk. Instead of having awesome wild sex with Shelly Sullivan.

Beau Winston, everybody!

“So, what happened?”

“She wanted to have sex with me and I turned her down.”

“That was stupid.”

“Yeah.” I scratched my chest, laughing. It felt good to laugh.

Sighing, I took another swig, and stared out over the dried-up wildflower fields. I’d been cold when I left her, but it didn’t have much to do with the temperature outside.

“Wait a minute, I thought you were celibate?” Roscoe’s question cut into my contemplations.

I slid my eyes to my brother, surprised he knew this information but too drunk to care. “I am. Or, I have been since that thing in high school with Andrea Poole.”

“What thing in high school?”

“Andrea thought she was pregnant.”

“Whoa. I didn’t know that.” Roscoe seemed to require a moment to recover from this news, reaching for the bottle in my hand and taking a drink. “Was she?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“You decided to become celibate? Because of a pregnancy scare?”

“Wasn’t because of the pregnancy scare.”

“Then what was it?”

“I asked her to marry me when I thought she was having my baby, and she . . .”

“She what?”

I huffed a laugh. “She acted like it would be the worst thing to happen to her in the world. Like marrying me would be the end of her life. She said she’d give the baby up for adoption, or that she’d raise it on her own, rather than marry me. She wanted me to sign my rights away,” I tried to snap my fingers for emphasis but couldn’t manage it, “and didn’t want anything to do with me.”

“To be fair, getting married at sixteen ain’t a picnic. And having a baby at sixteen even less.”

“No. No, I agree with that. But I thought—see, it wasn’t that she didn’t want to get married, it was that she didn’t want me.” I rubbed my chest. “I’m good enough to fuck around with, but I’ve never been good enough for anything else.”

I was drunk, so very, very drunk. Hence, I didn’t realize I’d spoken these last thoughts out loud until the silence surrounding us became deafening.

I knew Roscoe was staring at me, so I managed a small smile and shrugged. “Andrea married a fella in the Navy a year later, after graduation. They live in Galveston now and have four kids.”

“You . . . loved her?”

“I thought I did, at the time. But now I think sex confused things, you know? It made me see things that weren’t there, attribute stuff to her that was lacking, including how she felt about me.”

It occurred to me in the genius-state unique to intoxication that the things I’d admired about Andrea Poole were the same things I’d admired about Darlene. She seemed to be driven, smart, capable. And she seemed to like me a whole lot. Until she didn’t.

I continued, only mildly slurring my words, “She had the outward appearance of being good, quality, having loyalty, but maybe none of the real stuff beneath.” I didn’t know if I was talking about Andrea or Darlene. Maybe both.

“How do you know?”

“What?” I blinked clumsily, having difficulty moving my eyelids in unison.

“How do you know whether a woman has substance? Whether her feelings for you go as deep as your feelings for her?”

I couldn’t make out his expression very well, everything was looking fuzzy, so I didn’t gauge my response based on what he was hoping to hear. Brief flashes of what real love looked like paraded through my mind, of Ashley and how her heart revolved around Drew. Of Sienna and how when Jethro was in the room, she was always aware of him, and he of her. She was a Hollywood star, used to being the center of attention, but we never saw that when he was near her.

Or of how Duane softened the minute Jessica’s name was mentioned, and how he’d put her dreams first showed how much he loved her.

And then I knew how to know whether a person’s feelings ran deep.

So I was flat-out honest. “She makes you a priority.”

For better or for worse, I’d never been a woman’s priority.

Roscoe was quiet, unmoving for a long time. I glanced at my brother, he was clearly lost to his own thoughts. Or memories.

I shook my head, it felt almost too heavy to lift. “I must be really drunk.”

“Why?”

“’Cause I’m talking about this shit.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. You’re not very Beau-like right now.”

“Fuck Beau. He’s pathetic.”

Roscoe punched me in the shoulder, which, in my tipsiness, had me falling to the side on the porch. “Don’t talk about my favorite brother that way.”

That made me laugh. And then I kept on laughing, unable to stop. “I’m so screwed.”

“What?”

“I think I’m in love with her.” I was talking while laughing hysterically, gasping for breath.

“What did you say?” He kicked me lightly with his toe. “I can barely understand the words coming out of your mouth.”

“It doesn’t matter.” I wiped the tears from the corners of my eyes, and kept on laughing.

It felt good.

To not care.

To be honest.

To be numb.

24

“If a cluttered desk is a sign of a cluttered mind, of what, then, is an empty desk a sign?”

― Albert Einstein

*Beau*

IT TOOK ME an unknown period of time to figure out where I was and then an unknown period of time after that to figure out that I was hungover. Somehow I was in my bed. I didn’t know how it had occurred, but there I was.

I was also going to die from this hangover. Or have a really shitty day. One or the other.

“Beau.”

I groaned, because what other choice did I have?

“Beau.”

“I don’t want any.”

One of my brothers, I didn’t know which one, chuckled. Or it might’ve been Satan.

“Beau, wake up.”

“Have you no mercy?”

“I’ve been thinking.”

It was Roscoe, I was sure of it. I didn’t know why he was in my room, talking to me, pretending he was capable of thought, but I was sure it was him.

“About what?” Managing to pry open my eyelids a sliver, I discovered his location. He was standing at the foot of my bed.

“About your problem.”

“Shh!”

He wasn’t talking loudly, but he was talking too loud.

“Sorry,” he continued on a whisper, “I have a solution to your problem.”

“Which is?”

“The beautiful woman.”

“Excuse me?” I pressed the base of my palms into my eye sockets to keep my eyes in their sockets.

“Are you listening?”

I peeked at him. “Do I have a choice?”

“This is what you should do.” Roscoe began pacing, and his pacing hurt my head. I closed my eyes as he continued, “The next time you see her, be aloof. Pretend you don’t see her at all. That drives them crazy. Then when she comes over to you—’cause if she wanted you before, she still does—don’t even mention the last time you saw her. Compliment something she’s wearing, like her earrings, and then—”

“What in tarnation are you going on about?” I opened one eye to glare at him, and even that felt like tiny knives stabbing my retina.

“The lady. The beautiful woman you’re in love with.” His eyebrows hovered, perched over his widened gaze. “The one who wanted to have sex with you, but you—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” I swung my arm out, holding up a hand between us as my forehead fell into the other one.

It came back.

It all came flooding back, a rush of frustration, anger, remorse, and misery. My head throbbed with it. And with the worst hangover of my life.

“Beau?”

“I love you, Roscoe, but you’re an idiot when it comes to women.”

SILVER LINING: A hangover gave me something to do—sleep—and a reason to avoid my family. However, since I’d slept all day Sunday, I slept fitfully that night.

Yep. That’s why I slept fitfully. Not because of anything else.

My plan had been to loiter in the morning, drink some coffee, read the newspaper. But the sight of Cletus walking around with his yoga matt was enough to propel me out of the house. Cletus before his yoga was like most people before their coffee.

“Happy Halloween, handsome.” Ashley stopped me on my way out; she was holding a box of pastries. “See what I did there? With the alliteration?”

“What you got in there?”

She held the box away. “Oh no, pumpkin head. These are for Sienna. Jennifer Sylvester made these just for her. And I’m bringing them over as a favor to Jethro.”

“Ashley,” I placed my hand over my heart, “I’m sure Sienna wouldn’t mind sparing just one.”

“Are you kidding? You want me to give you food meant for a pregnant lady?” She smacked my hand away. “You think I have a death wish?” Fast as lightning, she gave me a kiss on my cheek and then rushed past before I could snag the box. “Maybe if you’re real nice, I’ll bring you some carrots and blue cheese.”

I made a face at her back and then proceeded to the GTO, taking some comfort in the consistency of my car.

Maybe I wasn’t to be with a woman.

Maybe the healthiest and longest-lasting relationship in my life would be with my car.

I could do worse.

Then I thought of Shelly, standing in her doorway wearing nothing but a T-shirt, glaring at me with those devastating eyes.

Damn.

I spent the drive to work attempting to figure out what I could do to get back in her good graces. Don’t make any refrigerator jokes. I also added to the list, ignore Roscoe’s shitty advice as I claimed the parking spot next to hers.

With my heart in my throat, I left the safety of my GTO, wishing I’d brought her flowers. But then I didn’t, reminding myself that she probably hated flowers. I could have brought her more potholders, but that felt unoriginal.

When I entered the garage, I spotted her toward the back, washing something in the sink. Making a beeline for her, it was on the tip of my tongue to remind her what Dr. West had said about washing tools, but then I saw she was rinsing off a greasy carburetor and I bit back the comment.

“Morning,” she said, cold as ice.

I sighed, gritting my teeth, studying her back. “You’re still mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Listen—”

“I’m working, and I’m busy.”

Shut down.

“Okay. Fine. Talk to you later then.” A rush of heat gathered around my neck, racing over my cheeks to the top of my head.

Nevertheless, I turned and walked away. I didn’t subscribe to the Roscoe Winston school of thought of playing games. I teased and flirted, but I wasn’t a game player. And neither was Shelly. So that meant she was pissed.

If she needed time, I’d give her time.

If she needed space, I’d give her space.

And that’s when I was certain I didn’t want to just end up with my car. I wanted her. I’d give her anything and everything she needed. She didn’t even need to ask.

So, this is what it feels like to be wrecked.

I almost felt sorry for Cletus.

THE GOOD NEWS WAS, I didn’t use the wrong motor oil or forget to check the torque spec. My work day was free of mistakes.

The bad news was, Shelly’s ice wall had returned, and it was just as impenetrable as I remembered.

I dropped the wrench I’d been using and it made a loud clatter against the cement floor, startling me. I glanced up, my eyes connecting with Shelly’s. We were the only two left in the shop.

I was running behind on my work, way behind. Dolly Payton had come in with a huge oil leak and most of my afternoon had been spent calling around auto parts stores before they closed for the night, looking for a replacement tank. There was no patching hers. Since it was my night to close, I still had the rest of my regular load to finish as well.

I didn’t know why Shelly was still there, but I had my suspicions. I was pretty sure she’d finished her load over an hour ago. Now she was standing at one of the Master Lock toolboxes. It looked like she was cleaning the tools, reorganizing them, and putting them away.

I wanted to call her on it, tell her to stop. Because why the hell was she cleaning them when she was still pissed at me?

She looked from me to the wrench, and then back again, but made no comment. Shaking my head at myself, I gave her a taut smile and bent to retrieve it, hating the way I ached when I thought about her, and how the pain sliced new and fresh every time our eyes met.

And that’s when I heard the hum of approaching motorcycles.

I stood quickly and jogged to the front of the garage just in time to see two bikes coming around the bend of the main road. Cursing under my breath, I pulled my fingers through my hair, having no idea what to do next.

I wasn’t ready for this.

After Christine’s declaration, I’d left Hank’s place on Bandit Lake last Wednesday morning without saying another word to the woman. I’d wanted to call her a liar. But looking at her—the red of her hair, the blue of her eyes, the shape of her mouth—the word liar stuck in my throat.

So I’d left.

“Should we take my Buick?” Shelly was by my side and she’d slipped her hand into mine. “It’s not as fast as your GTO, but it’s brown, so I can hide it better.”

I glanced at her, at the stern set to her mouth, the ready tension in her shoulders, and I had a moment of absolute clarity.

I am falling in love with this woman.

But the clarity was engulfed in a cloud of dust and gravel, kicked up by motorcycle tires.

My stomach lurched as I stepped back, drawing Shelly behind me. “You should go.”

“Come with me.”

I turned to her. “They know I’m here.”

“Please, please come with me.” She gripped my arms, like she was going to forcibly pull me to her car. “Don’t stay here. I can out-drive them. Let me take care of you. Let me do something for you.”

“I’m in no danger from them. I already spoke with them last Wednesday morning. They were waiting for me at Hank’s.”

“They were waiting for you last Wednesday? After we outran them the night before?” Shelly’s features contorted with confusion. “Then why are they here?”

“To finish the conversation, I suppose.”

“About?”

I shook my head. “I can’t tell you that.”

She flinched, like my words—my apparent lack of trust—were a blow.

I didn’t get a chance to explain or soften my statement because the engines cut behind me, drawing Shelly’s eyes over my shoulder. “It’s that woman. And the dumb one, Drill.”

I smirked at the venom in her tone as well as the calculating look in her eye.

“Will you go? Please?”

Her gaze landed back on mine, held for a beat, then she turned away and walked farther into the garage without a word. I watched her go as far as the Master Lock toolbox she’d been working on sorting through, and then gathered a bracing breath and faced the newcomers.

“We weren’t finished talking last week.” Christine pulled off her gloves, tilting her head to the side, her long, red hair falling over her shoulder.

“I’m not sure what there is to say.” I crossed my arms because I needed to. Even better would have been Shelly’s arms around me, hugging me from behind.

But that’s not ever going to happen.

Drill dismounted, but loitered by his bike, like he wanted to give us privacy.

“Don’t you have any questions for your momma?” Christine asked softly, coming to stand directly in front of me.

Her question made me flinch, but I knew she saw it.

A small smile curved her mouth, one that looked foreign on her features. “I am so proud of you.”

I didn’t know what to say, what she wanted from me. Worse, I didn’t know what I wanted from her, or why her being proud of me made any difference. But it did. And that felt like a betrayal of Bethany, of my family.

I wasn’t prepared for this. I hadn’t given this shit-hurricane any thought. I’d ignored it. I didn’t know what to do.

This woman is my mother. And a stranger. And an enemy. Did I want to know her? If you’d asked me yesterday, the answer would have been a resounding no.

But today . . .

“You needed time to come to terms, I get that. I do.” She shuffled a half step closer. “But what I wanted to say was, I love you. I love you so much, Beau.”

I was so damn tired of my chest hurting. Trying to regulate my breathing through my nose helped marginally. But every word out of her mouth only served to confuse me more. I could have a mother again. If I had kids, they would have a grandmother.

In this storm, Christine’s was a voice I couldn’t trust, but the only one I could hear. Why now? Why tell me this now? And why not Duane?

“I’ve always loved you. That’s why I gave you up. That’s why I let that woman raise you. But it tore me up inside, every day, to be without you. I couldn’t stand you not knowing anymore. It clawed at me. It’s been such a struggle, so hard on your momma.”

I couldn’t read her, what was sincere, what was bullshit. I was too close. She was too close. And she looked like me, she looked like Duane. Now that I was paying attention, her mannerisms reminded me of my twin and I trusted him more than anyone.

“What do you want from me?” I hadn’t meant to ask the question, but there it was.

She reached up and cupped my face. I both shrank from and leaned into the contact.

“I want my son by me. It’s time. It’s time you learned about your real family. I’m your real momma.”

I’d barely registered what she’d said, the warm smile on her face, when Shelly’s voice—cold as ice—sliced through the moment.

“You need to leave.”

A split second later, Shelly was there. She’d stepped between us—between Christine and me—and pressed her back to my front, grabbing behind her for a fistful of my coveralls.

“And who the hell are you?” Christine looked from Shelly to me.

“Leave.” Shelly took a menacing step forward, releasing the fabric of my sleeve. “Go, leave now.”

Christine’s eyes narrowed into slits as they moved over her. “I am here to speak to my son—”

“Beau is not your son.”

“Want to see one of them DNA tests?” Christine spat, then to me, her eyes pleading, she said, “We’re family, ain’t we?”

I couldn’t keep up.

Shelly was there.

Shelly knows.

I looked between the two women, uncertain how to act or what to say.

Meanwhile, Shelly inserted herself in Christine’s line of sight, her voice dripping with contempt. “You might’ve provided the maturation chamber in which he survived prior to drawing oxygen from Earth’s atmosphere, and you might’ve donated the original genetic material from whence his cells multiplied, but you are not his family. You are an interloper, an imposter, and an intruder.”

Christine’s eyes flashed and she pushed her face forward while shoving at Shelly’s chest. “Listen here, bitch—”

Oh hell no.

Acting on instinct, I stepped forward. “Hey now,” I blocked Shelly with my body and placed a hand on Christine’s shoulder to push her back. “Don’t speak to her that way.”

Suddenly, Drill was there, standing next to Christine, looking from me to Shelly as though assessing who posed more of a threat.

“But you’ll let her talk to your momma like that?”

“Yes.” I didn’t think before I spoke.

Christine seemed to be fighting her shock, and also fighting to hide something else, maybe rage, maybe disappointment. “Beau—”

“Leave.” I pointed to her motorcycle. “I didn’t ask you here.”

All the softness, like a poorly drawn mask, a pitiful pretense, fell from her features, leaving them twisted and hard.

And angry.

“We are not finished here,” she promised, “not by a long shot. You owe me, boy!”

Shelly stepped around me and moved like she was going to charge the older woman. I caught her around the shoulders at the last moment, holding her back.

Not to be deterred, she hollered at Christine, “If you ever come near him again, I will remove your trapezius muscles with long nose vise-grip pliers!”

“I’d like to see you try,” Christine taunted even as she backed away.

Shelly growled, struggling against my hold, so I gathered her against my chest and wrapped my arms around her body.

“She isn’t worth it, Shell,” I murmured unthinkingly, and the words felt right.

Unable to break from my grip, Shelly yelled at Christine’s departing form, “I will solder your eyelids with a TIG welder and it will be REALLY PAINFUL.”

“You need to get your woman under control.” Christine tossed her hair as she straddled her bike, sending Shelly a look bursting with loathing and spite, and maybe a little fear. “Man up. Your daddy wouldn’t hesitate. He would know what to do.”

25

“The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it.”

― Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

*Beau*

“I WOULD JUST LIKE to point out, every one of that woman’s sentences contained an even number of words.” Shelly’s hands opened and closed on the steering wheel, like she was trying to get a better grip.

This was the first complete thought she’d spoken since threatening Christine St. Claire’s eyelids with a TIG welder, and she made it sound like the woman could not have committed a more outrageous offense than speaking exclusively in even-worded sentences.

I cleared my throat and nodded. “Noted.”

Never mind that Christine’s parting words advocated that I beat Shelly.

No. Never mind that. Because if I thought about that, then the rage would swell within me all over again.

As soon as they’d left, Shelly locked up the shop in a frenzy, pulled me to her car, and we took off. I was also in a frenzy of a kind, wanting to tear something apart, ruin and wreck and destroy. I couldn’t fathom that I’d talked myself into giving that woman the benefit of the doubt. What the hell was wrong with me?

Duane’s words from weeks ago echoed between my ears: Don’t set yourself on fire trying to keep others warm.

It was a hard lesson to learn, but I knew with a stunning conviction that I’d just learned it.

Shelly drove past the turnoff for her road, taking us on a long, roundabout way to her place. I realized belatedly that she was making sure we weren’t being followed.

The sound of her barking dogs welcomed us as soon as we exited her car, and they burst forth as usual as soon as she opened the door.

The one named Laika began licking my hand in earnest and most of my wrath melted away. I crouched low, dodging her doggy kisses, and rubbed the back of her ears. She looked at me like I was her human, and that’s honestly all it took.

“I am in love with this dog.”

Shelly was petting and patting Ivan’s head, watching me with Laika. “Can you grab the leashes?”

“Yeah, sure thing.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Shelly disappeared for a bit and my mind zeroed in on the mundane process of leashing the dogs, focusing solely on that singular activity. And after I was finished, my mind blanked. I stared at the trunk of a white oak tree and thought about absolutely nothing.

When she returned, she held out her hand for their leads. Instead, I took her fingers in mine and we set off.

The sun had just set. I took a moment to admire the reds, oranges, yellows, and purples of the surrounding forest in the fading light. The witching hour, where the Earth was lit with the afterglow of sunset. The song of the summer cicadas was gone, their symphony replaced with the sounds of crickets at dusk, celebrating the coming night.

When had autumn arrived so completely? And where had I been? Asleep? When had I become inoculated to the beauty of my surroundings? When had I started taking my blessings for granted?

“Last week, Bethany Winston was my mother.”

Shelly’s hand squeezed mine. “She is still your mother.”

I nodded at that, deciding it was exactly the right thing for her to say, and we kept on walking.

I WOKE UP in darkness and didn’t know where I was.

It took me several seconds to realize I was still at Shelly’s and I’d fallen asleep in her bed. Reaching forward and blinking against the night, I saw her side was empty.

We’d taken the dogs on a long walk, neither of us feeling inclined to fill the silence, which suited my mood just fine. Back at her cabin—I’d officially upgraded the place from shack to cabin—I set the table and fed the dogs while she put the finishing touches on dinner.

While we ate, she talked about art school. I told her about the first car I’d fixed up—a 1978 Lincoln Continental—and then we did the dishes together. She put on an old record of Johnny Mercer’s greatest hits for background music.

When the first notes of “Skylark” came on, I dried my hands, and pulled her away from the cabinet and into my arms.

She tilted her head back, giving me a look of consternation. “I do not know how to dance.”

“No matter, I know how.” I kissed her nose and took the lead. “Pretend you’re a noodle.”

Shelly arched an eyebrow. “A noodle?”

“Spaghetti, the already cooked kind.” I slid my cheek against hers and we glided around the small space. I was careful to take short, swaying steps until she relaxed. Then I spun her out, reeled her back, and dipped her.

And that made her laugh.

Something in my bones reset at the sound of her laugh, something fundamental. Maybe the notion that joy was still possible, and that I could provide it despite who my parents were. Despite that I’d come from bad.

After “Skylark,” we slow danced to “Fools Rush In,” and “Come Rain or Come Shine.” But when “Jeepers Creepers” came on, Shelly made a face. Peering up at me, she wrinkled her nose in distaste, and that made me laugh.

“I guess I should get going.” I used my index and middle finger to gently push several strands of her long hair away from her forehead.

“Why?”

I searched her features. She was honestly curious. I’d just opened my mouth to say something about being tired, and it getting late, and needing to work tomorrow, when she cut me off with a quick kiss.

“Stay.” She kissed me again, just as quickly. “I won’t make any attempts to seduce you. Tonight.”

My mouth dropped open and I blinked once. “Excuse me?”

“You are excused, but not to leave.”

I crossed my arms. “You’re planning on seducing me?”

“Not tonight,” she confirmed, and then added, “maybe next week.”

Laughing incredulously, I shook my head at her. “This subject comes up a lot with you.”

“Because I spend a lot of time thinking about it. And so do you. Also, I’m clean and have an IUD to prevent pregnancy. Are you clean?”

Pregnancy?

“Clean?”

“Are you?”

“Clean? Yes. Yes, I am. I’m clean.” I continued shaking my head, now completely bewildered. “You are unbelievable.”

“No, I’m not, I’m honest. That makes me very believable.”

“I don’t know what to do with you.”

“Read me a book, but brush your teeth first. I have extra toothbrushes under the sink. When’s the last time you had a dental checkup?” Not waiting for my answer, Shelly turned and scurried out of the living room.

I got the impression she expected me to follow her. I also got the impression she was nervous, which was what had propelled her scurrying.

That’s basically how I ended up in her bed, teeth brushed, and asleep. I’d been reading Great Expectations aloud while she snuggled against me. When she took over, I’d fallen asleep to the soft cadence of her voice.

And now I was alone in her bed. I couldn’t find a clock—nor did I know what I’d done with my phone—so I had no idea what time it was. Stretching as I stood, I navigated to the bathroom and, because I was already there and it might’ve been closer to morning than night, I brushed my teeth.

Coming out of the bathroom, I found Shelly curled up on the couch under a blanket. Walking quietly to her, I spotted one of the pillows from the bed under her cheek.

She’d taken the sofa, in her own house, and given me the bed. That didn’t make a lick of sense.

I crouched next to her, threading my fingers into the silky hair at her temples. “Honey.”

“Mmm.”

I bent to whisper, “Shelly.”

“Hmm?”

“I’m going to carry you to your bed. I’ll take the sofa.”

“Mmm.”

I grinned at her soft noises, at the untroubled expression on her face, and how her brow, even in sleep, still looked regal and stern.

Sliding my arms under her legs and shoulder, I picked her up. And, unfortunately, that woke her up.

She jerked in my arms. “What are you doing?”

“I’m taking you to the bed.”

“Don’t do that.”

“I don’t mind, I’ll take the sofa.” Our mouths were just inches apart, and hers was distracting.

She squirmed. “Put me down.”

Sighing unhappily, I did. I set her on her feet next to the couch. The blanket pooled at her feet and I stepped back to give her some space. It was dark, but I could see her just fine, and that meant I had to force my eyes to remain above her neck. The woman was wearing two pathetic scraps of fabric as pajamas. A thin little tank top and shorts. That’s it.

I set my jaw and turned to the side, waiting for her to walk past.

“Where are you?”

I glanced at her and realized she couldn’t see at all. She didn’t have a hand out, but the way her eyes were moving about the room gave away her blindness.

“I’m here.” I didn’t touch her, because if I did, I wouldn’t want to stop.

Shelly turned her head in my direction and took a deep breath. Still she didn’t reach for me. I didn’t know the specifics of what to expect after her Friday session, but I recalled Dr. West saying something about Shelly doing self-guided ERP exercises over this week.

“Can you see?” She licked her lips, her voice sandpapery. “Because I can’t see at all. It’s so dark.”

“I can see.” Unbidden, my eyes dropped to her body, to the swell of her breasts, the panel of bare stomach, the curve of her hips. Pinpricks of heat raised over my skin and I curled my hands into fists.

She shuffled forward and I caught her before she bumped into me, setting my hands gently at her waist.

“Let me take you to your room.” My voice was rough, for obvious reasons.

Saying nothing, she brought her hand to my forearm, her body gently colliding with mine. And then her hand on my arm slid up my bicep to my shoulder.

“Shelly.” I was running out of breath.

“I like this.”

“What?”

“Touching you.”

Oh fuck.

I held still and endured her hands moving over my body, down the front of my shirt, stopping at the hem, then pushing it up.

“Take this off.”

I did. I pulled the T-shirt over my head and let it drop to the floor.

We stood there, facing each other in the dark, not touching. Despite the session on Friday and the progress that had been made, I realized she wasn’t quite there yet. Dr. West was right, Friday was just a step, the first step. Shelly wasn’t able to initiate contact. Not yet.

Her hands balled into fists and she swayed forward, her breath struggling little puffs.

If anything was going to happen tonight, I had to initiate it. I had to be the one to touch first.

God, how I wanted her. How I wanted her above me, beneath me, surrounding me. But how could I?

“I know why I hesitate,” her voice was breathless, “but why do you hesitate?”

“Lots of reasons.”

“Give me one.”

“I don’t want to use you.”

“I wish you would.”

That pulled a laugh from me, just a small relief from the mounting tension. My eyes moved over her body, an undeniable impulse to devour the sight of her, her legs, stomach, chest, then up her neck to her lips.

“You asked me on Saturday if sex was a big deal for me, or if it was you. The answer is both.”

She held very still, and I got the sense she was holding her breath, straining to listen.

“You are a big deal to me. I don’t want a fling. I don’t want a flirtation. I want promises.”

“What can I promise you?”

That you’ll love me. That I’ll be your priority.

She shifted her weight from foot to foot. A spike of anxiety that she might leave me like this had me acting without forethought. I lifted my hands to her waist again, and immediately, her fingertips skimmed over the skin of my lower stomach in response, making my muscles tense in hot anticipation. She grew more assertive as she caressed my sides, abdomen, ribs, chest, shoulders, and then back down.

Shelly stepped closer, a hint of thrilling contact between her breasts and my torso, and all the words and worries melted from my mind, died on my tongue, suffocated by the feel of her body, and the possibility of this moment.

Her finger hooked in the waistband of my jeans. “Take these off.” Her hand turned, her fingers and palm cupping me over my zipper.

Instinctively, I pressed myself into her touch even as I grabbed her wrist.

“Beau, I promise—”

She didn’t get to speak, because I kissed her, hard and wild, unbuttoning and unzipping my fly with one hand and bringing her palm inside my boxers with the other.

She surged forward, stroking me ardently. I released her wrist and thrust my fingers into the back of her shorts, grabbing two handfuls of perfect ass. Allowing myself a self-indulgent moment to knead and fondle the luscious globes, I then shoved her shorts down her legs.

“What are you doing?” she panted, tearing her lips from mine even as her hand worked me. She didn’t need to, I was already hard. I’d been hard the moment she touched my arm in the dark.

I reached for and into my wallet, and—praise Billy—found three condoms there. My brother was fanatical about making sure we all had condoms, all of the time. Even me.

Unwilling to release her fully, I ripped one open with my teeth.

“Beau?” Her voice was high and uncertain as she clung to me.

Batting her hands away from my dick, I rolled it into place while I bent, suckling her breast into my mouth through the whisper-thin fabric of her top. This thing was ridiculous, more like gauze than fabric.

I loved it.

She arched, her breath hitching when I gave her succulent nipple a little slide of my teeth. I wasn’t finished with her breasts. I wanted them close so I could lick and taste, bouncing in my face while I filled her.

Thinking only of expediency, I backed her up to the wall, my hands sliding around her thighs and lifting her feet from the ground.

“Oh God, we’re really doing this,” she said, like she was surprised we’d arrived here, like she was bracing herself.

“Holy shit,” she said between my kiss assaults, the hot, demanding slide of my mouth and tongue against hers.

Steadying herself by gripping my shoulders, and rolling her hips in search of mine, she blurted, “I just wanted to give you a blow job.”

I stilled, breathing heavy against her chin. “Are you telling me to stop?”

“God, no! Go. Go. Go. Do not stop.” She wiggled impatiently, panting. “I’d ask you to please fuck me, but I don’t think you’d appreciate that kind of language.”

Lifting her higher, one of her legs wrapped around my hips as I positioned myself, rubbing the head of my dick over her slick center. “Then ask me to make love to you instead.”

She didn’t hesitate. “Make love to me,” she sighed, her voice pleading. “Make love to me, Beau.”

So I did. I entered her, filling her, and I was surrounded. She sucked in a breath, and then moaned, her short nails digging into my shoulders.

Meanwhile, I shuddered, the feel of her too intense, her body, her breath, and her touch overwhelming.

“You feel . . .”

“How do I feel?” I demanded, gritting my teeth against the fierce urgency for completion. We’d just started, but there was no way I was going to last. It had been so long, so long. And that meant our time was short.

So I stalled, wrestling for control, asking again, “How do I feel?”

Her torso was so long, her breasts were right where I’d wanted them, in my face, giving me easy access to lick and bite and savor. But I couldn’t, not if I wanted to be inside her for longer than mere seconds.

But then Shelly bent her head, her fingers coming to my cheeks and lifting my chin. “Move, Beau.”

“I need a minute.”

“Come for me,” she whispered. “Come for me. And we’ll make love again, anywhere you want. On the couch, in my bed, in your car.”

I groaned at the imagery. “You first.”

I was tempted to start thinking unsexy thoughts just to last longer.

She tilted her hips, rubbing her body against mine, encouraging me to move. “Don’t be afraid. We have forever.”

We have forever.

Trusting her, I moved. I moved once and a stab of forceful pleasure ignited at the base of my spine. My thrusts were inelegant, rough, needy and she answered by giving me tender kisses and soft moans.

“Oh, God. Shelly.”

“Come inside me.”

Control lost, I did. Every one of my muscles tensed as I pumped into her, needing it. Needing her, needing her now. I couldn’t think beyond right now, beyond the stars at the edges of my vision and the hot pleasure racing through my body.

26

“The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled.”

― Plutarch

*Beau*

I DIDN’T HAVE EVEN ten seconds to get my bearings, or wallow in the disappointment of coming too fast, before Shelly began kissing me in earnest again, her hands moving over my body.

Easing her down, I returned the desperation of her mouth in kind, leaving a trail of licks and bites over her jaw and neck, to that spot I knew she loved. Swirling my tongue, she reflexively tilted her head toward her shoulder, arching against me.

“Give me until the count of twenty,” she said, her words breathless.

“What?”

Placing her hands flat against my chest, she pushed me away gently. “Count to twenty after I go, and meet me in my room.”

I reached for her. “Shell—”

“And no condom this time, please. I don’t like how they feel.” She slipped past me, feeling along the wall as she went and pausing just briefly to flick on a light switch. The soft glow of the overhead light illuminated her extraordinary body, the long line of her smooth legs, the span of her gorgeous shoulders and back, her perfect backside, the taper of her waist.

Glancing over her shoulder, her eyes moved down and then up my body. I got the fleeting sense she was admiring me as well.

Shelly’s mouth, now swollen from our kisses, curved into a small smile as her gaze connected with mine. “You are beautiful, Beau Winston.”

Then she darted around the corner.

Gathering my wits, or the ones that remained, I stepped out of my jeans and crossed to the bathroom. Autopilot had switched on, the sexy kind, where all I could see were flashes of fantasy, of how we’d already been together, of how I wanted her next, and of how I’d take her the time after that.

Finished, I walked to her room, and paused just inside the door.

The overhead light was on and she’d taken all the loose blankets off the bed, leaving just the fitted sheet. There weren’t even any pillows. Shelly was standing next to her closet, like she’d just shut the door to it.

And she was naked.

“They distract me,” she said, like it was an apology.

I only tangentially heard her, and it took me a few seconds to understand her meaning, because—like a man dying of thirst—I was too busy drinking her in.

“I don’t care if the room is bare,” I said without thinking, moving, needing to touch her, “just as long as you’re in it.”

She turned toward me as I approached, sighed a little sigh as I slipped my hand around her waist and brought our bodies together. Once again, I was backing her up. But this time, as her knees connected with the mattress, she landed on a bed.

I took a split second to admire the sight of her lying there, her hair wild, her gorgeous breasts already marked by my mouth, her open legs, her willing body—naked and mine. About to be mine again, just as I was now hers.

And I noticed, with more than a little amusement and satisfaction, that her wide eyes were on my dick. I didn’t think her reaction was because I was big—I was big—but more because I was already ready to go.

“God bless twenty-four-year-olds.” Her words were breathless.

I climbed over her, sliding my skin against hers, enjoying the heat of friction between us.

“I’m almost twenty-five.” I wagged my eyebrows.

She chuckled and I captured the laugh on her lips until it became a moan. I kissed her, fondling her breast, then sliding my hand down her body, between her open legs. I opened them further, spreading her wide until she parted. Circling her clit with light, teasing touches, I pulled a ragged moan from her, one that scorched my skin and ignited fire in my veins.

Then I slid myself down her body, kissing as I went, tasting the heat and salt of her skin. My mouth watered in anticipation.

But when I reached her hip, she tensed, as though just realizing my intent. “Wait, wait—”

I glanced at her, at the wild quality in her eyes.

She shook her head. “Don’t do that.”

I licked my lips, my brow pulling together in confusion. “What? Why?”

“You don’t like it.”

“I don’t?”

“No. Men don’t like it. They only pretend they do.”

“Uh, nope.” I shook my head, intent on my course, nuzzling her sex.

She grabbed a fistful of my hair and yanked frantically. It hurt.

“Beau, don’t.”

“Woman, I’ve been fantasizing about this for weeks. Kindly release my hair.”

She didn’t. She just stared at me, beset with anxiety.

Every part of me strained toward that sweet spot, so close. I was starving for her, and she was worried I wouldn’t like it.

I tried a different approach. “Do you like it?”

“No. Because you don’t like it.”

“Don’t tell me what I like.” I said this through clenched teeth, because—fucking fuck fuck—I could smell her arousal, her heat, her body.

“Beau—”

“How about, if I don’t like it, then I promise I’ll stop?”

Shelly looked torn, but she also looked tempted. So I gently uncurled her fist from my hair and brought her hand to my mouth. Her palm facing me, I licked the tender flesh just below the joints of her index and middle fingers with the flat of my tongue while I held her stare.

Her eyes rolled back in her head and her whole body shivered.

I took that as a yes.

I decided I would take my time. I’d wanted this for so long, and—based on her reaction—this might be my only chance. I wanted to savor every second.

Parting her with my thumbs, I licked her, slowly. The burst of flavor on my tongue wrenched a groan from my chest. I curled my arms and hands around her legs, holding her still as I feasted, sucking softly.

“Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit,” she said in a sudden rush, her body tensing in a panicked wave. “I’m coming. Fuck, Beau. I’m coming.”

I was surprised. And disappointed. But also prepared.

I slipped two fingers inside her to catch her release, and continued the slow, measured pressure of my mouth. Clearly, it worked for her.

She pulsed around me, and I groaned again at the sharp tremors around my fingers as I slid them in and out.

“Oh. Fuck. Me.” Her words were strangled, and I was pretty sure she hadn’t realized she’d said them.

I glanced at her face. It was contorted with confusion and elation, rousing in me a bone-deep satisfaction and primal pride.

“Stop. Please stop.” Her voice was sharp and breathy, like she was caught between pain and pleasure.

I immediately obliged and did so grinning.

“Tomorrow? Same time? Same place?” Yeah. I was smug.

“Ahhhgraha,” was her nonsensical response.

Climbing back up her body, I took advantage of her dazed state and left wet kisses on her skin. Again taking my time as I took note of what aroused her, what made her squirm, what tickled, and what had her stretching, arching, straining to get closer.

By the time I’d made it to her mouth, she’d recovered her breath and her eyes were open. Though they were hazy, drunk on orgasm and sex, they still hit me square in the chest.

I needed to be inside her again. I throbbed with it, ached with the need. I needed to be inside her while she looked at me with her fierce gaze.

Maybe she read the intent behind my eyes, or maybe she was acting on her own desires, but her hand circled my cock and stroked, her body arching lazily beneath me. “Beau.”

“Shelly.” I kissed the corner of her mouth, licking her lips lightly as I pressed myself into her palm.

She looked at me, sober and sincere. “Make love to me.”

That pesky rubber band that had been plaguing me for weeks snapped, my chest expanding, ballooning with warmth and want and wonder. I settled myself between her thighs, teased her still-sensitive flesh with a slide of my skin, and then I entered her.

Shelly sighed as she moved beneath me. It sounded content. It sounded happy.

She watched me.

I watched her.

Kissing, touching, and cherishing each other, we made love.

And it was essential.

THE AROMA OF coffee coming from the kitchen woke me up. I rubbed my eyes against the early brightness of day and glanced at my surroundings. Shelly’s side of the bed was empty.

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 hurt 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?”

“Things?”

“Emotional and physical intimacy.”

I had to take a moment and really think about the question. “I suppose . . .” I licked my lips, my stomach fluttering. “I suppose the emotional intimacy was outpacing the physical until Tuesday.”

“What makes you say that?”

“He was here Friday. He saw me at my worst, with no defenses. How many people in a relationship see their partner in that state?”

“That’s a good point.”

“No. I’m asking because I don’t know. Is that common?”

“No. It isn’t. Especially not so early in a relationship. You’re very brave.”

“Or very reckless.”

That drew a small smile from her. “What happened on Monday?”

I stiffened. “Why?”

“You said your physical intimacy didn’t begin in earnest until early Tuesday morning. What was the catalyst?”

“Uh . . .” What was the catalyst? “Beau was at my house.”

“That was the catalyst?”

“Yes. So, opportunity?”

She lifted an eyebrow at me. “Let’s back up. What happened after you left? On Friday?”

“Things were rough after Friday’s session.”

“How were they rough?”

“He was treating me like . . . a refrigerator.”

“Pardon?”

“Like I was broken, and needed to be watched. Like I couldn’t be trusted to function properly.” My stomach pitched and then dropped at the memory, the embarrassment. “Like he needed to babysit me.”

“Ah. I see. And how did that make you feel?”

“I hated it.”

“Do you understand why he behaved that way?”

“I do, but I hated it.” I rubbed my sternum. “One of the reasons I trusted him to begin with was how he looked at me.”

“And how was that?”

“Like I wasn’t broken, like I wasn’t an object. He looked at me like he saw me. But after the session Friday, things were different.”

“What happened after Friday?”

“He stopped by Saturday to check on me, more refrigerator talk. So I told him to leave.”

She nodded, writing something down. “And when did you clear the air?”

“Clear the air?”

“When did you talk things through, tell him how you felt about his ‘treating you like a refrigerator?’”

I stared at her, knowing the truthful answer to her question was going to be the wrong one. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

She blinked, her eyes narrowing slightly in a way that reminded me of my dad when he thought I was being foolish.

“I should do that.” I nodded quickly. “I’ll do that.” I continued to nod. “It’s just . . .”

She waited for me to continue, saying nothing, her features devoid of telling expression.

“Beau is going through a hard time.”

“Okay.”

“He just found out the woman who raised him isn’t his mother and his biological mother is a sociopath. His adoptive mother never told him he was adopted and now—he hasn’t said as much—but he doesn’t know whether to tell his twin brother, or what to do.”

“Okay.”

“And then there has to be other issues there as well, deep, self-reflective issues. Maybe he doesn’t even know who he is anymore. Maybe he doesn’t—”

“Shelly.”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re taking such good care of Beau. But these are his issues to work through. You being there, being supportive, is the right thing to do. You trying to take on his worries and wearing them like a coat isn’t going to help him.”

“That makes sense.”

“Was this the catalyst for Tuesday? Were you intimate with him because you wanted to make him feel better?”

“No.” I shook my head adamantly, but then had to amend, “I mean, I brought him back to my house because I didn’t want him to be alone, not after that woman was trying to mess with his mind. He was going to go home, but I told him to stay the night—again, not wanting him to be alone after dealing with that psychopath. And then he woke up, and because he found me on the couch and wanted me to sleep in the bed, he was going to take the couch. I was going to offer to give him a blow job to make him feel better—and because I really, really wanted to—but then as soon as we started kissing, things progressed very quickly.”

I was out of breath by the time I finished and bit my lip to stop from continuing, looking to her for a reaction.

She was still wearing her poker face. “Let me see if I have this right. Beau just found out that his mother adopted him. His biological mother—in your estimation—is a ‘psychopath.’”

“She was trying to manipulate him on Monday when she showed up. He didn’t want to speak to her, but she was saying she was his real mother. It made me so angry.”

“I see. So would you say Beau was emotionally vulnerable Monday night?”

I winced, groaning, “Yes.” And then covered my face with my hands.

“Shelly, I’m not trying to make you feel guilty about this. Try to think about this rationally. Does Beau seem well? Has he talked about what he’s feeling? Regarding this change in his life?”

“Did I take advantage of him? Have I ruined everything?”

“Shelly, this isn’t about you. Think about Beau for a minute.”

“Okay.” I breathed out. “Okay. No. He hasn’t talked about how he’s feeling. We haven’t been talking about much of substance recently. We talk, but not about feelings. Just a lot of . . . hanging out. And having sex.”

So much great sex. All of it great.

“I’m going to suggest that you talk to Beau about how he made you feel last week after the Friday session. And then, I suggest you let him know you’re open to discussing how he feels about the upheaval in his life.”

“Shouldn’t he know that already?”

“Which part?”

“That I’m open to talking about the upheaval in his life?”

“How often has he brought up his feelings to you? Has he told you how he feels about you?”

“No.” My stomach dropped, my chest ached. “He doesn’t like talking about himself. I think it makes him uncomfortable. He likes helping other people.”

“Like he enjoys fixing refrigerators?”

Dr. West and I stared at each other. Although her features were stubbornly blank, the look in her eyes urged me to see her point.

“If I don’t want to be just a refrigerator to him,” I struggled to put the pieces together, “then I have to get him talking about himself. I have to try to fix his refrigerator?”

Her expression didn’t change. “All people are broken, Shelly. No one is perfect. Some seek help. Some don’t. But no one is ever fixed by another person. We can only work on ourselves. We are—using your analogy—our own refrigerators, no one else’s.”

Dr. West paused, like she was giving me time to absorb and consider her words. “You can be supportive of Beau, hold the tools for him while he works on his refrigerator, remind him to take a break, show interest in his struggles. You can do things, gestures of kindness that show him he’s appreciated, that you care about him. But no one can fix Beau’s refrigerator except Beau.”

28

“Yes, I was infatuated with you: I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those.”

― Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

*Beau*

HANK HAD BEEN CALLING me nonstop, at least twenty times a day, leaving messages each time.

He was also sending text messages about stupid shit—memes, cats in hats, asking me for an opinion about an outlet cover for the bar, linking me to disgusting news stories about A Florida Man—and threatening to buy me another boat. He was out of his mind.

Exhausted by his harassment, I agreed to meet him Saturday morning for coffee. As soon as I did, the messages stopped, thank the Lord.

I needed to tell Shelly about it, explain why I wouldn’t be looking at teacups with her when we woke up. I made a mental note to tell her when I saw her later in the evening at her place, once she’d returned from her appointment with Dr. West.

But to my surprise, just as I was finishing up for the afternoon, I spotted her car pull into the shop lot.

Wiping off my hands, I waited for her just inside the garage, grinning to myself as she exited her car. She looked focused and determined. It shouldn’t have been cute, especially when her normal looks were so intense, but it was.

The last week had been . . . it had been incredible. Waking up next to her each day, talking about things that didn’t matter but were fun to talk about, taking walks, going on runs, watching her work on her angels, and making love to her each night. It was how I wanted my life to be. I was planning on riding this wave for however long it lasted.

Shelly marched straight up to the garage, her glare zeroed in on me, and my grin spread.

“Hey there, cutie.”

She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, looking at me like I’d lost my mind. Then she blinked, took a breath, and said, “Beau, we have many things to discuss.”

“Sure. How are you doing?”

“How am I doing?” She was now scowling.

“Yeah.”

“No. How are you doing?”

I shrugged. “I’m fine.”

“Really? Because you just found out last week that the woman you thought gave birth to you is not your biological mother. Your biological mother is a vile human who wants to use and manipulate you.”

. . . Right.

She didn’t look cute anymore.

“Thanks for the summary.”

“In light of this information, let me ask the question again: how are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” I snapped, startling myself because I hadn’t intended to raise my voice.

Her expression immediately relaxed, her eyes growing sympathetic.

God. Sometimes it was torture looking at this woman. Watching her gaze go from fierce to soft with pity was too much. I dropped my eyes to the rag in my hands.

“Please touch me, Beau.”

“Why?”

“So I can touch you.”

I clenched my teeth, swallowing past a tight lump. Where the hell was all this coming from? We’d gone all week without talking about Christine. Why was she bringing this up now?

Dr. West. Mental health. That’s why.

Damn.

“I don’t want your pity.”

“Do you want my compassion?”

I tried to swallow again, but there was no saliva left in my mouth.

She stepped closer, into my space. “Do you want my support? Do you want to tell me what’s on your mind and in your heart? Because I want to know. I want to be there for you.”

“No.” I huffed a bitter laugh, shaking my head and looking beyond her. “I guarantee, you do not want to know what’s in my heart.”

“You are so good, generous, with everyone. Especially with me. Please let me hold the tools for you while you work on your refrigerator.”

I didn’t quite follow what she said, but I got the gist of her meaning.

“That’s not a good idea.”

“Why? Why not?” I sensed her eyes on me, searching my face. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you refuse to lean on me?”

“Because—”

“Is it because you don’t think I’m dependable?”

“No, of course not.”

“Is it my OCD? Do I irritate you?”

“No. Not at all—”

“You’re worried I’m—”

“I’m in love with you.”

I gave her my eyes then and rather than a mere scattering of wits, the skipped beats, gave me a one-two sucker punch directly to the center of my chest.

Her lips parted, her eyes going wide. She gaped at me—visibly dumbfounded—for a long time. Her breathing changed, grew faster, louder, like she’d just finished running.

She wasn’t going to say it back.

That’s why I hadn’t said anything.

And saying it now had been a mistake.

“Do you need to call Dr. West?” I gained a step away, stuffing the greasy rag I’d been holding in my back pocket and crossing my arms. Heat was crawling up my neck, making it itch.

“No.” Her eyes, rimmed with what looked like panic, lowered to my mouth. “Maybe.”

I lifted my chin toward the office on the first floor. “Phone’s in there.”

“Beau . . .”

“Forget it.”

“That’s not likely.” She shifted her weight from her left foot to her right, and then back again. “I c-care about you.”

Motherfu—

Again, my laugh was bitter as I glanced at the ceiling, turned, and walked away.

“Beau.” She was right behind me.

“I have to close up.”

“Don’t you think we should talk about this?”

“No.”

“Don’t you think I’m allowed some time to-to-to process what you just said?”

“Take your time, you know where to find me.” I pressed the button for the back door of the garage. The sound of steel on a roller track filled the air and I kept walking, this time around the interior perimeter to the front office.

“This isn’t fair. I am not able to touch you and you keep walking away.” She was right on my heels.

“Life isn’t fair.”

“Would you stop?”

“Nope.”

Entering the office, I quickly navigated to the door facing the lot. I flipped the bolt, secured the bottom lock, checked it, then turned for the main garage again, intent on closing up the front.

“You are cowardly.” Now she sounded angry.

“Flattery will get you nowhere.”

“This is so incredibly frustrating.” She said this on a loud growl.

She has no idea.

Reaching up, I tugged on the handle for the big roller door and pulled it down; it was three times as wide as the one at the back, and ten times as expensive to automate. As such, we hadn’t put it on a motor yet. As far as I knew, Cletus was still saving money for the upgrade.

Shelly stood off to the side, watching me secure the shop.

“We’re going to finish this conversation before we have sex tonight.”

I smirked at that. “Honey, we’re not having sex tonight.”

“Why?”

Standing, I faced her, absorbing the echo of an ache as our eyes met. “Because, for you, it’s been just sex. Just fucking around.”

Shelly winced. “That’s not true.”

Slowly, I walked to her, getting in her space, leaving just a few inches between our lips. “Do you love me, Shelly?” I whispered.

She didn’t respond.

She didn’t need to.

Nevertheless, I experienced another sucker punch just the same. This time to my stomach, making me lose my appetite completely. But that’s what I got for asking questions when I already knew the answer.

“Have a nice evening, ma’am,” I said, giving her a polite smile as I leaned away.

Then I turned away and strolled unhurriedly to my GTO.

“I ORDERED YOU APPLE PIE.” Hank pushed a plate toward me. It was empty.

Or rather, it had crumbs on it where an apple pie should’ve been.

“Thanks.” I didn’t smile. “Did you drink my coffee, too? And have a good talk with yourself? Do I need to stay, or are we done?” I made like I was going to leave.

“Sit your ass down. Another three pieces are on the way.” Hank motioned to Beverly, who was standing behind the counter looking at him as though she’d been waiting for a sign.

I’d slept at the home last night, in my own bed, surrounded by things. I’d never realized how many things I owned. The top of my dresser was covered with stuff, I didn’t even know where half of it had come from.

Shelly’s place had been so bare. No pictures on the wall, no knickknacks, nothing unnecessary, nothing sentimental.

Just like the woman.

No evidence of me there either.

I shook my head at myself, gritting my teeth. It had been an unfair thought. She’d wanted to give me compassion. And if she loved me, I would’ve happily accepted it.

But she didn’t.

The truth was, I had too much pride. Compassion without love felt suspiciously like pity. So instead I went home, drank exactly one glass of the Aberfeldy, and read poetry.

That’s right. Poetry.

I pulled a book of poetry from one of the shelves at random and flipped to an earmarked page. It was a poem entitled, ‘The More Loving One.’

Huffing a laugh at the ironically appropriate title, I read the verse, expecting lots of how I love thee’s and thou arts. But when I reached the second stanza, I blinked, my breath catching, and I reread it again,

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

After that, I read the whole book. I swam in it. Not only because my mother had written notes in the margins, like little breadcrumbs of her thoughts and feelings, but because I discovered the desire to do the same.

But I stopped at one glass of Aberfeldy because I was also tempted to write poetry. To Shelly. From me. I was going to tell her all the ways she was amazing, epic, and extraordinary. How knowing her had taught me about having high expectations—for myself, for others—where before I’d been content to settle for simple. Because she was brilliant and brave. She was the pinnacle person in my universe. The star of my solar system.

And if she couldn’t love me like I loved her, then maybe that was okay. Let the more loving one be me.

Except, when I tried to find a word that rhymed with Shelly, the reality of what I was doing set in.

Belly, smelly . . . jelly.

Oh good Lord.

Setting the pen down, I went to bed. Woke up. Showered. Shaved. Dressed.

Which brought me to now, sitting across from Hank on a Saturday morning, trying my best not to dwell on the constant pressure behind my eyes, the knot in my throat, and the random spikes of pain in my chest.

Maybe I’m having a heart attack.

“Three pieces of pie?” I mumbled.

“One more for me, two for you.”

“And my coffee?”

“Also on the way. Anything else you’d like? A massage perhaps?”

It had been on the tip of my tongue to say, My feet do hurt. But I caught myself, resisting the urge to fall into our old habits. I wasn’t mad at my friend, not anymore. With everything else going on, now I was just irritated.

“What do you want, Hank?”

“To explain what happened and to apologize.”

I hadn’t been expecting such a grown-up response, so it took me ’til Beverly brought our pie and my coffee to find my voice.

“Fine. What happened?”

“Drill knows I got a thing for Patty.”

“Everybody knows you got a thing for Patty except Patty.”

“Yeah, well. He said he saw you two out.”

I lifted my eyebrows expectantly, waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, I prompted, “And?”

“And I believed him.”

“So you thought you’d get me back by ambushing me?”

“No. These are two separate things.”

I took a taste of coffee and picked up my fork. “I’m not following.”

“Drill told me about you and Patty—”

“Didn’t happen.”

“—on a Monday. Then he asked if he could come fishing with us that Wednesday, said he was bringing Isaac and maybe one other guy. Distracted, I said fine. Then he shows up with Razor’s old lady instead. I went to text you, to give you a heads-up, so I walked back to the house to get better reception and you were already there.”

“Oh.” I nodded, thinking through his side of the story. “Then why are you apologizing?”

“Because I believed him about Patty.”

“Ah.”

“And when you showed up, I asked you about that instead of giving you a heads-up about Christine St. Claire being there.”

I’m sure I looked confused. “Why would he make shit up about me and Patty?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he did think he saw y’all together.”

Chewing this over with a bite of pie, I wondered out loud, “I bet he saw Jess and Duane. Since Patty dyed her hair, they look alike.”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know. He’s an idiot. Point is, he’s not going fishing with us anymore. And also, I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted.” I picked at my pie and then pushed it away, opting for the coffee instead.

Hank looked between me and my plate. “What’s wrong with the pie?”

“It’s good. I’m just not hungry.” I hadn’t been hungry since leaving the shop the previous evening. Along with my good sense, heart, balls, and man card, Shelly Sullivan had stolen my appetite.

“What’s going on with you? What did Razor’s old lady want?”

I shook my head, looking beyond Hank to stare unseeingly at the diner beyond. “It’s not even worth talking about.”

“Something nefarious?” He wagged his eyebrows.

“Something inconvenient.” I pushed the plate of pie farther away and leaned back in the booth, frowning at my coffee.

Duane was leaving in a little over a week. If I didn’t tell him soon, I was going to lose my window. I couldn’t see myself telling him when he came back next. He’d be pissed that I’d waited so long. It was now or never.

But concentrating on Christine, what her angle was, whether to tell Duane, and where I fit in was near impossible after my exchange with Shelly last night. I couldn’t focus on much except how much I missed everything about her, and it had only been fourteen hours.

“I guess this brings us to the last order of business.” My friend’s statement had me refocusing on him.

“Pardon?”

“Know what I always liked best about you, Beau?”

“Tell me, Hank,” I responded indulgently.

“You never asked me for anything.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Growing up,” he leaned forward, pushing his second empty plate out of the way, “I was the richest kid in this town, maybe in all of Tennessee. Remember my tenth birthday party? The King brothers were nice to me for three months beforehand, hoping they’d get an invitation.”

“Those guys are assholes.”

“But you’re not. People, they’re nice to you ’cause they like you. You’re easy to like. People are nice to me because they want something. Except you. You don’t want anything.”

“Thank you.”

“That’s not a compliment, Beau.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah. Really. ’Cause after a while, being friends with someone who never asks for anything makes you feel like shit.”

I jerked back, frowning at my friend and his declaration. “I make you feel like shit?”

“Yep. You got no need of me. Take last Wednesday for instance. I made a mistake. I made a big one. And you walked away, not giving me even two minutes to explain.”

“Oh gee, I’m sorry Hank. You’re right. I should’ve been thinking about your feelings. Where was my head?”

“Stop being an asshole. Of course I didn’t mean right after it happened. But Thursday, Friday, a weekend goes by. We’ve been best friends since we were five years old, and you don’t give me a chance to explain. Know why?”

“Of course not. I don’t know anything.”

“Because you don’t need me. You have your big family and the admiration of every person in this town. Hell, you even got a body double, an exact replica of yourself.”

I couldn’t quite read him, whether he was joshing me or if he was being serious. Deciding the safest course of action was to wait and see, I watched him silently, sipping my coffee at intervals.

“But guess what? It’s your unlucky day, because I can’t afford to lose friends. That means you’re stuck with me.”

“Meaning you’re gonna keep messaging me cat pictures until I stop ignoring you?”

“If that’s what it takes, then yes. And God bless the Internet, because if there’s anything it has in infinite supply—other than ill-formed opinions—it’s cat pictures. And if that doesn’t work, then I’ll buy you a second house.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you can’t force a person to be your friend. Nor can you buy friendship.”

“Then what can I do?” His tone hardened, grew serious, as did his glare. “Because I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have listened to Drill. I should have given you a heads-up. I’m incredibly sorry, and I swear on my father’s crypt, I will never let you down again.”

I leaned forward, lowering my voice in an attempt to defuse his mood. “Hank, you already apologized. We’re fine. All is well. Besides, you hated your father.”

“Yeah, but I really love that crypt. You’ve seen it. It has the gargoyles.” He made a claw with his hand

I smiled at his weirdness. It was very Hank-like.

“Like I said, all is forgiven.”

“It’s not that easy. I’m going to need you to accept something as a token of my remorse and friendship.”

Oh no.

“I don’t want anything.” I glanced around the diner, half expecting Hank to give Beverly a sign and then for the waitress to strip off her uniform.

“Well, too bad. I want to give you something, and I want you to think about how awesome I am every time you look at it. I want you to think, ‘That Hank, he sure is a good friend. What would I do without him?’ Because the next time I fuck up—and mark my words, there will be a next time—I need to know you’re not going to ignore my calls for ten days.”

“Even if you give me something, I’m still going to ignore your calls for ten days.”

“Fine. But pick up the phone on day eleven.”

“You’re such a dummy.”

“So . . . we good?”

“Yes,” I said emphatically. “Like I’ve been saying twenty times now, we’re good. Put it out of your mind.”

He hit the top of the table with his palm. “Excellent.” Then he opened the satchel sitting next to him and pulled out an envelope. “This is for you.”

Hank slid it across the table and I picked it up, opened it, and scanned the contents of the letter I found within. Then I glared at my friend.

“You’re giving me your house on Bandit Lake?”

“Yep.”

“Nope.” I slid the envelope and letter back to him. “No, thank you. I do not accept. And don’t buy me another fifty thousand dollar watch either. One is enough.”

“Too late. It’s all done.”

“You can’t give me a house without me accepting it.”

“Yes. I can. Remember, all those houses up there can’t be sold. They can’t even be transferred.”

“Then you can’t give it to me.”

“But I can leave it to you in my will.”

I rolled my eyes. “Fine. When you die, we’ll talk about it then.”

“You’re the executor of my estate, and now you have power of attorney over the property. I’ve irrevocably signed it over to you, and you’ll inherit it in full on the day of my death—or your kids will, or whoever your shit is going to.”

“I’m not taking it.”

“Fine. Don’t. It can just sit up there and rot. And then your kids will inherit a nice piece of property with a house falling down in disrepair.” He started to chuckle, like he couldn’t hold it in. “And I know for a fact the auto mechanic in you ain’t going to let that happen.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out two keys, giving me a shit-eating grin as he slid them across the table. “I took the liberty of changing all the locks. These are the only two keys that work, so don’t lose them.”

“Hank,” I lowered my voice to a harsh whisper, “I’m not kidding. I’m not taking the house.”

“It’s out of my hands.” He shrugged.

“You’re such a go—” I stopped myself, biting back the words.

“Oh, watch out! The choir boy almost took the Lord’s name in vain.”

“That house is worth over a million dollars.” This was a classic case of Hank being Hank, of his penchant for being ridiculously excessive. He needed to stop doing this kind of stuff. We were best friends. Shit happened. You just get back up and face a new day. I might’ve needed space for ten days, but giving me a house is a complete overreaction.”

“Technically, it’s worth nothing. You can’t sell it. I mean, I guess you could rent it out, like Mr. Tanner does with his crappy fishing shack. If you want to.”

I wiped a hand over my face, gritting my teeth. This was the last thing I needed. I had enough shit to deal with, and now I had to convince this crazy ass to take his mansion back.

One of his mansions, I reminded myself. He had two other houses in Tennessee and a host of places all over the world.

“I hate you so much right now.”

“It’s a thin line between love and hate, my friend.” Hank skootched to the end of the booth and stood, bringing the strap of his satchel to his shoulder. “I suggest you let the love flow through you. Otherwise, I’ll just keep sending you cat memes until you do, and you know I will.”

“You’re a shitty friend.” I glared at him.

“I am.” He nodded, putting on his sunglasses. “Speaking of which, you don’t mind paying for breakfast, do you? I forgot my wallet.”

29

“The brain appears to possess a special area which we might call poetic memory and which records everything that charms or touches us, that makes our lives beautiful.”

― Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

*Beau*

MY HANDS NEEDED WASHING. They were covered in grease and dirt, and I hadn’t taken the time to give them a scrub all day.

I was in a hurry.

Sunday after church, Reverend Seymour mentioned that their bus wasn’t working. They’d acquired an old school bus a few months ago, an easy way to transport folks around the state to various events. It had broken down in the church lot and wouldn’t turn over.

Cletus and I had taken a look and he’d decided I was more qualified to work on the engine than him. I suspected he was just trying to get out of the time commitment required. It was a big job and the bus couldn’t easily be moved.

Sunday afternoon, we loaded up all the tools I might need and I set to work. Good progress was made until the sun disappeared over the mountains. Starting early again the next morning, I finally finished, doing as much as I could do by late afternoon Monday.

Now I had a list of parts that needed to be ordered and dirty hands. But at least I’d make it back to the garage before closing.

I wanted to see her.

I’d been stuck under a big yellow hood for almost twenty-four hours and I’d done a lot of thinking. About Shelly, Hank, the nature of needing people, compassion and pity, friendship, family, poetry that doesn’t rhyme, lost chances, and homeownership.

I had a lot of thoughts about a lot of things. Which meant I needed to see Shelly and try to put my thoughts into words.

Luck was on my side. Her car was still in the lot when I pulled in and the sight had me parking haphazardly, taking up two spaces in a rush to make it inside and see her.

Unexpectedly, Jethro was strolling out of the garage as I jogged toward it. Being so focused on seeing Shelly, I hadn’t noticed his truck.

My oldest brother lifted his chin in greeting as soon as he spotted me. “Hey.”

“Hey. What’s up?” I slowed my steps, taking a good look at him. He looked aggravated.

Jethro pulled his fingers through his hair, giving me a tired grin. “This wedding is going to be the death of me.”

I managed a commiserating smile. “Well, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.”

“I’ve always hated that saying.”

“Me too.” I glanced into the shadows of the shop behind him. “Cletus still here?”

“Yes,” Jethro grumped, squinting against the setting sun. “Do you know anything about this stripper Cletus has planned for the bachelor party?”

Holding my palms up, I shook my head. “I swear, I was in charge of the scavenger hunt and that’s been done for almost two months.”

“I wish someone would talk him out of it.”

“I can try,” I shoved my hands into my back pockets, anxious to get going, “if you want.”

“Yes.” Jethro rolled his eyes heavenward and walked around me. “Duane said it was a stripper. I’m hoping he means a stripper as in we’ll be stripping paint off wood.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, Jethro.” I twisted at the waist and walked backward toward the shop. “Knowing Cletus, this is his revenge for all the shit you did over the course of your life that necessitates revenge.”

“Then God help us all,” he called to me, not turning around as he dragged himself tiredly to his truck.

Indeed.

Stumbling over a few rocks at my feet, I turned back to the shop.

Neither Shelly nor I were scheduled to close up, which meant we could leave as soon as she was finished with her work.

Assuming she wanted to see me.

She wants to see you.

What if she doesn’t?

Give her some credit. She’s the most reasonable and compassionate person you know.

I nodded my head at this assertion, figuring I could help with her workload—if she let me—then we’d have the rest of the afternoon to get things sorted.

I’d just crossed the threshold of the garage, when Shelly’s voice carried to me.

She said, “Now. Why?”

Followed by Cletus saying, “Oh. Good. That’s good.”

Spotting them both by the basin sink at the back—Shelly scrubbing her fingers with a brush and soap, Cletus standing there watching her thoughtfully—I hesitated for a split second, then stayed my course.

But as I drew closer, Shelly said, “Also, I’m taking two days off next week.”

My feet ceased moving.

Two days?

“That should be fine. Duane is leaving a week from Thursday, so if you have any questions for him before you go, make sure you ask before then.”

Before I could stop myself, I asked, “Why do you need the days off?”

Both Cletus and Shelly glanced at me, but I only had eyes for her. I stared at her evenly despite the answering ache in my chest. Her eyes didn’t quite settle on mine.

Rather, she gave me a hasty once-over, then turned her attention to the sink and continued scrubbing her fingers, her tone sounding carefully aloof. “My brother had a baby. He wants me to see it.”

She’s going to Chicago?

My stomach dropped.

She was going to Chicago.

Are you moving back? I wanted to ask.

Instead, I asked, “Don’t you want to see the baby?”

Her shoulders stiffened, but she made no response, giving me her back and silence. I stared at her, waiting . . . for something. Anything. An answer. A sign. A look. An explanation.

But still she gave me nothing.

We’re back to the wall of ice. She’s just . . . cut me out. Gone.

It was like being stuck in all that morose poetry I’d been reading over the weekend. Lord Tennyson was a moron. It wasn’t better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. I didn’t know what he’d been smokin’, but it must’ve been strong.

Eventually, the sound of Cletus saying, “Well,” reminded me that he was still here. “I’m sure I’ll see you again between now and your trip, but if I forget to say so, safe travels, Shelly.”

Cletus turned from us and walked off without preamble. I waited until the sound of his footsteps faded. Then I crossed to where she stood, still scrubbing her hands, taking an eyeful of her profile.

“Shelly—”

“We need to speak, but it can’t be here.” Her eyes remained trained on the wall in front of her.

“Why can’t it be here?”

“There is a high probability that I’m going to cry, and I don’t want to cry here.”

My heart beat loudly between my ears, my mind overflowing with possibilities for why this woman with nerves of steel might cry and hating the worst case scenario.

She’s leaving for good.

“Okay. Where?”

“Why are you using that voice?” She glanced at her hands and so did I.

A noise of alarm sprang from my throat. Her fingers were red and raw. She’d scrubbed them too long and too hard. Unthinkingly, I covered her hand with mine.

“Please stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

She stopped. She stopped her scrubbing, she stopped moving, she stopped breathing. Everything about her stopped. And then she turned her face toward me and rested her forehead on my chest.

“I miss you,” she said. She sounded so broken. “I miss you so much.”

My heart bounded toward her, wanting nothing more than to alleviate her pain. I immediately wrapped her in my arms, setting my cheek on the top of her head, and exhaled a world of worry.

Rightness, certainty, relief rushed through me. I should’ve told her how I’d missed her too, but the only words on my tongue and racing through my mind were, I love you and stay with me.

I said nothing. This wasn’t about me. This was about us. And how we were going to move forward from this moment. If she didn’t love me back, then so be it. I would love her enough for both of us, I would be the more loving one.

Just as long as she stays with me, no matter where we go.

Shelly was quiet for a stretch, inhaling deeply, like she was breathing me in.

Seconds became minutes and she turned her head, pressing her ear to my cheek. “Meet me at my house?”

“Yes.”

She nodded softly, snuggling against my chest. “Promise?”

I didn’t hesitate. “I promise.”

I’d promise you anything.

SHELLY LEFT FIRST.

My hands still necessitated a good scrubbing, so I left a few minutes after. The early November day was cool, just on the brink of being chilly. Even so, I had a day’s worth of dirt and sweat layering my skin. Under normal circumstances, I would’ve gone home for a shower.

But not today.

I didn’t have poetry to give her. But I didn’t think she required words of my devotion. I suspected what she needed most was action.

I parked adjacent to her car and walked to her door, not hesitating to let myself in. She was pacing back and forth in the small space of the living room. But she stopped when I entered, her gaze immediately coming to mine.

Laika and Ivan, who had been sitting on the floor watching Shelly, jumped up at my arrival and swirled about my legs, offering excited licks and tail wags.

Double skip of my heart and enthusiastic dogs notwithstanding, I rushed to her, pulled her into a tight embrace, and kissed her neck.

Shelly melted against me, her arms around my torso were tight. “I am going to cry. I don’t want to, but it’s going to happen. It’s not because I’m sad. I’m not sad. I am overwhelmed.” Her voice cracked on the last word and I felt her face crumple against my chest.

“You can cry all day if you need to.”

“It should only be ten minutes, tops. Maybe fifteen.” She was already crying.

Even so, I chuckled at her pragmatism. “Okay. Should I time you?”

She leaned away, giving me her red-rimmed eyes. I watched as fat tears rolled down her cheeks, falling to her collarbone. My stomach plummeted with them. Sliding my hands to her jaw, I sought to wipe the tracks from her beautiful cheeks.

“I’m defective—”

“No—”

“Yes, I am.” She took a deep breath. “I’m not saying this because I feel sorry for myself. I do not feel sorry for myself. The wiring in my brain is wrong, it is defective. Before I sought help from Dr. West, I had to accept that there was something wrong with me and stop making excuses for my behavior. A mental disorder is not like a physical one. My mind and I are not one and the same. I don’t trust myself all the time, but I am working on that. I’m working to rewire my brain.”

The urge to tell her how wrong she was, about being defective, nearly strangled me.

“I hate being afraid all the time. There is nothing of value about my fear. It’s irrational, it’s harmful—to me and the people I . . . the people in my life.” She sniffled, her fingers grabbing fistfuls of my shirt. “But you never looked at me like that, like I was defective. Nothing about me scared you. You never felt sorry for me. You took everything in your stride.”

I said nothing. Clearly, she had words prepared and needed to get them out.

“Last Friday you saw me at my worst,” she said, a note of accusation in her tone, her tears coming fast. “At my most vulnerable and exposed. I hate that you saw me like that. I also hate how the way you looked at me changed.”

“How did it change? How did I look at you?”

“Like I was broken.”

No. “You aren’t broken.”

She wasn’t broken, but her words made me want to break something. Her fear wasn’t beautiful. But her strength, her resolve, her brilliance and goodness were. She wouldn’t be who she was now without her struggles. Life had shaped her, her fear had formed her, and I wouldn’t have her any differently.

“Checking on me, hovering, treating me like I’m weak, it makes me feel broken. It is humiliating.”

“Shelly, I didn’t check on you because I thought of you as broken. I did it because I—I was concerned about you after you’d gone through a—an extremely difficult ordeal,” I rushed to explain, tripping over my words in my hurry, “Hell, I needed someone to check on me after your session last Friday.”

“Then why didn’t you say something? I leaned on you, I asked you to help me. Why not lean on me in return?”

My hands slid to her shoulders while hers were still fisted in my shirt. “Because I didn’t want . . .”

Damn.

She was right. Not about everything, but about Friday. She was right.

“You can’t say it, but you know I’m right.” Her breathing was uneven. “You saw me as someone who wasn’t whole. Like a refrigerator that needs fixing, a problem to solve.”

“Wait, wait. Last Friday, I did. You’re right. But you’re also wrong. I was trying to forget about my own troubles, about what happened with Christine St. Claire last Wednesday. I wanted to help, I wanted to take care of you, but I also used you to distract myself. I used what happened as a reason to ignore my own situation, and I am so very sorry.”

“You are so very forgiven,” she said, the words barely above a tearful whisper.

I needed to hold her, so I moved my hands to her arms, planning to bring her back to me. But she flattened her palms against my chest, preventing me from pulling her close.

“For that. You are forgiven for that.”

. . . There’s more.

I stared at her, waiting for her to continue. Her gaze sharpened as she took several breaths, like she was working to calm herself.

“Your biological mother,” she said, her voice no longer wobbly. “Her existence is something you need to work through. You need to ask me for help. You need to talk to me about it. I’m not going to be the project you use, the basket case you handle, so you can distract yourself from your own broken refrigerator. I’m working on my wiring issues. You need to work on yours, and you need to lean on me.”

I nodded, sliding my teeth to the side. She was right, but the spot she poked was still raw.

“I mean it, Beau. I can’t go through life focused solely on my own burdens. You leaning on me makes me stronger.”

My pulse ticked up and with it my hope. She was talking like things between us were forever, not just for now.

“Okay.” I wanted to ask, to push, to know—what does this mean for us? In the long term?

And I was still sorting out how to broach the subject when she demanded, “So?”

“So?”

Shelly pressed her lips together, wiping the back of her hand across her nose quickly, and held my gaze. “Start talking.”

I huffed a laugh.

Her arms came around my waist and she peered up at me. “I mean it.”

“I don’t know where to start.” My chest tightened uncomfortably, reminding me of my worries.

“You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Then tell me what’s on your mind right now, what are you worried about?”

“Honestly?”

She nodded, giving me a squeeze. “Yes.”

“Fine. It might not make any sense, but for better or for worse, the number one thing on my mind right now isn’t Christine St. Claire, and it isn’t what to do about Duane. It’s whether or not you’re staying with me, or if you’re moving back to Chicago.”

Shelly’s eyes widened, and she looked at me like I’d just spoken Greek. “What?”

“You may not love me, but I love you—”

“Beau—”

“—and I need to know whether you’re staying or going. Whether we’re in this together, for the long haul, or if you’re planning to move back north, closer to your family. And if that’s the case, I want to go with you. I can’t think past losing you. I can’t focus on anything else. Where you are, that’s where I want to be.”

“Oh Beau. I promise you, where you are is where I must be.” Her eyes misted over again, and when she spoke, her voice was shaky. “You are absolutely vital to me. I want to be just as vital to you. I want to take care of you, let me take care of you. You are my first thought in the morning, and my last thought before I go to sleep. And I promise—”

I stopped her lips with mine, crushing her against me, needing to seal this moment, this promise, with something tangible. I took her promise. I would hold her to it. I was a priority, and I didn’t need any more words than that.

Shelly lifted to her tiptoes, holding me just as tight as I was holding her, and my worry—the fears I’d been harboring about her leaving—they lessened, eased until I could finally draw a full breath.

With reluctance, I dipped my chin, pressing our foreheads together and closed my eyes. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Wanting to stay with me.”

“Always.” Her hands came to my face and she cupped my jaw, her tone tender. Gentle fingers threaded through my beard. I opened my eyes and met hers, so grateful for this woman. For her honesty and strength.

Let me be the most loving.

I understood better what those words meant. They were a litany, a prayer.

Let her always need my love, as she does now, and let me always be capable of offering it this freely, unreservedly, and unconditionally.

Shelly considered me for few seconds, then lifted her chin and kissed me once more softly, whispering, “You’ve seen me at my worst and you love me anyway. Give me the same chance. Show me who you are, and trust me to stay even if there are dark parts. But also, trust me to stay because of them.”

MY STORY WAS A LONG ONE.

I’d made it as far as my momma warning me to stay away from Christine St. Claire at club picnics, when Shelly pulled me into her room and we lay on the bed.

I told her about my father—in detail—and about all the ways he’d hurt us, literally and figuratively. How he’d locked Duane in the shed for two days, just for sitting in our daddy’s chair. When I found him, he was inconsolable and didn’t let me out of his sight for weeks. We slept together for a year after that.

“I can’t believe your mother didn’t leave him.”

“She did, eventually. Granted, it took Darrell putting Billy in the hospital for her to do it.”

“She should have left him earlier.” Shelly sounded angry.

“I honestly don’t blame her. She was on her own after her momma died, with all us kids. When she married Darrell, pregnant at sixteen, she was cut off from folks in town for a long time, she was an outcast. We all were. And the club was something she both feared and needed. They ain’t good people, but they take care of their own. She needed a sitter, she got sick, her car broke down—someone would come. I’m not saying she was right, I’m not saying she was wrong. I’m just saying, I understand.”

“I guess . . . that makes sense.”

“The thing about Darrell is, he’s a master at getting people to think he’s a good guy. I hate him, I do. But I see what he is and I understand why she stayed. He’s basically all of us. Fun-loving as Jethro. Handsome as Billy. Smart as Cletus. Soulful—or the appearance of it—as Ashley. Reckless as Duane. All with the pretense of being as well-meaning as Roscoe.”

“What about you?”

“Charming as me.” I peered down at her, giving her a self-deprecating smile.

“I haven’t met all your siblings, but he sounds lethal.”

I pulled my bottom lip through my teeth. “He is.”

Eventually, as the story continued, I had to divorce myself from the words, pretend we were discussing other people.

Yet, as I told my tale, I realized something. The parts that hurt the worst weren’t the memories about what Darrell had done to me. What hurt most was recalling all the ways he’d hurt our momma, my sister, and my brothers.

Every so often, I’d ask, “Are you sure you want to hear about this?”

Shelly would nod and say, “Keep going.”

I told her about what happened a year ago, how the Wraiths had wanted us to take over their chop shop. How Duane, Cletus, Jethro, and I had busted into the Iron Wraith’s club. How Razor had been about to mark up my twin and how Christine had done nothing to prevent it.

But Claire McClure had stopped her father by surprising him with a gun. She’d been the reason we’d escaped untouched. And now she was my sister.

“How well do you know her?”

“Not well.” I rubbed my temples, they were sore. “She and Jethro are good friends, though. So she’s always been around, I guess. In fact, she’ll be at the wedding this Saturday.”

“I’d like to meet her.”

“Does this mean you’re coming to the wedding?”

Her hand slid under the hem of my shirt. “Yes. I’ve decided I’ll come to the reception.”

I squeezed her shoulders. “Good. Save me a dance.”

“All my dances are yours.”

I liked the way that sounded.

“Oh, I don’t know. You should dance with Duane. He’s better at the faster stuff. I’m more of a slow dancer.”

Her fingertips trailed back and forth over my stomach. “Are you going to tell Duane?”

I shook my head, staring at the ceiling and gathering a deep breath. “I don’t know.”

Shelly said nothing, just kept touching me. Despite the subject matter we were discussing, her strong, capable hands were turning me on—likely because I knew what they were capable of—so I caught her wrist and brought her knuckles to my lips.

When she remained silent, I asked, “Aren’t you going to give me advice?”

“No.”

“No?”

“I’m here to listen and hold your tools.”

I hoped that last bit was an innuendo.

“Not that tool.”

Damn.

“What do you mean then? Hold my tools?”

“Bounce ideas off me, go through scenarios. What’s the worst-case scenario if you tell Duane the truth?”

“He’ll . . .”

I had to think about that. Duane was quiet and steady, but I knew finding out Bethany wasn’t his birth mother would hit him hard.

“What are you worried about?”

“That he’ll take it hard.”

“Do you think he’ll recover from the news? Eventually?”

“Yes. But my job is to protect him.”

“Your job is to protect him from the truth?”

“When the truth serves no purpose other than to cause misery, then, yes.”

“How do you know it serves no purpose? If you tell him the truth, he gains a sister.”

She had me there.

“What’s the worst-case scenario if you don’t tell him?”

“He’ll find out anyway and be pissed at me for not telling him the truth. He’ll run off with Jess and never speak to me again.” Even as I said the words, I realized my fears were extremely unlikely.

“Wait a minute, why did Christine only tell you? Why not tell both of you?”

“No idea, other than she wants something and thinks I’m the one who can get it.”

Shelly was quiet, but I could almost hear her thinking.

Abruptly, she asked, “Isn’t Jess’s father a police officer?”

“He’s the sheriff.”

“Maybe she didn’t tell Duane because she doesn’t want the sheriff to know?”

“About what? About Duane and me being hers?”

“No. You said she wants something from you. Maybe she only told you, and not Duane, because she doesn’t want the sheriff to know what that thing is.”

“Huh.”

Shelly’s theory had merit.

We were both quiet for a long time after that. So long, Ivan and Laika showed up and whined at the edge of the bed.

“They need to go out.” Shelly lifted herself from my chest, her voice gravelly. “And I need to go to the bathroom.”

I glanced out the window. The sun had gone down hours ago. Our usual blanket of stars was somewhat diminished by the full moon.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

“What was that?”

I blinked at Shelly’s question. She was standing at her side of the bed, pulling on a sweater.

“Pardon?”

“What did you just say? About stars?”

“Oh,” I shook my head, “I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud.”

“What was it?”

“Just a poem I read.”

“You read poetry?”

I had to chuckle at her expression, like she was both surprised and pleased.

Standing, I stretched my arms and back, giving her a grin. “Don’t get your hopes up. It was just this last weekend. I looked through one of my momma’s books and found a page earmarked.”

“What was the poem?”

“Uh, something like ‘The More Loving One.’”

“I’ve tried to read poetry. But it never sat well with me. It’s like, I couldn’t process it without making myself upset.”

“When’s the last time you tried?”

“Years ago, in college.”

I walked around the bed, looking for my shoes. “You want me to bring the book over? We could try again.”

Slipping on her boots, her gaze grew thoughtful. “Yes, I do. I would like that very much. Thank you.”

“No, thank you.”

“For what?”

Finished with my shoes, I turned to face her. “Listening.” For making me a priority.

“Anytime. I mean it, anytime.” She nodded subtly, her eyes dropping to my chest for a beat, then back to mine. “Stay.”

“I will.” I grinned, slowly making my way to her. “But I might shower first.”

“I might join you.” She tipped her head back as I approached.

“Oh, in that case,” I slipped my hands into place on her waist, tugging her to me and kissing her neck, “I’m definitely showering first.”

SHELLY DISCOVERED SHE liked shower sex a lot. So after we got hot and steamy that night, she woke me up after her run the next morning to do it all over again.

I didn’t know if it was the feel of the water on her skin, or the feel of our bodies sliding along each other’s, slippery and wet. I honestly didn’t care. Her hooking a leg over my shoulder while she stood against the wall and I ate her out; looking up to see droplets holding on to the tips of her nipples, rolling down between her breasts, over her stomach and hips; the sounds she made both before and while she came, like she felt freer to make them when paired with the noise of running water—Shelly made getting clean while being dirty a whole lot of fun.

But she also gave me a hickey.

I hadn’t noticed until after we were out of the shower and I was drying off. My initial instinct was irritation—not that she’d given it to me, rather that it existed and I might have to explain it—but then I decided I liked it.

“I have to sleep at my house tonight.” I broke the news while she drank her tea and I gulped down a cup of coffee. “But I can come over for a little, right after work. The rest of this week is going to be crazy. We have Jethro’s bachelor party on Thursday, the rehearsal on Friday, and then the wedding on Saturday.”

“Okay.” She nodded, and then added, “I’ll miss you.”

That earned her a kiss and a smile. “I’ll miss you, too. You know, you’re welcome to come over anytime this week.”

The auto shop would be closed from Wednesday—tomorrow—and wouldn’t reopen until Monday. I wasn’t worried about her being by herself, but I did want her to know she was welcome at my house as well.

“I’m using the days off to work on the statues and sketch a new commission.” Her gaze moved over my face. “Have you talked to Cletus about us yet?”

I shook my head, sighing. “No. But I should.”

“Do you want me to be there? When you tell him?”

“Nah. That’s not necessary. Like I said, he’s tripping all over himself, getting in his own way with Jennifer. I’ll just have to sort him out.”

Yes, the time had come for me to challenge Cletus about his blindness. Besides, I had a suspicion that forcing Cletus to confront the error of his ways would be fun.

30

“I think . . . if it is true that

there are as many minds as there

are heads, then there are as many

kinds of love as there are hearts.”

― Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

*Beau*

THE CONVERSATION ABOUT Cletus and Jennifer was not at all fun.

Long story short, I came home late Tuesday night and Cletus was sitting in Grandma Oliver’s old chair, wearing his smoking jacket. Now, my brother didn’t smoke, but whenever he wore his smoking jacket, he was irritating as hell. Naturally, I tried to avoid him.

He said something superior, as though he’d known all along what was going on with me and Shelly over the last few months—which he did not—and then acted like I had his blessing.

So I turned to him, prepared to give this horse’s ass a piece of my mind. I was going to tell him how he needed to mind his own business and set to making things right between himself and Jennifer Sylvester.

That’s when the curtain lifted and the shitshow started.

Jennifer Sylvester arrived all of a sudden, looking a fright. Billy got involved. Cletus lost his mind. It was a disaster.

However, that’s a different story for a different day and it would definitely read like a novel.

Thankfully, everything had calmed down to normal levels of crazy by the time Roscoe appeared late night Wednesday.

But then, Cletus called a family meeting on Thursday. To my surprise, Drew wasn’t there. He wasn’t related to us by blood, but he might as well have been. But before I could question his absence, Roscoe began complaining about the coffee. Loudly.

This earned him an array of irritated glares from all present. I loved my youngest brother, but he was a hipster of the worst sort, having too many opinions about shit that didn’t matter.

Like red wine. And coffee. And the French pronunciation of French words. Don’t get me wrong, I ain’t got nothing against the French. I like them a lot.

But the way Roscoe spoke sometimes, he acted like his poop didn’t smell even though he was just a poor boy from backwoods Tennessee, the youngest son of a con man and a librarian.

He’s used to getting what he wants all the time. Maybe we spoiled him too much.

Finally, Cletus lifted his voice over Roscoe’s complaints. “Praise for my excellent coffee notwithstanding, I have something serious to discuss with y’all.”

“Let’s hear it.” My sister took a big gulp from her mug, giving Roscoe a pointed stare, then licked her lips. “My, my, that is some mighty fine coffee.”

Our youngest brother rolled his eyes but said nothing.

Meanwhile, Cletus stood from the couch and strolled to the fireplace, like he was standing on a stage. “I have two things to tell y’all. The first is a . . . theoretical situation, and I need your advice. I’d like for all of us to vote.”

Duane, standing to my left, grumbled at Cletus’s request. “You want us to vote on a theoretical situation?”

“That’s right.”

My twin and I swapped a look while Billy set aside his newspaper and spoke up. “Okay. What is this theoretical situation?”

Cletus cleared his throat, and I got the sense he was a little nervous. “Let’s say, theoretically, that I’ve been stealing evidence from the sheriff’s office that implicates members of a certain motorcycle club and placing that evidence in strategic locations.”

Shit.

My pulse jumped and I stiffened, taking a step away from the wall. Maybe this was it. Maybe this is what Christine St. Claire was after.

“What does that mean?” I asked, working to keep my voice even. “Why would you do that?”

“Because a RICO charge requires at least two acts of racketeering activity,” Cletus responded as though he’d been asked about the mating habits of moths.

As an aside, I’d once asked him about the mating habits of moths. He knew all about it.

But getting back to the truth bomb he’d just detonated and the room full of gaping Winstons.

“Oh my God!” Ashley covered her mouth. “What did you do?”

“RICO? You’re taking them down on a RICO charge?” Billy spoke next, like he couldn’t believe his ears.

“In this theoretical scenario, the stolen evidence will be found in the possession of low-ranking motorcycle club members along with exceptionally well-organized lists detailing names, places, and events of their racketeering activities. All information contained on these lists is entirely accurate. Just, you know, now well organized.”

“You set them up.” My twin stepped next to me. “You organized their chaos, didn’t you? You helped them look better so every member will come under an organized crime charge.”

“That wipes them out. That completely annihilates the Wraiths. Anyone associated with them goes to prison, all on the same charge.” Roscoe chuckled, like he couldn’t help himself, but like he was still stunned.

Smirking, I allowed Cletus to see how impressed I was. “It’s not the Wraiths. It’s a theoretical motorcycle club. I’m so happy you don’t hate me.”

I had to hand it to Cletus, he certainly deserved his reputation in our family as an evil mastermind.

Cletus said nothing for about a minute or two, like he wanted to give us time to think through all the implications of his disclosure.

Then he clapped once, giving us all a start. “So, let’s take the vote.”

“What vote?” Duane looked to me, frowning.

“I want y’all to vote on whether I see this plan through. Everything is in place. All I need to do is make a phone call. It’s up to you.”

“It’s up to us?” Now I couldn’t believe my ears. “Since when? Since when is it up to us?”

“Since he fell in love and realized meddling comes with a price tag.” This statement came from Jethro. He was sitting on the couch, knitting something for my niece or nephew (aka his baby).

I stared at my oldest brother’s fingers, the care with which he worked on the hat or sock or whatever it was for his future child. Jethro hadn’t always been as he was now. At one point, he’d been a committed recruit in the Wraiths. Doing dumb shit, hurting people. Our mother had been devastated.

However, and as cliché as it might sound, he’d repented. Over the last five or so years, Jethro had made attempts to mend fences with all of us, make up for his past mistakes. Mostly, he’d succeeded.

Did I think his story of redemption meant that redemption was possible for all Wraith members? Did I think they’d eventually come to see the error of their ways and likewise repent?

Probably not.

Nor do I believe, I thought sadly, that Christine St. Claire wants redemption.

I was so preoccupied with these contemplations, I missed some of the conversation. The room came back into focus when I realized Billy had already voted. He wanted Cletus to bring them down.

“I also say yes.” My twin shared a commiserating glare with Billy. “I hope they all burn in hell.”

A ball of discomfort settled in my stomach, because Duane was voting without knowing all the facts. His birth mother would be affected. She’d definitely be one of the folks going to jail.

Maybe she doesn’t deserve Duane’s concern, but Duane deserves to know.

I sighed, because there was my answer. He needed to know, and I had to tell him.

Because of this, I stepped forward next to cast my vote. “I say no. I say let things happen naturally. If the law has evidence against them, let them use it. I don’t want any of us to be implicated.” I glanced at Duane, finding his glare on me, before finishing in a rush, “Let them make their own bed. It has nothing to do with us.”

And so it went, each of us casting our vote—Billy, Duane, and Cletus ready to lead the charge, Roscoe and Ashley with me—until Jethro was the only one left.

“Jethro?” Cletus prompted. “How do you vote?”

Our oldest brother didn’t look up from the work of his hands. “I abstain.”

“What? What do you mean you abstain?” Duane sounded pissed.

“I mean I abstain. I’m not voting.”

Duane pulled his hand through his hair, obviously exasperated with Jethro. “Why the hell not?”

“Because I’m the deciding vote.” Jethro’s voice rang through the room, sharp with anger. He looked up from his knitting and glared at my twin. When he spoke next, he did so through clenched teeth. “And I hate those motherfuckers more than you. More than any of you.” Jethro moved his attention to Billy. “But I’m not going to allow hate to make my decisions. If I voted, I would vote to destroy them all. So I can’t vote. Because I’m not that person anymore.”

No one said anything for what felt like several minutes, but I’m sure it was less than that.

Eventually, Billy looked away from Jethro’s glare and reclaimed his seat. “Fine. You have your answer, Cletus.”

“Stalemate means no one wins.” Cletus twisted his mouth to the side, his eyebrows pulled together like he was concentrating.

I needed to buy some time, so I suggested, “Just leave it where it is. Leave the evidence where it is, if you can. Then, if you need it, if you need the leverage, you have it.”

Jethro chuckled, shaking his head, “You know, Beau. You’re a lot more like Cletus than you let on.”

“Thank you.” I grinned. “In light of recent events, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“What was the second thing?” Ashley looked to Cletus.

Cletus turned a look of mild confusion to our sister and then suddenly shut his eyes. His face did a weird thing then, like he had stomach pains and was bracing himself against a cramp.

Ashley glanced at each of us in turn, prompting again, “Cletus?”

He opened his eyes but kept them fastened to the carpet. “Darrell Winston had a third family.”

My mouth fell open and a spike of adrenaline shot through my veins. We were Darrell’s first family. We all already knew that Darrell had married—illegally—Drew’s sister years ago, and she was his second family. But they’d had no children and she’d died tragically some fifteen or so years prior.

But a third family? Does Cletus know? About me and Duane?

I could barely hear, a sharp ringing in my ears deafened all sound.

I looked to Billy and found him looking at me. I opened my mouth to say something, anything, but he gave his head a subtle shake, telling me to keep quiet.

Cletus cleared his throat, and then added, “Darrell had another son.”

My sister made a soft, involuntary sound of distress, but no one said a word.

A million thoughts ran like wildfire through my mind. Could it be that Christine and Darrell have another child?

And suddenly, I couldn’t wait to tell Claire that she was my sister. I couldn’t wait. I couldn’t wait to find out about her, what she was like, what we had in common.

Shelly had been right. She hadn’t said as much, she hadn’t spelled it out for me, but I’d been focusing on the wrong thing. I hadn’t lost a mother. Bethany was still my momma, and she always would be.

We hadn’t lost a thing, but we’d gained a sister. Duane and I had a second sister.

“His name was Eric and he died.” Cletus’s voice was rough, thick with uncharacteristic emotion.

My soaring excitement crashed down to earth as Cletus continued, “He died of cancer. I found out two years ago, after he’d passed. I thought y’all should know.”

Shit.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

I tried to swallow, but couldn’t. My eyes dropped to the carpet and I stared, absorbing the loss of a brother I would never know.

We all did.

Silence pressed down on us, filling the empty gaps in the room and separating us in our grief.

But then, unexpectedly, Duane walked past me. He walked straight to Cletus and wrapped him in a firm hug. Jethro was next, setting aside his work and bringing his arms around his brothers. Then Roscoe moved, then Ashley.

Billy and I shared a fleeting glance. He gave me a little smile, tilted his head faintly toward our family as though to say, Get in there. That’s where you belong.

So I did.

We’d rolled with the punches—both literally and figuratively—but in the last twelve months, things had changed. Apart from Momma’s death, things had changed for the better. Ashley had returned, and our family was growing. From tonight, even if our lives were physically moving us apart, we were closer.

I was reminded of something my momma used to say, “As time together grows scarce, it also becomes more precious.”

So I hugged my family. I wrapped them in my arms and took a moment to be grateful that they were mine.

USING THE SET of keys she gave me, I unlocked the door to Shelly’s cabin and tried to be as silent as possible as I slipped in.

Unfortunately, my plans were thwarted when Laika and Ivan bounded into the living room, snarling and barking like wild animals.

“Dammit.” I winced, regretting my decision to come over.

I hadn’t wanted to wake her up, but I missed her. I hadn’t seen or spoken to Shelly since Tuesday night. Now it was early Friday morning and my bones ached with how much I needed to be near her.

Seeing it was me, the dogs quieted down almost immediately. But they also danced around my legs, requiring ear scratches and head pats before giving me enough space to clear the front door.

“Beau?” Shelly’s sleepy voice carried to me. It sounded like she was in the bedroom.

“Yes. Sorry,” I loud whispered. “Go back to sleep.”

“Come in here.”

“I am. I just need to take off my shoes.”

“Okay.”

Locking the door behind me, I crossed to the couch and sat, thankful to be off my feet. It was now after midnight—way after midnight—and Jethro’s bachelor party was over.

Thank.

The.

Lord.

It had been a long day.

After the revelations of the morning, I took my brothers plus Drew on a scavenger hunt through the Smoky Mountains. We must’ve covered twenty-five miles of wilderness before the sun set. Instead of camping afterward—which was my idea—Cletus had insisted on entertainment.

Therefore, taking us all to a warehouse in Maryville (with a solemn promise that we could leave after a half hour), Cletus had his show.

“I’m going to murder Cletus,” Jethro had said, just moments after leaving the warehouse. He looked exhausted. And frazzled. And irritated.

I lifted an eyebrow at my oldest brother and rolled my lips between my teeth so I wouldn’t bust out laughing.

“I’m right behind you.” Billy said this while he picked silly string from his shirt and dusted glitter from his pants.

Drew was also picking silly string off his shirt, but had wisely decided to stay quiet.

“I’ll help you murder Cletus,” Billy grumbled, “if you can find him.”

Duane and I shared a look. We both had to drop our eyes to the ground to keep from laughing.

“I don’t see what the big deal is.” Roscoe shrugged. “So what? It was a male stripper.”

“I’ve got nothing against a male stripper, Roscoe. But I didn’t want a stripper to begin with, and I definitely didn’t want an eighty-five-year-old stripper named George.”

“You forget that he’s a retired Navy SEAL. And he rappelled from the ceiling like a badass.” Roscoe’s eyes brightened with amusement, but he kept his face straight otherwise.

“I did not forget either of those facts.” Jethro’s voice was deadpan as he glared at Roscoe.

“Come on now, Jethro.” I shoved his shoulder. “You’re just sore ’cause he put you in a headlock.”

“With his legs,” Drew added good-naturedly.

Duane looked at me again, and then cast his eyes to the ground once more. But his shaking shoulders gave him away.

“I’m leaving.” Jethro threw his hands in the air and stalked toward his car. “I need four showers and a bath.”

We all laughed then—Drew, Roscoe, Duane, and I. Even Billy cracked a smile.

Despite being exhausted, and despite seeing what my testicles might become in another sixty years, I decided it had been a good day.

Nevertheless, something was missing.

Which was why, after dropping my brothers off at the house, I couldn’t sleep. Deciding not to fight against the urge, I dressed quickly and drove to Shelly’s.

And so here I was, taking off my shoes in her living room and stripping down to my boxers. I hadn’t thought to bring pajamas and I didn’t want to rifle through the bag I still had in her room.

Walking as quietly as I could, I slipped into her room. Something in me settled at the sight of her—an enigmatic wildness, a hunger.

Appeased, I climbed into bed and smoothed my hand from her shoulder down the length of her arm, to tangle our fingers together.

“Beau,” she whispered, her eyes still closed.

“Shelly.”

“Take off your boxers.”

I smirked. “How do you know I’m wearing boxers?”

“You always wear clothes to bed, and then I always have to take them off. Just . . . sleep naked.” She said this last part around a yawn, turning and taking my hand with her.

“I need my hand to remove my boxers.”

“Fine,” she groaned. “Then you have to give it back.”

Shaking my head at a sleepy Shelly, I quickly divested myself of my boxers and slid back in bed, being the big spoon to her smaller one.

Though I loved holding her, I wished she was facing me. She was so lovely when she slept, this woman of mine. Maybe it made me a creeper, but I wanted a picture of her sleeping.

But I also wanted a picture of her scowling, smiling, laughing, and staring daggers at me. I wanted a picture of all her faces, just as she was now, so I could remember how I fell in love with the spectrum of that face, and the complex woman behind it.

I WOKE UP to light touches—fingers moving through my hair and lips moving over my face—and I smiled.

“Good morning, Beau.”

My smile grew. “Good morning, Shelly.”

“Why do you have glitter in your hair?”

I frowned, because I didn’t know. But then I remembered and groaned. “You don’t want to know.”

“I do want to know. I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know.”

Opening one eye, I spotted her above me. She was wearing pajamas—sadly—and her eyes were wide with curiosity. “Cletus hired a retired Navy SEAL, who happened to be eighty years old or more, to strip for Jethro at his bachelor party.”

Her brow wrinkled. “But where did the glitter come from?”

I chuckled, because of course nothing about an eighty-year-old stripper, or the fact that he was a Navy SEAL, would eclipse the fact that I hadn’t answered her original question.

“Cletus gave us each an envelope, said it was a surprise, but they turned out to be glitter bombs.”

“Why would he do that?”

I lifted the hem of her shirt, wanting the silk of her skin. “Because he’s Cletus.”

“Hmm . . .” She gave me a quick kiss. “How have you been?”

I opened both my eyes, and sighed, sliding my hand under her tank top and around to her back. “Missing you. A lot has happened.”

“What?’

“I made a decision about Duane. I’m going to tell him.”

Her features grew soft, concerned. “What made you decide?”

I gave her the gist of it, about Cletus and Jenn and how that situation resolved itself. Then I explained as much as I could about Cletus’s leverage over the Wraiths without telling her anything that might incriminate her if the truth came out. Then I told her about our brother who’d died.

She sucked in a breath, gripping her chest. “That’s terrible news.”

“It made me realize that I needed to tell Duane. He deserves to know.”

“Okay, okay. Let me know how I can support you.” She looked so earnest, so determined.

“I will, thank you. The plan is to tell him today.” Absentmindedly, I sketched the curve of her waist, tugging back her pajama bottoms to reveal the smooth skin of her hip.

She appeared to be surprised by this news. “Why today? Why not wait until after the wedding?”

“You think I should wait?”

“No, not at all. I just wanted to know why you want to do it so soon.”

“Because Claire will be there, at the wedding. I don’t want to ambush her, but . . .”

“You want to tell her, too.”

“I do.” I leaned forward, placing a soft kiss against her neck. “And Duane is leaving next Thursday. He doesn’t know when he’ll be back. If I don’t act soon, then the three of us will miss a chance.”

She nodded, her fingers threading into my hair. “That makes sense. Just let me know what I can do.”

“You’re still coming?”

“Yes, I said I would.” She ran her knuckles along the side of my beard. “I like how this feels. It’s both scratchy and soft.”

That made me grin. “I’m glad you’re coming to the wedding and I’m glad you like my beard.”

“It’s a magnificent beard. You should always have it, so I can always touch it.” She leaned away and inspected me. “You still look tired. Do you want to go on a run? Or do you want to sleep?”

Judging from the light outside, it was much later that her usual 6:00 AM run time.

“You haven’t gone on your run yet?”

She shook her head and took a deep breath. “I decided to sleep in.”

“You slept in?”

“No. I lay next to you while you slept in so I could keep touching you.”

“Ah. I see.” I liked the sound of that.

“Run?”

Since I’d been out half the night, assaulted by a senior citizen posing as a stripper, I decided rest was in my best interest. “Sleep.”

“Okay, then . . . shower?”

My grin widened. “Yes, please.”

She nodded, giving me one of her almost smiles, and then stood and moved to her dresser.

I watched her dress. I admired her long legs and torso as she removed her clothes, growing hot around my neck as her breasts were revealed, losing my breath as she bent over. Physically, the woman was a goddess, and she didn’t seem to care.

Of course she didn’t care.

It would be so easy to look at her and only ever see the shell, be blinded by her form. But her flaws, her resilience in the face of her struggles, her strength of character and honor, that’s what made her who she was.

She was exquisite to me and I loved her because I knew her. And I felt sorry for everyone else who wouldn’t be able to look beyond her exterior to the true beauty within.

So, yeah, I admired her body as she slipped on workout clothes, I thought about all the ways I would make her come when she returned, and I mourned the loss of her skin as she covered it. I watched her until she left the room. But when she was gone, I missed her.

So I grabbed Shelly’s pillow and rolled to my side, giving myself a mental high five for coming over last night.

Best decision ever.

Surrounded by her scent, I’d just started drifting back to sleep when Shelly burst back into the room.

“Beau!” Her voice was a harsh whisper. “Beau!”

“Yes, yes. I’m up.” I forced my eyes open.

“Beau. Quinn is here.”

I jerked, now completely awake. “What?”

“My brother. He’s here. With Janie. And Desmond.” Suddenly, she clapped her hands over her mouth, her eyes huge and frightened, like she just remembered something terrifying.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” I sat up, my heart in my throat. “Are you okay?”

“All of those sentences were even numbered.”

31

“The bravest people are the ones who don’t mind looking like cowards.”

― T.H. White, The Once and Future King

*Beau*

I BREATHED A sigh of relief and pulled her into a hug. The terrified look on her face had me thinking the worst.

She pushed against me. “We don’t have time for a hug. Quinn and Janie and Desmond are out there, and—”

“One thing at a time.” I held her tighter. “How can I help you? What do you say or do when you need to push through your fears?”

She shook her head, her body stiff, but then she recited on a rush, “Thinking that a person is prone toward violence because of the number of words in their sentences is irrational. I will face this irrational fear and conquer it. I am in control of my actions. I’m not violent.”

I kept her in my arms and we breathed together, her body relaxing by degrees. Eventually, her arms came around me and she buried her face in my neck.

“Thank you, and I’m sorry.”

“No need for an apology.” I kissed her temple. “To be honest, I’m feeling a little panicked myself.”

She leaned away, keeping her hands on me but tilting her chin back. “What? Why?”

“Not going to lie, Quinn scares me a little.”

Shelly smiled, shaking her head. She gathered my face between her palms and pressed a kiss to my lips. “Oh my God, I love you.”

Now I stiffened.

She loves me?

Catching her by the arms, I gently forced her away so I could see her eyes. “You love me?”

“Yes.” She said it quickly, like she was suddenly remembering she loved me. “I love you!”

“Did you forget to tell me?”

“No. I didn’t forget. You were asleep.”

“You figured it out while I was asleep?”

“Yes.”

“Last night?”

“No.” She wiggled out of my grip, glancing quickly over her shoulder.

“Shelly.”

“Monday night, okay?” She was backing away, heading for the door. “You need to get dressed.”

Now I did scowl at her. “You forgot to tell me.”

“I did not forget to tell you, I forgot not to tell you.”

“What?”

She was making no sense.

“I decided I wasn’t going to tell you until later. I wanted to make it special, okay?” She pointed at me, waving her finger around. “Put clothes on, come out, say hi.”

And with that, she slipped out of the room, leaving me naked in her bed wearing nothing but a smile.

Again.

“HELLO, BEAU.”

“Quinn.” I nodded once and didn’t grimace, even though Quinn’s handshake was more like a vise grip of thinly veiled aggression than a friendly hello.

I was especially impressed because, while he crushed my bones with his right hand, he held his infant son in his left. That’s some serious multitasking.

“Hi, Beau.” Quinn’s wife Janie stepped between us, forcing her husband to release my hand. She put a hand on my shoulder and brought me forward for a kiss on the cheek. Her greeting was a lot friendlier.

Then again, I hadn’t just come out of her sister’s bedroom.

But then she said, “The average woman uses her height in lipstick every five years. I’m not wearing any lipstick because I ran out of time this morning and I have none in the diaper bag, but I am wearing ChapStick. There is no official fear of wearing ChapStick, but the fear of kissing is called philemaphobia. And cherophobia is the fear of fun.”

I nodded politely, remembering that Ashley had said Janie Sullivan was a little odd. Not Shelly odd, a different kind, where she’d randomly start quoting little known facts. I reckoned she read a lot of books.

“What’s with the glitter?” Quinn lifted his chin to my hair, his tone flat.

“Cletus. He glitter-bombed us last night at Jethro’s bachelor party.”

Quinn’s features were impassive, but he said, “I like your brother Cletus.”

“He certainly is something else.” My friendly smile didn’t waver, but on the inside I was frowning. I was frowning intensely.

I was going to have to move a mountain to get this guy to like me. So be it.

After Shelly left the bedroom earlier, I’d gone through my stuff, looking for something decent to wear. All I had were jeans and T-shirts, so I picked the least worn of each and pulled them on. Then I put on socks. My momma always said you should meet a guest in shoes, family in socks, and friends in bare feet.

I don’t know why she said this, but it stuck with me.

Shelly rushed into the room, her attention flicking to the baby in Quinn’s arms, then to her sister-in-law. “I have your coffee. It’s in the kitchen.”

“Oh. Should I drink it in the kitchen?” Janie shifted her weight, like she was going to follow Shelly.

“I can bring it out here,” Shelly offered, wringing her hands. “I’m sorry, I should have brought it out here.”

“I can go get it,” Janie offered, taking a step forward.

“No. I’ll bring it. You stay there.” As she turned away I thought I heard her mumble, “Bags, coats, drinks, day. Bags, coats, drinks, day.”

Returning my attention to Quinn, I found him watching me with a glare of suspicion. “How old are you?”

I reared back an inch, but then quickly recovered, giving him my most affable shrug and an answer meant to distract. “I was born during the war.”

“Which war?”

Shelly rushed back into the room. “Here is your coffee.”

“Thank you.” Janie accepted it with a warm smile. “I’ve allowed myself to have a cup a day.”

“Oh, then don’t drink that.” Shelly took the cup out of Janie’s hands just as the woman was taking her first sip. “It’s not as good as Daisy’s coffee. We should go there.”

Shelly bolted out of the room before Janie could protest. The redhead glanced at her husband, giving him a distressed look.

“You’re the one who insisted we come,” he said, tilting his head to the side to avoid the flailing arm of his son.

“She keeps cancelling.” Janie lowered her voice. “You know how important it is to your parents that she come for Christmas.”

Quinn’s glare flickered to me, and then away. “She’s never going to come.”

“She might.” Janie’s gaze also moved to me, then narrowed thoughtfully. “How long have you two been together?”

“Just a few weeks.” I gave her an easy smile.

“You work at the shop, too?”

“I’m part owner.”

“Oh, that’s right.” Janie’s smile was tired. “I asked Ashley to set things up when she came up to visit us in September, when Desmond was born. I think she called your brother Jethro to help Shelly.”

“Do you know why Ashley called Jethro instead of just coming to Duane or me or Cletus instead?”

“At first, I asked about Shelly getting a job with the park service. I think that’s why your sister called Jethro. But then Jethro realized she’s a mechanic and brought her over to meet Cletus.”

Movement out of the corner of my eye snagged my attention. Desmond was grabbing Quinn’s nose and trying to pull it from his face. The big man then dipped his son back, kissed him on the neck, and made the baby giggle.

Shelly appeared again, drawing everyone’s gazes. She’d changed out of her running clothes, put on a pair of jeans and a sweater, and was giving us an expectant look.

“Should we go?”

“Where?” Quinn asked, lifting an eyebrow at his sister.

“To Daisy’s Nut House for coffee and pancakes.”

“Oh.” Janie looked to her husband, then back to Shelly. “We brought food. We don’t need to go out.”

“You brought food?” Shelly’s face fell.

“Yes. Since we dropped in unannounced, I thought it made sense. We brought Italian beef from Al’s and pancakes for you from Giavani’s.” Janie gave me an apologetic smile. “I’m sure we can share some of ours.”

Quinn grumbled something under his breath that I didn’t catch, but which earned him a sharp look from his wife.

“It’s okay.” I tried to ease her mind. “I can’t stay long. We have preparations for Jethro’s wedding and I need to get back to the house.”

“I could have cooked. I can cook.” Shelly seemed out of sorts at this news.

“Janie decided we should fly down today and surprise you.” Quinn’s voice was completely flat, which told me he didn’t agree with his wife’s highhanded approach.

“I know you don’t like surprises, but I’m not sorry.” Janie shook her head, her lips pressed into a flat line. “I wanted to see you. I haven’t been getting much sleep, and breastfeeding has been pretty hit and miss for me, so I might be making selfish decisions right now.”

For the first time since they arrived, Quinn’s stoic façade broke and the corner of his mouth tugged upward.

Janie turned to me. “There is no consensus regarding whether or not sleep deprivation falls under the Geneva Convention as a form of torture. But if it did, our son would be guilty of it.”

I ENDED UP staying longer than I intended. Shelly was acting funny and I worried about her. Neither Quinn nor Janie had offered to let her hold Desmond, but I caught her looking at the baby a few times with unconcealed longing.

It was giving me heartburn.

However, I had an idea, and that’s why I stayed. Shelly had told me weeks ago that her brother didn’t know about her diagnosis, nor did he understand the nature of her touch aversion. He likely thought she didn’t like to be touched, period.

If I could get Quinn alone for a minute, I thought I could explain how Shelly had difficulty initiating touch, but if the baby touched her first, then she’d be able to hold him. Or, if Quinn touched her first, she’d be able to give her brother a hug.

I kept looking for an opportunity to act on my idea, but no such opportunity presented itself. And this was because every single second was predicated in tension.

Tension between Quinn and Shelly, Quinn and me, Quinn and Janie. The man was angry, it was easy to see. But more than that, he was frustrated.

When he’d move close to his sister, she’d recoil. Now I knew Shelly did this because she didn’t want to accidentally touch him. Or touch Desmond when Quinn was holding him. But her shrinking away only increased his exasperation.

For her part, Shelly seemed to be picking up on Quinn’s mood and I spotted her pressing her thumbnail into her wrist. And that made me tense. Plus, I got the sense she was trying to build her courage, endeavoring to talk herself into doing something important.

I wanted to be there for her, hold her tools and whatnot, but I was at a loss for what to do. So I stayed, trying to lighten the mood when I could.

“I’ve been watching a lot of documentaries about breakthroughs in medical science since I’ve been home with Desmond,” Janie said cheerfully, her voice softer now that Desmond was asleep in her arms. “Did you know Paul Winchell, the voice of Tigger in The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh, also invented an artificial heart?”

We were presently sitting at the kitchen table. I’d split Shelly’s pancakes with her and Janie had insisted I try her Italian beef. Glancing around the table, I realized I was the only one who’d eaten.

“And ketchup was sold as medicine in the eighteen hundreds.” Janie gave me a little smile. “Which, I guess if you think about it, is safer than bleed—”

“I have to tell you something,” Shelly blurted, pushing her plate away and covering her face with her hands.

Quinn glanced at his wife, then to his sister. “What?”

“I did something terrible to you.” Shelly straightened in her seat, giving her eyes to her brother. “And Mom and Dad.”

“What are you talking about?” Quinn made a face. “Is this about hugging?”

“No. After Des died, I didn’t go to the funeral. I was in Chicago.”

“I know.” He shrugged, like this was all in the past and he wanted to leave it there. “I was at the funeral.”

“Yes. You were. And Mom yelled at you, said you were responsible for Des’s death, remember?”

Quinn’s eyes darted to me, then back to his sister. “Do we need to discuss this now?”

“Yes. We do. Because I’m having a moment of clarity, and I don’t know how long it’ll last.” Her chin started to wobble, but she stopped it.

“I’ll go.” I stood to leave, to give them some privacy.

But Shelly looked to me and in her eyes I saw her begging me to stay. “You should hear this too, so you know what I’m like.”

“What you were like,” Janie corrected softly. “You’ve changed, Shelly. You’re so different. You offered me coffee and took my bag when we came in.”

“I need to say this.” She squeezed her eyes shut, and shook her head quickly. “I lied to you, Quinn. After the funeral, a few weeks after, Mom called me and asked me to get in touch with you. She asked me to help them; she wanted to apologize. And I told her that you didn’t want to talk to her and that you couldn’t forgive her.”

Quinn blinked, like he was startled. His gaze of confusion swiftly became a glare ripe with accusation, and when he spoke, his voice was rough, thick with anger.

“Why did you do that?”

She opened her eyes again and met his squarely, her voice firm. “Because I was a coward. I was selfish and a coward. You finally moved to Chicago after the funeral, after what happened. And I wasn’t afraid anymore. You were like a bridge for me, an escape, a way for me to survive. I was worried that if you talked to Mom, you’d move back to Boston, and I’d be alone.”

“So you lied to me?”

“Yes.”

“And you lied to Mom? And Dad?”

“Yes.” Her eyes were glassy, but she didn’t cry.

“That kept us apart for years. Years.”

“I know.”

“I thought they didn’t want anything to do with me. I thought—” He stopped himself, his gaze growing unfocused, like he was remembering the years away from his parents. As though suddenly realizing something, he brought his wide stare back to his sister. “They thought I hated them?”

“Yes, it was my fault. And I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” He said the words like they strangled him.

“I’m so sorry.” She kept her eyes on him, absorbing his anger.

He stood suddenly, turning away from his sister and pacing to the fridge. “I can’t believe this.”

I held perfectly still, hoping that if I didn’t move, he would forget I was in the room, witnessing this deeply personal family moment.

He paced back to the table, his tone lethally calm while his eyes flashed. “You are so selfish. So fucking selfish.”

“I know.” She nodded, rolling her lips between her teeth. Taking it.

Watching this unfold was hard, maybe just as hard as watching her face her fears with Dr. West. Quinn hadn’t crossed any lines. His anger was justified. But it was clear he didn’t understand the nature of her disorder.

And it was also clear she had no plans to tell him. At least, not yet. It’s as though Shelly believes she deserves his wrath, his . . . hatred and dismissal.

“You wanted me in Chicago, but you didn’t bother to stay in the city. We had breakfast barely once a week for years, and that’s the only time I saw you. You never stayed. You never came when I needed you, when I needed family. I was on my own. But you wanted me in Chicago, not Boston.”

She dropped her eyes then, and they fell to the table. The urge to go to her was unbearable, to hold her, to take this pain from her. But it wasn’t mine to take.

This was her refrigerator.

“We had pancakes for twenty minutes, and then you had to go. I can’t remember the last time we hugged. Why the hell did you want me in Chicago?”

Her voice was meek, quiet as she said, “I loved you. I wanted—”

“No. Not a good reason. You don’t treat someone you love like that.”

She closed her eyes, nodding again. “No. You don’t. I was wrong. I was manipulative and wrong. And I wish I could go back and be better—for you and for Mom and Dad—but I can’t.” Lifting her chin, she opened her eyes and met her brother’s glare. “I understand if you can’t forgive me, but I—”

“Oh no. No, no, no. I’m going to forgive you.” He said this like it was a threat. “You don’t get off that easily.”

32

“When you fish for love, bait with your heart, not your brain.”

― Mark Twain, Notebook

*Beau*

HER BROW DREW TOGETHER as she studied her brother. “You forgive me?”

“Not yet. I’m going to be angry for a while. Really, really pissed.”

Janie nodded at that, like she was mentally preparing for what it meant when Quinn was really, really pissed. Other than visible displays of concern for both Quinn and Shelly’s feelings, she didn’t seem too worried about him being pissed.

She didn’t seem afraid or alarmed, like he might take his anger out on her.

If it had been my father, my mother would have hidden all us kids.

But not Quinn.

No.

Quinn was a good guy, it was easy to see that now, even though he was angry. Actually, this moment made me realize I could tell a lot about a person’s character when they were angry. Quinn’s character was serious as shit, reserved, and honorable.

“And you’re going to make it up to me.” He pointed at his sister, his eyes a little wild. “You’re going to come to Thanksgiving. And Christmas. And you’re going to stay with us through New Year’s and we’re going to exchange gifts, so that means you have to go shopping.” He was quick to add, “No online shopping. You have to go to a store.”

Shelly made a face that was something between a grimace, a chin wobble, and a smile. “Quinn—”

“Mom and Dad will be there at Christmas, so get ready to tell them what you just told me.”

Now her face was all grimace but she nodded. “Okay. Okay, I will.”

My heart hurt for her, at the thought she’d have to do this all over again. But in the end, it would be worth it. In the end, she’d be stronger and she’d have stitched her family back together.

“And I want a portrait of Desmond,” Janie put in, glancing between brother and sister. When they just looked at her silently, she explained to Quinn, “I just figure, while we’re making demands, we should get her to paint a portrait. Right?”

Quinn stared at Janie, like he couldn’t believe the words out of her mouth.

But then Janie pointed to Quinn and snapped her fingers. “No. We want a family portrait. A nice one. Not any of that cubist garbage.”

I had to press my lips into a line to keep from grinning at her tangent.

Meanwhile, Shelly’s eyes shone with guilt as she watched her brother. And he continued glaring at her, as though trying to devise additional ways to torture his sister.

Abruptly, he said, “And we want you to be Desmond’s godmother.”

She stiffened, her lips parting in shock. “I don’t—”

“You’re going to do it.”

Shelly looked like she was struggling to swallow and her eyes—large with fear—came to mine. Help me, they said. Help me, please.

I cleared my throat, my gaze shifting from Shelly’s to Quinn’s to Janie’s, then back to Shelly’s.

“So, I have an idea,” I said to Shelly, giving her a small, encouraging smile.

Then I turned to Janie. “Can I hold Desmond, please?”

Janie frowned at me suddenly, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. “Don’t wake him up.”

Not the resounding endorsement I’d been hoping for, but I’d take it.

“I’m good with babies. They love me.” I slipped my hand under his sleeping head, supporting the infant’s body with my forearm. Then I brought the little tyke to my chest. Damn, he was cute.

Standing, I gently swayed as I walked to where Shelly sat, watching me with dawning horror.

“No. No. This is a bad idea. Please, please, Beau. No.” She shrank from me, her gaze growing wild.

“Shh,” I hushed her and the baby, who’d stirred at the tension in his aunt’s voice. “Stand up, Shelly.”

“I can’t.” She shook her head, her chin wobbling again. “You know I can’t.”

Quinn took a step toward us. “What are you doing?”

I ignored him, and kept my eyes on her, my voice low and soothing. “Trust me, just stand up.” You love me. Trust me.

Gathering a deep breath, she stood stiffly, biting down on her bottom lip and watching me as though she expected betrayal.

“Put your hand out, please.”

She hesitated, glancing from me to Desmond, but then she put her hand out.

I took the baby’s tiny fist, inserted my index finger into it, then placed his little hand in Shelly’s.

She sucked in a breath, her eyes darting to mine and then back to her nephew, her features softening with comprehension.

“Oh my God,” she breathed, her eyes filling with tears. She couldn’t catch them before they spilled over her cheeks.

“Have him hold your finger.”

She did, very gently. The entirety of her focus on the little man in my arms, she slipped her finger into his grip.

Ensuring Desmond’s hand never left hers, I shifted his weight back to my forearm and then finally into her hold. She sucked in a ragged breath, her eyes overflowing with wonder as she sat back down in her seat.

“Hello, Desmond,” she whispered through her tears, smiling widely at his sleeping face, then kissed his little nose. “Hello, I’m your aunt.”

The baby sighed, stretched, and then tucked his fists under his chin, bringing her finger with him. And now I wanted to add another photo to my Faces of Shelly file. Reverence.

At some point Quinn had come to stand next to me, the look on his face told me he didn’t know what to think; shocked and concerned seemed to war with happy amazement.

I grinned, thoroughly enjoying the big guy’s confusion. “Hey there, Papa bear. Looks like you have yourself a godmother.”

Janie also stood and walked around the table to us.

Slipping her hand in the crook of Quinn’s elbow, she said, “Actually, bears make the worst fathers. They eat their young. Or, to be more accurate, they eat bear cubs that might be their young.” She lifted her chin, gazing at her husband with a happy smile on her face, the look so completely at odds with the words coming out of her mouth. “Some biologists think they do this to regulate the size of the bear population. Others hypothesize—since females can have litters of mixed paternity—males kill cubs so a female will come back into estrus and he can impregnate her again. You know, to better ensure passing on his genes.”

Quinn didn’t seem to hear his wife. Or, if he did, her grizzly facts didn’t faze him. Pun intended.

“The best dads in the animal kingdom are red foxes.” Janie brought her eyes to mine, giving me a smile.

“Red foxes, huh?” I got the sense she was trying to communicate more than just facts about the childrearing habits of mammals.

“That’s right.” Her grin widened and she lifted a meaningful eyebrow. “Red foxes make the best parents. And the best mates.”

THE REHEARSAL WAS SET to take place at the Oliver Chapel in Cades Cove. It was a rustic building, built in the eighteen hundreds, part of the national park, and never used for outside events. But Sienna—being a movie star—and Jethro—being a park ranger and a direct descendant of the Olivers—were able to pull a few strings so they could use it for the wedding.

I arrived five minutes before the appointed time and took my place as a groomsman along with the rest of my brothers. The whole ordeal took about an hour and a half, and mostly we just stood around. It would be a full Catholic Mass, with a bishop or a cardinal or a rook or something like that doing half the heavy lifting. Reverend Seymour would be doing the other half.

It seemed like a good compromise, including both religions. But logistically, getting all the kinks worked out so both would get equal showtime, it took a while.

When we were mostly done, and Sienna’s momma was talking over the final details with the officiants, Jethro drifted to where Drew, Billy, Duane, Roscoe and I were gathered. We were in a circle across the room from Cletus, giving him dirty looks.

“We’re still mad, right?” Roscoe asked.

“We are,” Jethro confirmed. Then to me, he lifted his chin. “Where have you been?”

“What are you talking about? I was here the whole time.”

“But you were gone all day.”

I brought my hands to my hips, peering at my brother. “Yeah, sorry about that. Something came up.”

“Does this have anything to do with a certain lady mechanic?” Billy asked. His mouth wasn’t smirking, but his voice was.

“Yes.” I pulled my hand through my hair, too tired to hide the fact that I was tired. “Her brother, and his wife and baby came into town unexpectedly this morning. I’ve been over there.”

Drew perked up at this news. “Quinn is in town?”

“He is.” I eyeballed Drew, curious about how well he knew Quinn and whether or not he could help me win the big guy over.

I’d left Shelly with her family and things had been good just before I drove off. Janie was on the floor doing tummy time with Desmond while Shelly and Quinn went to her Quonset hut to look at the statues. But I believed the good was tenuous. Shelly didn’t seem ready to explain the details of her disorder to her brother.

But it was her refrigerator, so that was that.

“Will they be around tomorrow?” Jethro glanced between Drew and me. “They should come to the wedding.”

“I can ask.”

“Go ahead, call them now.” Jethro pointed in the direction of my back pocket. “I know Ashley would like to see Janie.”

“I can try to call her landline. Shelly doesn’t have a cell and I don’t know Quinn’s number.”

“Shelly doesn’t have a cell phone?” Roscoe crossed his arms. “How does she survive?”

“Air, food, and shelter, I suspect.” Billy sent our youngest brother a dry look, making Jethro laugh.

“I have Quinn’s phone number. I can ask.” Drew pulled out his cell and turned away from our semicircle to place the call.

“You know what I mean,” Roscoe grumbled, rolling his eyes.

While Jethro and Billy took turns teasing Roscoe, Duane and I shared a look at our youngest brother’s expense.

“He’s such a dummy.” Duane kept his voice low, so only I could hear. “Remember that one time, he must’ve been in second grade, when we made him think we knew the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?”

I chuckled. “And then Billy made us dress up as Donatello and Rafael.”

“Yeah.” My twin bit his bottom lip, his stare losing focus, a small smile playing over his features.

Glancing at his profile, at the nostalgic glint to his eyes, I asked myself if I really wanted to tell him the truth about Christine. Would he look back at our childhood and think of it as tainted? Would these memories lose meaning for him?

“Why’re you staring at me?” His eyes slid to the side, his brow wrinkling.

“Uh,” I shook my head. “I need to talk to you.”

“Go on then, talk.”

I glanced around the chapel. There were only a few of us left. Billy had pulled out his keys and Sienna had come over to claim Jethro. Drew had finished his call with Quinn and gave me a thumbs up just as Ashley caught up with him. He put his arm around my sister’s shoulders and they walked toward the exit.

“You brought Roscoe?” I asked Duane.

“Yeah.”

“Hey Drew,” I called, causing the big man to turn.

“Quinn said yes. They’ll be there.”

“Oh, good. Say, do you mind taking Roscoe home?”

“Sure.” Drew motioned Roscoe over, and our brother happily obliged, taking his spot on Ashley’s other side and wrapping his arm around her waist.

Feeling a set of eyes on me, I turned and found Billy watching us. He shook his head firmly, but his gaze was sympathetic.

“I have to.” I shrugged, because what else could I do?

Duane looked between me and Billy. “Have to what?”

“Just a minute.” I peered around my twin toward the door.

Jethro and Sienna as well as Drew, Ash, and Roscoe left the chapel, leaving just me, Duane, and Billy.

“What’s going on?”

I turned back to Duane, heat crawling up my neck, splinters in my chest, and struggled for a way to start.

“Are you trying to freak me out? ’Cause it’s working.”

“Beau has something you need to know and it will suck. But it’s true.” Billy came to stand next to me.

Duane shifted restlessly, crossing his arms. “What is it? Are you sick?”

“No. I’m not sick.”

“Then just say it.”

I sucked in as large a breath as I could manage, bracing myself. “You know how the Wraiths chased Shelly and me a few weeks back?”

“Yeah. They were after Cletus last Friday, too.”

Billy and I looked at each other.

“They were?” Billy’s tone was sharp. “What for?”

“I think he punched Isaac Sylvester and broke his nose in the Piggly Wiggly.”

“Oh.” Billy frowned thoughtfully. “He probably deserved it.”

I didn’t bring up that Billy thought all Wraiths members deserved broken noses.

I was tempted.

But I didn’t.

“Here’s the thing. What happened with me weeks ago has nothing to do with Cletus and Isaac Sylvester. It was ’cause Christine St. Claire wanted a meeting.”

Duane nodded. “I remember.”

“She ambushed me Wednesday morning at Hank’s place.” Now my place . . .

“Before y’all went fishing?” Duane guessed.

“Yeah. And she told me . . .”

“Yeah?” Duane’s brow wrinkled.

Billy stepped forward. “She told him that—”

“No. Billy.” I gave my older brother a severe scowl. “This is my refrigerator. I need to do it. You can’t be doing everything for all of us. Don’t keep shouldering all the burdens. Otherwise, we’ll never learn how.”

Billy jerked back an inch, staring at me like I’d surprised him. But he also snapped his mouth shut.

Turning my glare back to Duane, I decided I just needed to say it. I just needed to rip off the Band-Aid and say it.

“Christine St. Claire is our biological mother. She and Darrell had an affair. Momma—our real momma—adopted us. Billy knows where the paperwork is and he’s known about this for a while. And that’s it.”

Duane blinked at me, more like a confused fluttering of eyelids, his mouth agape. “What?”

I didn’t respond. He’d heard every word out of my mouth, he just needed a minute—or a lifetime—to come to terms.

My twin backed up a step, his knees hitting the bench behind him. He sat down, his eyes unfocused, his face dropping to his hands.

I exhaled a breath that felt like fire releasing from my lungs. Waiting. Watching Duane suffer through this sucked. I tried to swallow. I couldn’t.

“Who else knows?” Duane didn’t look up as he asked the question.

Billy looked to me, as though requesting permission, and I nodded.

He took a seat next to Duane and set about answering this and related questions. Listening to and looking at my twin now was like hearing and seeing myself from weeks ago. I knew what he was going through. I’d been where he was.

Maybe I wasn’t finished dealing with the fallout. Maybe I’d never be finished.

Yet I didn’t feel as stricken. As raw and empty. And that was because of Shelly. I’d stumbled through the darkest part, but I hadn’t been alone. My burden had been shared with and ultimately lightened by the woman I loved.

33

“I shall take the heart. For brains do not make one happy, and happiness is the best thing in the world.”

― L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz

*Beau*

UNSURPRISINGLY, DUANE WAS in a daze.

But the one point that seemed to make him feel better—or rather, allowed him to focus—was Claire McClure being our half-sister.

Billy drove his truck back to the house, leaving us only after assurances by Duane that he wasn’t going off the deep end. Then, on the ride home, my twin and I discussed a plan for breaking the news to Claire.

“I’m glad you told me before the wedding. With Jess and I leaving Thursday, this might be our only chance to speak to Claire, both of us, in person.” He was rubbing his forehead like it hurt. “But I wish you’d told me earlier.”

Clearing my throat, I readjusted my hands on the steering wheel. “I don’t know why she told me.”

“Who?”

“Christine St. Claire.”

“Oh.” Duane glanced out the window. “She probably wants something.”

“She didn’t want me to tell you.”

He huffed a humorless laugh. “Then she definitely wants something.”

I nodded at that.

“Does it matter?” Duane asked. “Does it matter what she wants?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m leaving on Thursday. You’re going to be on your own. We’re both in agreement: she told you the truth because she wants something from you. So my point is, what does it matter what she wants?”

“Aren’t you curious?”

“No.” Duane’s response was immediate. “And you shouldn’t be either.”

We drove in silence for a while. Or rather, the interior of the car was silent, but I was pretty sure we were both dealing with noise in our heads.

Duane pulled out his phone, unlocked it, and started typing.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m texting Jess. Telling her to meet me.”

“Do you want me to drop you off somewhere?”

“Home is fine.”

I understood his desire to see her.

I understood needing a safe place to rest your head, and your worries.

And I especially understood how the soft arms of a woman, especially the woman you loved, made everything better.

As though reading my thoughts, Duane said, “I like Shelly.”

“Me too.”

“I think she’s good for you.”

I gave my brother the side-eye. “What do you mean?”

“She’s an interesting sort. She’s . . . tough. But she’s not.”

Shifting in my seat, I turned the GTO into our driveway. “There’s nothing simple about her, that’s for sure.”

Duane was quiet until we parked. But as soon as I cut the engine, he twisted to face me.

“We didn’t really lose anything, did we? Even though it seems like we did, we didn’t lose a thing.”

I knew what he meant, and so I offered him a small smile. “We gained a psychopath for a biological mother. Thinking we can’t overlook that.”

Duane chuckled and then closed his eyes, his face falling back into his hands much like he’d done in the chapel. “You’re right.”

“About what?”

“We need to find out what she wants,” he lifted his head, his eyes turning hard, “Before I go, you and I need to confront her.”

“You don’t need to—”

“I do. You’re going to be in Green Valley without me. I won’t be here, watching out for you, stopping folks from taking advantage. She needs to see she can’t fuck with you, even if I’m not around.”

I gave my brother a wry grin. “You watched out for me?”

“Hell yes, I did. And I always will.”

I shook my head at his stubbornness. Duane’s fervent assertion made me grin despite the situation, but I wouldn’t contradict him. In his own way, I guess he did look out for me.

“So what do we do?” I gathered a deep breath. “Should I call Drill? Ask for a meeting?”

“Yeah. Then we’ll tell her where she can shove her manipulations.”

“I’m guessing it’s someplace without sunlight?”

Duane smirked, but then said, “This is so fucked up.”

“It’s not so bad.” I shrugged.

I wanted to say, At least Razor isn’t our daddy. But I didn’t think Duane would appreciate the words or the sentiment.

“And now we have Claire.” He lifted his head and stared out the windshield.

“That’s right.” I waited until he looked at me to add, “And now she has us.”

SHELLY, QUINN, JANIE, and Desmond arrived at the reception about half an hour after it started. I immediately intercepted them. As soon as I spotted her hovering by the entrance, I realized I’d been pining for Shelly’s company since leaving her Friday afternoon.

I wondered if I’d carry an ache for her everywhere I went for the rest of our lives. It wouldn’t be so bad, I reckoned, as long as she was always there to ease it.

If any of my brothers, or my sister, were surprised to see us together, they made no note of it.

Except Roscoe.

He’d pulled me to the side and told me I was right; Shelly Sullivan was probably the most beautiful woman in the world . . . over the age of thirty.

I’d rolled my eyes and said a silent prayer for the poor soul who ended up with his stupid ass. She was going to need it.

Over dinner, I filled Shelly in on what had happened with Duane. She in turn brought me up to speed on how the visit with her brother was going. After I left for the rehearsal, she’d gone to her therapy appointment with Dr. West. When she got home, Quinn was passed out on the couch with Desmond, leaving Janie and Shelly to talk.

“She said I’m ‘decidedly different’ than I was before.”

“Oh? How were you before?”

“She said I was a jerk.”

I breathed a startled laugh. “She said that?”

“Yes. She’s very honest. She’s always been very honest. Her honesty has been an inspiration for me.”

“Do you think you were a jerk?”

“Yes. But not because I wanted to be a jerk. I tried to explain to her what it’s like, to be a marionette at the whims of irrational fear, being brainwashed by your own brain.”

“What’d she say?”

“She said she understood that. She told me she guessed that I have OCD, she’s glad I’m in therapy, and getting better. But that I was still a jerk,” Shelly gave me a whisper of a smile, “and now I’m not.”

After dinner, Shelly kept her word and danced with me. We danced to “Uptown Funk,” “Don’t Stop Believing,” and “Shut Up and Dance” without talking. But when the band played “My Girl,” I leaned close to her ear and said, “I’m going to ask you a question, just ’cause I’m curious.”

“Okay. Ask me anything.”

“Why don’t you tell your brother the truth? Why not tell him about your diagnosis? Why not explain the logistics of your fear? How you can’t touch others, but that there’s a Duct Tape solution.”

“Duct Tape solution?”

“You know, a way to get around fixing something until you have time to fix it, a workaround. If he knew you needed him to initiate touch first, then I’m sure he’d be giving you hugs all the time.”

“I don’t want him to do that.” She shook her head, visibly frustrated. “It’s my problem. I’ve already asked too much of my family. You heard my brother, they’ve twisted themselves into enough knots. I can’t have them changing their healthy behavior to accommodate my unhealthy behavior.”

“Playing devil’s advocate here, but you do it with me, don’t you? I’m always the one touching you first, aren’t I?”

She considered me for a moment. “Are you upset by that?”

“Not at all, especially since I know your situation. I know your diagnosis, I know I’m a priority to you, and I know you’re working on your refrigerator.”

Shelly gave me an almost smile, her gaze searching mine. “I guess, to answer your question, things are different with us. I’ve spent a lifetime lying to my family. Trying to avoid disappointing them, trying to explain away my actions with lies, or at least conceal them. But I’ve never lied to you. I’ve tried really hard to be honest from the beginning.”

“Sometimes brutally honest.”

“Yes. Lying is wrong. I’ve stopped lying. I can’t do it at all anymore, because it’s a slippery slope for me. White lies become big lies and I don’t want to live like that. But I was also honest with you—sometimes oversharing—because I liked you so much. You needed to know the truth so you could decide.”

“Decide if I wanted to be with you?”

“More specifically, decide if I am capable of giving you what you need.” Shelly’s smile was tinged with sadness. “I’ll be fighting against my OCD for the rest of my life. I don’t know if I’ll have children, but—”

“You want kids?”

“Yes. Absolutely. But should I?”

I considered the question while she watched me, a new intensity behind her eyes. “This seems like a question for us to discuss with Dr. West.”

Her sad smile returned. “Is that okay with you? That, if you stay with me, these questions about our future are always going to involve my therapist?”

“Honestly, yes.” I nodded heartily. “I like Dr. West. It’s like having a—a—a relationship coach. Or a good mechanic on staff, keeping our engines cool and well oiled.”

Shelly’s smile became less sad. “I’m really glad you feel that way, because I will probably be in therapy forever.”

“I’m proud of you for making it a priority.” I kissed her lips, just barely, just a tease.

As I leaned away, she shook her head at me. “Let’s talk about something else. Yesterday was . . . intense. Let’s talk about something fun.”

I grinned. “Oh. I know, let’s talk about how you’re in love with me.”

She stumbled, stepping on my foot, clearly not expecting my new choice of subject.

“So you were planning on saving the news? Doing something special?”

Shelly breathed out through her nose and glanced beyond my shoulder. “Yes.”

“Tell me all about it.”

“I already started working on it.”

“On what?”

Her eyes came back to mine. “Don’t you want to be surprised?”

“No, thank you.”

She slid her teeth to the side, inspecting me. “Fine. I’m casting you a replica of your car, with us inside, with a hood that opens, connected to a speaker, with a circuit that trips when you open the hood.”

“To a speaker?”

“Yes. It sings Whitney Houston’s version of “I Will Always Love You.” But starts at the part where the drum beats and then she belts out the chorus.”

“You mean that Dolly Parton song?”

Shelly looked almost offended. “No. Not Dolly Parton, Whitney Houston. From The Bodyguard? You know, BAM, And I-I-e-e-I-I-e-e-I-I will a-a-al-l-l-lways love y-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-u!”

Listening and watching her as she sang had me pressing my mouth into a tight line, because Shelly had a terrible singing voice. Really terrible. Like, it was a good thing her dogs weren’t close by, because they’d think she was howling.

But the sentiment made an impact nonetheless.

She got a few looks. We both did. But she ignored them like she didn’t even see people staring at her. And if it didn’t bother her, then it didn’t bother me.

When she stopped, she looked at me, unembarrassed and clearly interested in my thoughts. “Should I still do it?”

“Yes. Definitely. But only if you sing the song.”

“You think so?”

“Yes. Oh, yes. I want your voice singing to me every time I lift your hood.”

She smiled, but then her brow drew together, like something had just occurred to her. “That was an innuendo.”

“Correct.”

Shelly grinned. “It was a good one.”

“Thank you. I’m full of them.”

“Or full of it.”

“Oh!” Burn.

“See what I did there?” She looked proud of herself, her smile growing.

Laughing, I shook my head at her. She wasn’t laughing, but she was grinning widely when I felt a tap on my arm. Quinn stood at my side, his hands in his pockets. And for the first time since meeting him, he was looking at me with a smile.

Granted, it was the world’s smallest smile. It was probably in The Guinness Book of World Records for smallest curve of the mouth possible. But it was there, behind his eyes mostly, and it surprised me.

“Hey Beau.” His tone wasn’t deadpan and it wasn’t aloof, which meant it was damn near friendly.

“Hey Quinn.” I stared at him with wide eyes.

“Can I cut in?”

I nodded on instinct. “Sure.” And almost regretted my thoughtlessness when I felt Shelly stiffen. But quick thinking had me reaching for Quinn’s hand and placing it in his sister’s.

She might not be ready to tell him the truth about her disorder, but I figured there was nothing wrong with me smoothing the road in small ways.

“I’ll be back.” Stepping away, I gave Shelly a quick, clandestine smile of encouragement.

She looked anxious, but not fearful. She also looked grateful. Then her gaze moved to her brother’s and she gave him the world’s second smallest smile. Which only made his grow.

I didn’t know if they were going to stand there smiling at each other or dance. It didn’t matter which, just as long as they were together.

Turning, I strolled off the dance floor, good feelings carrying me across the room to the open bar. As soon as I stepped into the line for a drink, Duane appeared at my elbow, pulling at the bowtie around his neck.

“Is that the Rolex Hank gave you?” He tapped my wrist, frowning at it.

I glanced at the watch face, solid gold set with diamonds. I hadn’t worn the thing since receiving it for my birthday two years ago. I figured if I couldn’t wear it to a wedding, then when could I wear it? What good was owning things you never used?

But now I was having fancy-watch regret.

“Yeah. I have to admit, it’s heavier than I remembered. I feel like I’m lifting weights every time I bend my elbow.” I wished I’d replaced the band with a leather one.

He grunted noncommittally. “You should melt it down, the band I mean, and make it into something for Shelly. It’s got to be six ounces or more. With that much gold you could make it into a lot of things for her.”

I stared at my brother. I stared at him for several seconds. Because his suggestion gave me an idea. And he was a genius.

Genius.

“Duane.” I brought my hand to his shoulder. “You’re a genius.”

“So everyone says,” he grumbled distractedly, searching the reception tent.

“What’s wrong?”

“Did you text Drill?” He shot me a stern look.

“I did. I messaged him last night. I told him I wanted a meeting with Christine on Monday.”

“He respond yet?”

“Yep. It’s all set. Monday night, Cooper’s Field.”

I wasn’t looking forward to seeing Christine again, and I hated that Duane was going to spend any of his remaining time dealing with the woman, but it would be good to set her straight. Whatever she wanted, she was barking up the wrong tree.

“Good.” Duane nodded once, turning his attention back to the reception. “Where is she?” He didn’t sound upset. Anxious and excited, but not upset.

He didn’t need to tell me he was referring to Claire.

“I saw her earlier talking to Sienna.” I lifted my chin toward Jethro and my new sister-in-law. “She couldn’t have gone far.”

We both took a minute to scan the reception, and as I did so, I indulged in a few seconds of watching Shelly and Quinn. They weren’t smiling anymore, but they were talking—like they were discussing something of intense fascination to them both—and that made me smile.

“There she is.” Duane hit my shoulder. “She’s talking to Cletus.”

“Let’s get her.” I rubbed my hands together.

“Don’t be a dummy. I don’t want to freak her out.”

I grinned, hitting Duane on his shoulder. “Freak her out? Are you kidding? This will make her year. Look as us. She’s getting two brothers out of this deal, both handsome devils. Except . . .” I faked a thoughtful frown, my fingers coming to my nose.

“What? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Do you think she’ll still love me even though my face is crooked?”

Duane lifted an eyebrow, like he was not amused. “Shut up, dummy. Let’s go—hey, it looks like she’s leaving.”

My twin darted forward, weaving deftly through the crowd toward Claire as she wove deftly through the crowd toward the exit. I followed at an equally hurried pace, a knot of concern forming in my throat that we might not reach her in time. I hadn’t expected her to leave so early.

But then Duane called, “Claire! Wait!”

And she turned, her eyes searching the tent like she wasn’t sure she’d heard her name. When she spotted us approaching, the side of her mouth curved in a way that reminded me of myself when I was preparing to turn on the charm.

“Well, hello boys. What’s up?” She folded her arms across her chest.

“We need to talk to you.” Duane’s tone was severe, as usual.

I took it upon myself to step forward and return her half smile, trying to soften the message. “We’d like a few moments of your time, before you go.”

“Uh,” Claire’s attention affixed to a spot over my shoulder, and then returned to Duane. “Sure. That’s fine.” She looked and sounded like she was forcing cheerfulness.

I glanced behind me, searching for the source of her distraction, and saw Billy several feet away talking to Daisy Payton’s oldest daughter, Daniella.

Huh. I forgot they knew each other.

“Can we talk privately?” Duane’s voice was still gruffer than it needed to be. “I think we can use the house, as no one should be inside. Or we could use the carriage house?”

“Carriage house sounds fine.” She seemed to shake herself, rebooting her smile so it was more genuine. “Is this about Jessica?”

“No.” Duane reached for her hand and I think that startled her a little, but she let him bring it to his arm just the same. “This is about us. All of us.”

“Oh?” Now we had her full attention.

Following Duane’s lead, I took her other hand and brought it to my arm, the three of us strolling out of the tent. “Claire, we have some good news and some bad news.”

“Good Lord, tell me the bad news first.”

“I like the bad news first, too.” Duane gave her a smile, or his version of one. “We have that in common.”

Claire wrinkled her nose at Duane. “Why’re you acting so funny? You fellas want to borrow money? I didn’t bring my purse, but I have a few dollars in my pocket.”

We made it a few feet from the tent, far enough away to be free of the crowd, but not so far that the music had completely faded. “The Way You Look Tonight,” had just started up and I made a note of it. I also made a note of the color of the sky, and the dot on Claire’s cheek that was too dark to be a freckle.

This is my sister.

I swallowed against the tightness in my throat. “We don’t want to borrow any money.”

She glanced at me, giving me the side-eye. “You can’t have my car.”

I opened my mouth to tell her we didn’t want her car, but then wondered aloud, “I thought you had a truck?”

“I did, but I sold it. I needed better gas mileage.”

Duane and I shared a look.

“What do you drive now?”

I needed to talk to Duane about his questioning technique. The man seriously could not ask a question without making it sound like an interrogation.

“A Hyundai.”

“What’s the year?” Another demand.

“Calm your shit, Duane.” I sent my brother a look.

She glanced between us like she was equal parts amused and confused. “It’s a 1999.”

“Oh no,” we both said in unison.

But I cut off my brother before he could launch into a tirade about early model Hyundais. “We’ll take care of that. What you need is a Toyota.”

“A Toyota?” Duane sneered. “No. She’ll take the Mustang.”

He meant Jessica’s car, the one he’d rebuilt from scratch and loved almost as much as his Road Runner.

“What are y’all talking about?” She pulled us to a stop, splitting her glare between us. “I do not need a new car, and I certainly do not need a Winston telling me what to do. So why don’t y’all come out with whatever it is you need to say? I have a long drive back home and my feet hurt in these shoes.”

Duane and I shared a third look over her head and our silent conversation went something like this:

Duane: You want to tell her, or should I?

Me: I should do it.

Duane: You’re probably right, you’re much better with this kind of stuff.

Me: Thanks, Duane.

Duane: No problem, Beau.

Turning my attention back to Claire, I gave her a warm smile.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re scaring me, Beau.”

“Don’t be scared.” My grin widened, and I chuckled at her expression.

“It’s not scary,” Duane confirmed. “It’s good.”

“Okay.” Her lips twisted to the side. “What is it?”

“Claire, here is the bad news first. We’ve lost out on years. Ain’t nothing we can do about that.”

“Uh . . . okay?”

“Now here is the good news.” I gathered a deep breath, allowing my gaze to move over her face so I could remember this moment. “Your momma—Christine—had an affair with Darrell.”

“That’s the good news?” She was sorta looking at me sideways now, like she didn’t know what to make of me.

I gentled my tone, keeping hold of her eyes. “It’s good news because it means you’re our sister.”

She flinched, and all the color drained from her face. “What?”

“You are our sister.”

Instead of happy, she looked incredibly distressed. “Is this a joke?”

Duane and I shared a glance of alarm over her head, then Duane placed a hand on her shoulder. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Darrell is my father?” The question sounded strangled, high-pitched with intense grief and a shade of terror.

“No. No, no, no,” I rushed to explain. “Darrell is our father. Christine is our biological mother. Your daddy is—uh—Razor.”

Her wide stare moved between us, her mouth gaping, until finally she closed her eyes and said on an exhale, “Oh thank God.”

She looked close to fainting, so I put my arm around her waist and brought her forward for a hug. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. This is good news, right?”

Claire nodded, her fingers gripping my sleeves at my biceps. “Just—just give me a minute. I’m sorry, I thought you were saying Darrell was my—that I’m related to all y’all and I—” She shook her head, like she wasn’t able to finish the thought.

“Nope. Just us two.” Duane shoved his hands in his pants pockets, sending me a grim glare. “And we hope that you’ll see this as good news in time.”

She leaned away from me, again her gaze bouncing between us. But instead of worry and grief, this time her eyes were filled with dawning comprehension and wonder.

“Oh, oh yes!” Her grin was huge and she laughed, releasing me and pulling Duane into a hug. “I can’t believe this. I just—it’s a lot to absorb.”

The strain in Duane’s features melted away as they hugged, and when she pulled back he gave her a rare smile. “We wanted to tell you, before Jess and I left.”

She nodded, her expression still hazy, like she was trying to keep up. “Thank you, yes. Thank you. I’m a little overwhelmed.”

“We were, too.” I reached for her hand again, bringing it back to my arm, leading her once again to the carriage house. “Can you stay for a bit? Do you have time to talk?”

“Of course. Of course I do.” She was staring forward, allowing herself to be guided, a small frown on her features. “I can’t believe this. Are you sure?”

“We haven’t had the DNA test done yet, but we do have the adoption paperwork listing your momma as our biological parent. I know it’s a lot to think over. I just found out yesterday.” Duane resumed his position, bringing her other hand to his arm, so the three of us were linked again.

“This is nuts. I can’t—I mean—how did you find out? And—gosh—who else knows?”

I patted her hand, bringing her attention back to me. “We’ll get to all that, but before we do, can we talk about your car situation again?” Looking to Duane, he gave me a nod of agreement. “What kind of car would you like? Let’s start there.”

Her gaze sharpened. “I know how you boys operate. You’re not giving me a car.”

“Let’s not be too hasty,” Duane cautioned, his tone thoughtful, and sent me a furtive grin. “Really, you’d be doing us a favor by taking one off our hands.”

SHELLY AND I didn’t make it home until late.

The three of us—Duane, Claire, and I—talked in the carriage house for about an hour. She’d agreed to stick around until after the wedding was over, so we could spend time discussing what it meant, being related to each other.

We knew Claire, she’d been a presence in our lives since we could remember. So it wasn’t as if we needed to play one hundred questions to learn who she was, and who we were. But we made sure we had each other’s cell numbers, and that she could contact us anytime she needed anything.

She knew we had Ashley, who loved to mother us, but it was incredible how easily she stepped into the same role of big sister. In some respects, it surprised the hell out of me. In others, given how close she was to two of our brothers, it made perfect sense.

She . . . she fits.

Once Jethro and Sienna left and the crowd began to thin, Claire, Duane, Jess, Shelly, and I left for Hank’s McMansion on Bandit Lake. I couldn’t think of anywhere else to go that wouldn’t be either awkward or too small.

No one, not even Duane, seemed surprised I had keys. Which made sense. Hank and I were best friends, after all. I decided to keep the news of Hank’s recklessness—signing the place over to me—to myself for the time being.

The house was fully equipped. Claire agreed to stay the night and spend Sunday with us. Jess and Duane took another of the rooms after I assured them that Hank wouldn’t mind, nor would he notice.

But I decided to take Shelly home. I knew she liked her own space—free of clutter, and her books with their blue spines. And we had Oliver, Laika, and Ivan to consider. She’d been quiet during most of the evening, but didn’t hesitate adding her thoughts to the discussion when Jess brought up art installations in Chicago and New York.

I’d been grateful to Jess, for picking topics she knew Shelly would be interested in. It really was too bad Jess and Duane were leaving so soon.

We pulled into Shelly’s drive well after midnight. The short trip home had been a quiet one, and I’d felt her eyes off and on, like she was debating something, or trying to work up the nerve to ask me a question.

When I turned off the engine, and our only company was the quiet night and each other, I turned to her and asked softly, “What’s going on?”

She shook her head, studying me. I couldn’t have been more than a shadow to her, maybe a silhouette, but I saw her. Not the color of her eyes, or her lips, or her dress, but I saw what mattered.

“What is it?” I reached out, cupping her face, tracing the pad of my thumb along her cheekbone and lips.

“Don’t let go,” she whispered, unbuckling her seatbelt and turning toward me. She leaned forward, searching for my mouth, her aim slightly off. Keeping my hand on her cheek, I guided her and she let me, a burst of heat radiating through my body as our lips met and mated. Hers soft—so soft—and hot as they teased mine.

Shelly trailed her fingers down the front of my shirt, untucking it when she came to my pants. As we kissed I felt her hands unbuckle my belt, unbutton my fly, unzip my pants.

I leaned my mouth away, searching her face in question. “Do you want to go inside?”

She shook her head, retaking my mouth, pushing her hand into my boxers and giving me a confident stroke. I released a ragged breath against her lips. She stroked me again.

“Lift your hips.”

I did. She pushed my pants and boxers down to my thighs, circling me again with her fingers.

“Shelly.” I was out of breath.

“Keep touching me.” She turned her head, sucking my thumb into her mouth and swirling the tip with her tongue while pumping me slowly.

Then she let go and I felt the loss of her touch everywhere. Yet, she didn’t withdraw. She shifted her weight, bringing her knees to the seat and hiking up her dress. In the next moment, she’d straddled my lap, rubbed her body against mine and guided me inside.

Holyfuckingshit. This will never get old.

We both breathed out on a rush, her forehead coming to mine.

“Fuck, Shelly. So good.”

“Mmm,” was her mumbled reply, which made me smile.

My hand slid to her neck, curling around her shoulder. I needed purchase, something to hold. Then Shelly tilted her hips just so, a gentle torment, a cruel indulgence.

I couldn’t move, not how I wanted. She was in control of our pace and apparently she wanted to go slow. Her rolling back . . . and forth was a special kind of torture. I needed more, more of her skin. Trailing the back of my fingers to her chest, I brushed my knuckles against the fabric over her tight nipple.

Her fingers shifted from my shoulders to the buttons of her dress, their movements jerky and urgent even as she maintained her agonizingly deliberate rhythm.

I grabbed her hands, bringing them to the headrest behind me. Setting to work on her buttons, I slipped them open at the same unhurried pace she employed.

“Faster,” she demanded.

My jaw was clenched against the effort of keeping still, of letting her ride me.

The strain of not taking over, rolling her onto her back and driving into her like I wanted—like I needed—was akin to walking a tightrope between heaven and hell. My legs burned. The base of my spine ached.

“Please.” She came down harder, her hips jerking.

I’d just unfastened the button at her stomach when she grabbed the edges of the fabric and tugged roughly. She unhooked her bra in the front, tore it open, grabbed my hands, and brought them to her breasts.

Her breath hitched, her eyes closed, and her face twisted in a mixture of pleasure and anguish.

“I love you.” She confessed on a breath, “I—”

I captured the rest of her words with a kiss, unable to help myself. And then, as I tugged her nipples, a sharp sound of gratification wrenched from her throat. I captured that too, wanting it all.

She was coming. Hard. Her body bowed, her short nails digging into my hands where she held them. I felt it—every spasm, every tremor—and the back of my throat burned with the need to take over.

“Beau,” gasping for breath, her forehead fell to my shoulder, “That was—”

With one frenzied movement, I lifted her from my lap to the bench seat beside me, tugging her legs so she was lying down, and spreading her wide, ripping her flimsy lace underwear from her body in the process.

“We’re not done.” I climbed on top, one knee on the seat, my other leg braced on nothing. I buried my face in her breasts, licking and biting and tasting each inch. Her fingers anchored into the back of my head and she arched her back.

It was now hot in the car. Hot and muggy. The windows were fogged. I hit my head on the ceiling of the car, trying to position myself.

Shelly laughed, then moaned as I fingered her, sliding my hand down the inside of her thigh to hook around her knee.

“Move this leg.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere.”

Wearing a look of concentration, she folded it up to her chest. “How is that?”

I eased forward carefully, exhaling my relief to be inside her. She gave me a sweet sound, one of pleasure and mindlessness.

Finally, driving into her like I’d wanted, like I’d needed, I answered, “Fucking fantastic.”

There was nothing slow about the pace I set, but it was deliberate. She was pushed up each time I thrust and had to brace her hands against the door to keep from hitting her head. And her breasts? Fucking amazing as they bounced and teased me. The way Shelly bit her bottom lip—and the moans and pants—told me she didn’t mind.

And when her sharp cry pierced the car, I sucked her bottom lip into my mouth, needing the taste of her on my tongue as I came along with her, mindlessly grunting as I curved my body over and inside hers.

I’d like to say I didn’t collapse, crushing her beneath me. But I did. My cheek pressed against her bare breast and I struggled to breathe, to think, to move.

I couldn’t.

At least, not for a while.

Her fingers in my hair, caressing my temple and jaw, eventually woke me to the moment. And then her words did.

“You never cuss, except when we have sex. Then you cuss a lot.”

I blinked. “Does it bother you?”

“No. Do you think I should switch to a blend of almond milk and coconut milk?”

I grinned, shaking my head at her randomness—as much as I was able—and moved to sit up.

“Don’t,” she held me tight, “not yet.”

“Your leg?”

“It will recover.”

I chuckled, forcing her to let me go, and kissed both her breasts on my way up. I helped her straighten and move her leg, gave her a hand so she could sit up, and then I restored my pants. I didn’t bother to button them, though.

I was too busy watching. Her dress was still gaping open, as was her bra. The skirt around her hips showcased her long legs and the triangle of tantalizing hair at the apex of her thighs. Yet she paid no mind.

She was searching the car for something, apparently oblivious to her state of undress. “Do you have any napkins in here?”

“You are so fucking sexy, Shelly Sullivan.”

Her eyes moved to my face, and I remembered that she couldn’t see me, not with the windows fogged and the waning moon.

“I’m glad you think so, Beau Winston. Because I think you’re so fucking sexy, too.”

I grinned at that.

But she wasn’t finished yet. “I want you to love me always.” Her tone was contemplative as she opened the glove compartment, finding her napkin. “How can I make sure that happens?”

Reaching for one of the open flaps of her dress, I tugged her forward, kissed her soft mouth, then slid my nose along hers, whispering, “You keep being you, that’s all you need to do.”

34

“Think of all the beauty still left around you and be happy.”

― Anne Frank, The Diary of Anne Frank

*Beau*

“TURN UP THE HEAT.”

Duane studied me. “How can you be cold?”

“’Cause it’s literally freezing outside. Now turn up the heat.”

“Fine.” Duane revved the engine of his Road Runner and turned up the dial on the heat.

We’d decided it would be best if he drove. Firstly, his car was black and mine was red. Tracking his car at night was near impossible. If we needed to make a quick getaway—which was always a possibility when dealing with the Wraiths—then being difficult to spot was just as important as being fast.

Secondly, this was one of the last times Duane would get to drive his car for the foreseeable future. And that was just sad.

It was cold at our house down in the Valley, but it was ten to fifteen degrees colder in the mountains. Cooper’s Field—up on the top of a ridge—always felt colder than most spots. I’d packed a thermos of strong coffee, but we’d finished it a half hour ago while shooting the shit.

With nothing warm to hold or drink, my teeth were chattering. I’d made my brother turn his car back on so we could use the heat.

“Are we playing good cop, bad cop? Or what’s the plan?” I rubbed my hands together, wishing I’d worn gloves.

Christine and Drill were due to arrive at any moment and we’d neglected to agree upon a strategy. Instead, we’d talked about Duane’s plans for Italy and the family’s plans for Thanksgiving. This would be his first year missing Thanksgiving, so I’d decided to taunt him with a list of pies and cakes on the menu.

I reckoned we’d skipped a strategy discussion because we always played off each other, with Duane being the bad cop and me being the good cop.

But to my surprise, Duane shook his head. “Nope,” he peered out his window toward the entrance to the field, “We’ll both be bad cop this time.”

“Oh.” I smirked. “You’ll have to give me some pointers.”

“I think you’ll do fine.” He turned back to me, the set of his mouth hard. “Just picture our momma’s face when Christine showed up pregnant.”

A sour lump settled in the pit of my stomach, making me wish I’d had less coffee. “She was a saint.”

“Who?”

“Momma.”

Duane gave a short nod. “I can’t imagine, what it must’ve been like for her, adopting us. Looking at the proof of your husband’s infidelity for twenty-three years. Why did she do it?”

“I don’t know.” Growing up, I took for granted that I knew my mother, that I understood her. Clearly, I had no idea.

“I wish we could ask her.” Duane rubbed at a spot on his steering wheel.

“She’d probably give us one of her quotes, something like, ‘If God gives you twin hell-raisers, smother them with bacon and ice cream until they surrender.’”

Duane’s scowl softened. “I have a few favorites of hers.”

“Me too.”

We were quiet for a while, likely both thinking about our mother and all the times she’d been patient and wise. Granted, there’d been lots of times she hadn’t been patient or wise, but I supposed she was entitled to her frustrations. Lord knows, we’d deserved every bout of anger she’d tossed our way.

Out of nowhere, Duane asked, “Why’d you press the button?”

“Pardon?”

He cleared his throat. “When Momma was dying, that one night she wouldn’t press the button. Remember that? She was in pain and she wouldn’t give herself the morphine. We stood there like dummies, Ashley and me. Cletus and Jethro walked in. They wouldn’t have done it either. But you did. You gave her the meds. You took away her pain.”

I couldn’t hold my brother’s eyes and recall the memory at the same time, so I looked at my hands. “It was hard on all of us, watching her like that.”

We’d all watched her suffer—for a time—because it was her will. It was her choice. We watched her suffer until the pain threatened to swallow her whole. She was so stubborn. She didn’t want to dull a single moment for us. She worried the medication would change her, diminish the remainder of the time we had together.

And I understood that.

I really did.

But she needed those meds.

“So why? Why do you think you could do it when the rest of us couldn’t?”

“I guess . . . it’s what you said.” I picked a loose thread at the knee of my jeans.

“What’s that?”

“She was setting herself on fire to keep us warm,” I lifted my eyes back to my brother, comprehension eclipsing his earlier curiosity, “And I couldn’t let her do that anymore.”

Duane’s brow cleared as he stared at me, and he opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then stiffened, turning his attention back out his window. I heard the rumble of approaching motorcycles at the same moment.

“They’re here,” I said unnecessarily, the ball in my stomach curdling.

“I see only two bikes.”

“Yeah, I told Drill no backup.”

“Does he know I’ll be here?” Duane unlocked his door.

“Yep.”

My brother’s eyes cut to mine. “You trust him?”

“He seems like a decent fella.” I shrugged.

“He’s one of them.”

“I know that, Duane. But not all those guys are evil bastards—like Razor, like our daddy—some of them are just regular guys who are lost, looking for a place to go.”

He was shaking his head before I finished speaking, popping open his door. “You might not have been Bethany’s kid biologically, but you sure did inherit her soft heart.”

He didn’t say this like it was a bad thing or a good thing, but rather something that mystified him; like giving folks the benefit of the doubt went against his nature.

“Come on.” Duane indicated with his head toward where Drill and Christine were dismounting their bikes some twenty feet beyond the hood of his car. “Let’s get this over with.”

Drawing in a bracing breath, I exited the Road Runner and walked around to the hood.

My twin had left his headlights on and so had they, basking our foursome in pale light. I loitered at the hood of the car while Duane stopped a few feet away as Drill and Christine approached. But then Christine held her hand up to Drill, saying something we couldn’t hear, and he nodded. The big guy fell back and she continued forward without him.

Studying her now, maybe for the first time with any interest, I saw she was a pretty woman. She lacked a hardness that I’d seen in others who’d lived and breathed the lifestyle. Yeah, she was decked out in leather from head to toe, but all the lines on her face looked like laugh lines.

Her gaze moved between us and then rested on mine as a soft smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Hey, baby.”

Duane made a quiet grunting noise in the back of his throat—like a growl and a sigh at the same time—a sign that he was already irritated.

I nodded my head once, but made no move to touch her. “Christine.”

“You didn’t need to bring reinforcements.” Her smile grew, her tone teasing.

“I have questions,” Duane announced, his tone flat.

Christine stuck her hands in the back pockets of her leather pants, giving Duane a mock-serious look, like she was making fun of him. “Fine, baby. Ask your questions.”

Duane’s eyes darted to mine, and then away. “How do you know we’re not Razor’s kids?”

Her eyebrows bounced high on her forehead. “Getting right down to business?”

“Yep.”

“Fine,” she moved her eyes to some point behind us and they grew unfocused, “My old man was up in Memphis at the time I got pregnant with you boys, and for a year after that.” By Memphis, she meant The Federal Correctional Institution in Memphis. “Darrell was in charge while Razor was gone, and that meant he saw to my needs until my man was released.”

Usually, at this point, I’d be trying to disguise the disgust behind a polite smile. But not this time. This time we were both bad cop and I could let my grimace of revulsion show.

“You know, Razor shares everything with your daddy,” she sounded almost whimsical. “He loves him like a brother. It’s a beautiful thing.”

Gag.

“He shares everything? Even you?” Duane lifted an eyebrow.

“Yeah. Even me.” She gave us a sly smile that made me want to throw up. Unfortunately, she wasn’t finished. “Razor has only shared me with one man, and that’s because he knows your daddy’s worth. Y’all would do well to treat Darrell with the respect he deserves.”

Yeah. . . I’m probably going to throw up.

“Who else knows?” I leaned against the hood of the Road Runner, crossing my feet at my ankles and hoping we could move away from the sharing portion of this discussion.

“Knows?” She turned her attention to me, her wide blue eyes looking pale grey.

“That you’re our biological parent, who knows?”

“Drill here knows,” she tossed a thumb over her shoulder, “I told him so he’d understand why I needed his help. Repo knows. He took me to Texas, kept me in a safe house while I was pregnant, until your momm—that is, until Bethany came for you boys.”

“What about Razor?” Duane scratched his chin.

Christine seemed to stiffen, but her easy expression didn’t budge. “He doesn’t need to know.”

I glanced at Duane, wondered what he was thinking.

My brother nodded slowly. “So, you had Darrell’s sons, but Razor doesn’t know?”

She shrugged, widening her smile. “He’s a busy man, with lots of important things on his mind. My job is to keep him happy.”

“And you having babies with Darrell wouldn’t make him happy?”

Christine didn’t answer, but her easy-going expression was now edged with irritation.

“I don’t get it,” I shook my head at her, allowing my confusion to show. “Why have us at all if you were just going to give us up for adoption to Darrell’s wife?”

“Your daddy knew what he was doing.” She said this with admiration. “I trust him to look after things.”

Duane and I shared a glance.

“What does that mean?” My twin folded his arms, tilting his head to the side.

“It means, he was looking out for your best interests.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” Duane sighed. “He didn’t want us raised in the club?”

“Oh no, it wasn’t that. Y’all, all you boys, and Ashley too, you were all supposed to be raised right.”

By ‘raised right’ I assumed she meant we were supposed to be raised as future recruits for the Iron Wraiths, and Ashley as a . . . old lady?

“He’s not stupid. Darrell knew how much money that Bethany Oliver was worth.” She gave me a soft smile. “He wanted you to have your fair share.”

“Fair share?” Duane’s frown was severe. “You mean, he wanted us to have a claim on her money?”

“Of course,” she grinned, like this was obvious.

My stomach hurt. I . . . I couldn’t believe this. Definitely going to be throwing up at some point.

Duane cleared his throat. “Why tell Beau? Why not me?” His voice was now quiet, like he was trying to keep it even.

“You’re leaving.” She shrugged, and then turned her eyes to me. “We weren’t expecting twins. There was only supposed to be one of you.”

“You didn’t know you were having twins?” I found that unlikely.

“No. I knew. But two babies wasn’t the original plan.”

I shook my head at her. Darrell, Christine, Razor—they were all despicable. I didn’t know how much more of this I could take. I’d been happy in my ignorance. Duane was right, learning her reasons for telling us the truth wasn’t going to lead anywhere good.

And now I was running out of patience.

Before I could call an end to this ridiculous spectacle—because now I truly had no desire to hear any more—Duane asked, “So why now? Why approach Beau now?”

She gave me a smile. “It was time.”

“Why? Why was it time?” Duane pushed.

“I knew he’d want to help his daddy.” Her smile persisted, soft and sweet, like cotton candy.

My twin and I swapped another stare, communicating silently something along the lines of,

Duane: What the hell is she talking about?

Me: I have no idea, but I think she drank the Kool-Aid.

Duane: Forget the Kool-Aid, she went straight for the antifreeze.

“He’s up for parole,” she volunteered, now speaking exclusively to me.

My mouth fell open at this news, a sudden spike of dread radiating out from my chest to my fingertips. “What?”

“Not yet, but soon.” Her smile grew.

No. No, no, no. This can’t be happening.

“Darrell?” I couldn’t believe what she was telling us. “Darrell is up for parole?”

“He’s only been in for a year.” Duane shuffled a step forward, his hands coming to his hips.

I straightened from the hood of the Road Runner, shifting closer to Duane. I reckoned he was dealing with the same level of shock and fury I was dealing with.

“Yeah, but attempted kidnapping ain’t no big deal.” Christine waved this off. “It’s a Class C felony in Tennessee. Plus, it was his own kids. No harm was done.”

I sensed Duane stiffen. “No harm was—”

I stepped in front of my brother before he lost his shit. “What does Darrell imagine I can do? What did he say?”

“Well, first of all, he wanted you to know I’m your real momma.” She paused, giving me a beaming smile.

“Okay.” I didn’t smile. I physically could not. “And what else?”

“See now, Beau. Your daddy is the reason you have that money from the Olivers at all.” Her tone turned serious, sincere. “You owe him a debt, baby. It’s time for you to pay your debt.”

I sensed my twin seething behind me, could feel the swell of anger gathering. I needed to get him out of here before he did something stupid, like scream at Razor’s old lady.

“All right. I see what you’re saying.” It was easy for me to revert back to good cop; I was always good cop, that was my role. “I think I’ll need some time to, uh—”

“No.” Duane stepped next to me, but instead of shooting his No at Christine, he was talking to me. “Nope. No. Hell no. You can’t avoid this. You do this right, Beau.”

I stared at my brother, at the wild, angry look in his eyes. But behind his fury was something else. Determination.

“You tell her like it is.” He lowered his voice, and determination bled through every word. “I’m not saying you need to be me, but you tell her how it’s going to be. Otherwise she’ll just keep coming back.”

“Beau?” Her tone was higher pitched, and I sensed her watching us. “Baby?”

Taking a deep breath, I gave my brother a rueful smile. “Can’t I just dodge her calls?”

“Until she tracks you down again?”

“Shelly is a great driver, she’ll get us away.”

He huffed a laugh. “Nope.”

Meanwhile, Christine had shifted closer. “You mean that bitch from y’all’s shop?”

. . . Um, what?

What the hell did she just say about my Shelly?

Duane and I turned our heads toward the woman, my pulse ticking up.

“What did you say?” Was that my voice?

“Stay focused.” Duane crossed his arms again, standing at my shoulder, but just a little behind, like he was my coach. “You don’t need to swap insults. She ain’t worth it.”

“Ain’t worth it?” Her voice pitched even higher, her eyes on Duane. “I am your momma, boy.”

“You’re nobody and nothing.” I also crossed my arms. “And if you think I’m going to help that piece of trash Darrell Winston get out of jail, then you’re dumber than you act.”

Duane sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. “Now see, I said no need for name calling.”

Christine swung her surprised glare to me. “Who are you calling dumb?”

“You,” I answered immediately, deciding to borrow an insult from Shelly, “You’re bright as a black hole and twice as dense.”

She gasped, her hands coming to her chest, and Duane choked on a laugh.

Drill was suddenly there, standing at her shoulder, giving me a pained look as he spoke to Christine. “Maybe it’s time to go?”

But she didn’t seem to hear him, her eyes—and her wrath—settling on me. “Your daddy was wrong about you.”

“Well goodness gracious, I sure do hope so.”

She ignored me, jutting out her chin. “It’s that disloyal woman, she warped your brain. That rich bitch whore.”

. . . Um, what?

What the hell did she just say about my momma?

I took a step forward, seeing red, and Duane caught me by my shoulders, pulling me back. He didn’t need to, because I would never hit her. Nothing she said could ever provoke me to commit violence. I wasn’t my father. I refused to be my father.

But after spending months with Shelly Sullivan, I had an armory full of insults I wouldn’t mind flinging in her direction for a few hours.

“That’s enough.” Duane spat, turning me toward the car and glaring at Drill. “Get her out of here. And if you don’t want Billy breaking noses, keep her the hell away from our family.”

“I ain’t afraid of Billy,” Christine taunted as my brother walked me to the passenger side, raising her volume to a shout. “I ain’t afraid of any of you!”

I chuckled at that, opening my door, and allowing every ounce of disgust I felt for this woman to show on my face. “Then you really are stupid. Because if there’s one thing I know about Billy, it’s that his love for all of us is surpassed only by his hatred for all of you.”

Maybe it was my cold laugh.

Or maybe it was the cadence of my voice.

Or maybe it was the way I was looking at her.

Or maybe my words had hit a nerve.

But something made her flinch.

She shrank back, stepping closer to Drill, and sent me a livid glare.

“Forget you,” she spat, visibly frustrated.

I slipped into my seat first, then Duane took his. Keeping my eyes trained on the pair as my brother brought the engine to life, I muttered a few curse words. I couldn’t believe it, Darrell out on parole? Already? How is that possible?

Duane wasted no time leaving Cooper’s Field, turning right on the thoroughfare and taking the road back to our house. We drove in silence for a while, Duane checking his rearview mirror every few minutes. I didn’t bother keeping an eye out for their bikes. I was too lost in my own thoughts.

I couldn’t imagine Christine St. Claire ever contacting me again, not after tonight. Not after the way she’d looked at me as we pulled away. And that was a relief.

But I was also curious. Something I’d said—or the way I’d said it—had struck a chord.

Razor didn’t know about us being Christine’s, and that had been a smart move on our father’s part. I could see it now, Darrell planning all those years ago, using our existence as blackmail against Christine. He was an asshole, but he was a clever asshole.

We’d been pawns in his game, even as babies. He’d been after our momma’s money since she was sixteen. Unfortunately, based on the events of the evening, it seemed he wasn’t yet finished with his scheming.

“Are you okay?”

I glanced at my brother. “Uh, yeah. I’m okay. How about you?”

He shrugged. “Better than expected.”

“Oh yeah?” I grinned at him. “Why’s that?”

“’Cause you make a good bad cop.”

I chuckled. “Well, coming from the best bad cop I know, that’s high praise.”

Duane scratched his chin. “She’s a good actress.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t overdo it. I almost believed her. No wonder she and Razor make such a good team.”

“Yeah,” I sighed. “She’s pretty bad.”

“Glad that’s over with.”

“Me too.”

Silence fell between us once more and my twin studied the rearview mirror. I reflected on how much of an understatement my words had been.

She’s pretty bad.

That wasn’t true. She was reprehensible.

I was so thankful for Bethany in that moment, I almost suffocated on my gratitude. Thank God. Thank God she’d been my momma. Imagining a life with Christine, raised in the club, raised to be one of them. The thought made me sick.

What had Claire gone through? What was her life like with those people?

“We have to tell Cletus,” Duane suddenly announced.

“Pardon?” I’d been distracted, so I didn’t immediately follow his meaning.

“We have to tell Cletus about Darrell. About the parole.” His eyes flickered to mine and then back to the road.

“Yeah.” I nodded, taking a deep breath. “We’ll tell him together.”

The side of Duane’s mouth tugged upward. “He’s going to be so pissed.”

My twin and I shared a small smile of knowing, and nothing more needed to be said.

Because our brother Cletus was at his most entertaining when pissed off.

I FOUND SHELLY in the Quonset hut.

She was bent over a well-lit work table toward the back of the structure and appeared to be completely absorbed in something she was drawing. Her hair was in a braid, she wore an old wool sweater and jeans, and she had a pencil in her teeth.

Tension between my shoulder blades eased at the sight of her, at the distracted wrinkle of concentration between her eyebrows and the confident movements of her hand.

She was so . . . unique. Singular. So much herself. I loved that about her. Almost as much as I loved how genuinely good she was.

My Shelly.

I kept my steps light at first, so I could watch her longer. She took the pencil from her mouth and moved it in graceful strokes over the paper, tilting her head to the side. Seeing how absorbed she was, I decided to drag my feet as I approached. I didn’t want to startle her.

Shelly glanced away from her work, her wide eyes meeting mine and predictably scattering my wits.

I grinned, because it was the only thing I could do for two beats of my heart. “Hey, honey.”

“Hi.” Her mouth curved with an enigmatic smile and she rushed forward, meeting me before I could close the distance between us, and unexpectedly grabbed the front of my shirt.

Holding perfectly still, I stared at her.

Um . . .

She likewise stared at me, her look one of intense concentration seasoned with a quickly subdued flare of panic. “I’m touching you.”

“I see that.”

Her breathing sped up. “I’ve been—uh—meditating. And I think I’m ready to . . .”

“Touch me?”

She nodded, her eyebrows knitting together. “It’s still difficult.”

“Okay.” I nodded, deciding I’d wait patiently for a sign from her. In truth, I could probably stand like this forever, with her so close.

“Talk to me.” Her voice was strained. “Tell me what happened tonight. Is Duane still with you?”

“No. He dropped me off a minute ago.” I lifted my hands and hovered my fingers over hers. “Can I touch you?”

She nodded, and then swallowed.

I gripped her wrists lightly, then smoothed my palms down her forearms. “What are you working on?”

“You first, tell me what happened.”

It was clear she wanted to be distracted, so I told her about the evening, making sure to divert her with jokes about drinking too much coffee. I told her about what Christine wanted and how she’d said Darrell was coming up for parole. When I got to the part where I recycled her insult about black holes, Shelly’s forehead cleared of anxious-wrinkles and she gave me an almost smile.

“Did you like that one?”

“It was one of my favorites.” I stole a quick glance at her hands. They’d relaxed, and were presently resting flat against my chest.

“You have favorites?”

“Yes. I especially liked it when you told Devron Stokes he needed to save his breath, ’cause he was going to need it to blow up his date.”

Her lips quirked to the side even as her eyes moved over me with obvious concern. “How are you? Are you okay?”

“It’s not how I’d choose to spend my Monday nights, but it needed to be done. I’m glad Duane was there, giving me a swift kick and forcing me to be . . .”

“To be what?”

“Unkind.”

Her almost smile became a full one. “You mean honest.”

“Yeah. Maybe,” I hedged, squinting at her.

“But you’re okay?” Her hands slid to my shoulders and then wrapped around my neck as she stepped closer, her gaze on my mouth.

“Yes. I am. I mean,” I stole a kiss, “I’m still mulling things over, and we’ll have to tell Cletus about Darrell. I’m hoping Christine was misinformed, but I guess we’ll see. I’ll likely be asking you to ‘hold my tools’ from time to time.”

“Good. That’s what I’m here for.”

I liked how she’d gentled her tone. I liked how she was looking at me, all soft and open and focused. I liked how she was pressing her body to mine. It made me want to do things to her, and I would.

But first, I slid my nose along hers. I teased her, brushing my lips against hers, then retreating so she’d chase the kiss. And when she was near a frenzy, I gave her what she wanted and captured her mouth, indulging in the sweet taste of her tongue.

After a time, when we were both dizzy and breathing hard, she dipped her chin to her chest and whispered, “You are an excellent kisser.”

“Thanks. You’re not too bad yourself.”

She scowled. “I don’t think I’m that good.”

What?

“You underestimate your skills.”

“No. I never underestimate my skills.”

“Of course you don’t.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re very pragmatic.”

“So?”

I grinned, leaning forward and whispering hotly in her ear. “It’s very sexy.”

She shivered against me, gripping my shirt. “Would you mind repeating that? I didn’t quite hear you.”

I slid my fingers beneath the hem of her top, skimming them lightly around, from her stomach to her back. “You are very,” I kissed the skin beneath her ear, “very,” I trailed my lips down her neck, “very” I took a bite of her shoulder, soothing it generously with my tongue, “sexy.”

“Beau.” My name was a moan, a tortured sigh, the end of it catching in her throat. “How are you so good at this? Did you take lessons?”

“No. I told you, I practice with my pillow.”

Her eyes shone with amusement. “And one time with that watermelon.”

“You’re very responsive.”

“I am?”

“You are. Your body is.” To illustrate, I slipped my hand under her shirt and massaged her breast, rubbing my thumb back and forth over her nipple until it was hard. Then I brought her hand to her other breast. “Feel that.”

I leaned away as she palmed herself and then fingered the peak. “Huh.”

“How have you never touched yourself here before?”

“I do breast exams for cancer screening.”

“Honey.”

“It’s hard for me to—when it’s just me, I can’t—I overthink.”

I held her eyes for a beat, then lowered my mouth to her breast, tonguing the stiff center.

Her body bucked instinctively, her nails digging into the back of my head, and she gasped, “Holy Moly Moses.”

35

“Separation

Your absence has gone through me

Like thread through a needle.

Everything I do is stitched with its color.”

― W.S. Merwin

*Beau*

“ARE YOU GOING TO CRY?”

Duane slid Roscoe a glare. “No. But you will when I punch you in the face.”

Roscoe grinned. “I’m really going to miss you, Duane.”

My twin rolled his eyes and sighed. “Stop being a dummy. Come over here, let’s get this over with.”

Roscoe complied immediately and crossed to Duane for a hug.

We were all at the airport—Jethro and Sienna, Billy, Cletus, Ashley and Drew, Shelly and I, Roscoe, and obviously Duane and Jessica. Jessica’s parents were also present, as was her irritating brother, Jackson James.

Our entire crowd was gathered outside the security line, saying our last goodbyes. And it sucked. Jessica’s eyes were rimmed red, like she’d been crying.

Cletus was in a particularly surly mood, pointing out that Duane’s luggage tags were “insufficient” and reminding him to watch out for pickpockets.

Sienna was a bright spot, though. She had us all laughing when things got too tense. Or, if that didn’t work, she’d talk about how terrible it was to be pregnant and make everything awkward with her oversharing—which eventually made us laugh.

Claire was there too. She’d hastily arranged to take the afternoon off and met us at departures. At first, she stood with Jessica’s parents.

But then Shelly motioned for her to come over. “Stand with us, with Beau,” Shelly whispered to Claire as she approached. “He needs you.”

My sister—my sister—smiled gratefully at Shelly, then gave me a softer version. “Are you hanging in there?”

“I’m fine.” I shrugged.

I am not fine.

I was very not fine.

I glanced at Claire, sliding my arm around her shoulders. Then I glanced at Shelly. She gave me a small kiss and smile.

I’m not fine, but I will be fine.

Duane took a big breath, glancing at his watch, and then at all of us.

“Well, time for us to go.” His gaze landed on me.

My chest hurt. And this sucked.

Jess moved around the circle gathered, embracing each person one more time. Duane came after, shaking hands with Sheriff James and Jackson, then giving quick hugs to each of his family in turn.

This sucks, I kept thinking, this is the worst. I hate this.

When Jess got to me, I gave her as big a smile as I could manage and accepted her embrace.

She held me a moment longer, whispering in my ear, “I’ll take care of him. I promise.”

I nodded as she leaned away, wanting to say thank you, but not trusting myself to speak.

This sucks. Fuck Italy, fuck airports, fuck airplanes.

Then came Duane.

He didn’t smile. He pulled me in for a hug. We held each other, and I remembered.

I remembered all the times I’d comforted him after a fall, all the times I’d kept him safe, all the times he’d needed me. All the times I’d needed him.

I don’t know who let go first, but one of us did.

As we separated, he turned to Shelly and—serious as shit—said, “You take care of him. He’s the best.”

Just as somberly, she nodded. “I will and he is.”

Duane moved to Claire next and I brought my arm back to Shelly’s shoulder, needing to lean on her. She placed her cheek against my chest and snuggled close.

I’m not fine.

We all stayed and watched Duane and Jess move through the security line. It was torture, but we did it. And when they were through, they turned and waved. Jess tossed us air kisses, and then—just like that—they were gone.

Gone.

I’m not fine.

I stared at the spot where they’d disappeared, part of me hoping they’d change their mind, another part of me knowing they wouldn’t.

It was time.

Our paths had diverged.

He was gone.

And I was left.

I’m not fine . . . I took a deep breath. But I will be fine.

“Where are you parked?” Shelly directed this question to Claire, rousing me from my contemplations. “We’ll walk you to your car.”

“You mean Jessica’s car.” Claire slid her arm around my waist and gave it a squeeze.

Life was moving on, people were talking. I forced myself to pay attention.

Ashley caught my eye and she crossed to us, shaking her head and wearing a teasing smile. “I see I’ve been replaced.”

After Duane and I told Claire about our maternity, and explained that within our family only Billy knew the truth, she gave us the go-ahead to tell everyone else. Unsurprisingly, none of our siblings—or our sibling-in-law—seemed to care two stitches that Christine St. Claire was our biological mother. But they all expressed happiness at the prospect of Claire coming into the Winston fold.

Well, everyone except Billy. He remained quiet on the matter until Duane had asked him point-blank what he thought about me asking Claire to Thanksgiving and Christmas.

To which Billy responded, “If she comes to Christmas, I’ll be the first to hang the mistletoe.”

We took that as approval.

But one thing was for certain: even if our momma hadn’t been on a pedestal in our minds before, she’d now been elevated to the rank of saint.

“You haven’t been replaced.” I reached for Ashley as Shelly and Claire moved to one side, giving us some space. I pulled my sister into a hug, and teased her back. “You’ve been supplemented.”

“Fine. I see how it is.” She laughed, leaning away, her hand sliding to mine. “I love you, Beau.”

“I love you too, Ash.”

She stared at me for a moment. “Are you okay?”

“I will be.” Just not quite yet.

Ash’s attention moved to where Shelly and Claire stood a short distance away, their heads together. “I was thinking about our conversation, back in October, about how things change. It seems to me things are changing so fast, every time I blink, something crucial is different.”

“And some things never change.” I squeezed her fingers. “Like how if you’re not happy, then no one gets to be happy.” I shifted my eyes meaningfully to Drew.

My sister laughed, the joyful sound raising my spirits as she followed my line of sight. “Oh, I’m happy. Probably more happy than I deserve to be.”

I disagreed. My sister—my sisters—deserved every happiness, and I wasn’t above meddling to make sure it happened.

We all moseyed toward the parking garage after that. None of us seemed to be in any hurry to leave or get on with the business of our day.

Claire, Shelly, and Ashley were trying to find a mutually agreeable date to make soap. Apparently, Jennifer Sylvester—who was currently in New York—had offered to teach Shelly. Mrs. James chimed in that she’d like to learn as well. Sienna and Jethro then asked if they could tag along.

The Sheriff, Roscoe, and Billy were talking about politics—local, not national—and I caught them saying something about the Paytons. At intervals, I also noticed Billy’s eyes stray toward Claire. She was walking next to me, so at first I thought it was me he was watching.

But, no. It wasn’t me. It was my sister.

Hmm . . .

Drew and Cletus were discussing Cletus’s recent boar hunting trip. He’d just returned the previous night. Duane and I had used the small window of time to fill him in on our meeting with Christine. Cletus had told us to let him handle Darrell and not worry about it. He’d also told us to keep the news to ourselves about Darrell being up for parole soon.

I trusted Cletus, but I couldn’t help worrying about it.

As we strolled past the check-in counters, I wasn’t so lost to my thoughts that the flash of a familiar face escaped my notice. I did a double take, and then I stiffened, my steps faltering, as the face came fully into view.

Repo, one of the highest-ranking members of the Iron Wraiths, was leaning against the wall just past the corner of the check-in, his eyes lowered to the floor. He was standing conspicuously close once I caught sight of him, but inconspicuously far away until I had.

Maneuvering next to Cletus and Drew, I whispered, “Hey. Why’s Repo here?”

“What? Where?” Cletus cast his eyes about.

“Stop it. Don’t look. He’s over there, to the left, by the Delta line.”

Drew was much better at acting natural than Cletus. The big guy turned slowly, like he was checking his pocket for something, then glanced up.

“Yep. That’s him.”

“Do you think this is about Christine?”

“No.” Cletus shook his head, following Drew’s line of sight and lowering his voice. “Repo being here has to do with Jess. It’s not about you, or Duane, or . . . that other matter.”

“Jess?” I looked from Drew—who also seemed confused—to Cletus. “What does Repo have to do with Jess?”

Cletus placed his hand on my shoulder and began in an instructional air, “You see, my dear boy, Duane and Jess have a lot in common.”

“Meaning?”

“I suspect Repo is her daddy.”

“What?” I jerked back, but managed to keep my voice quiet. “What the hell?”

Clearly there was more to understand about the Wraiths than I wanted to know.

Meanwhile, Drew sighed. “I’m going to need a chart to keep up with y’all. I can’t remember who is related to who these days.”

“SOCKS, UNDERWEAR, JEANS, boots, and an extra coat.” She ticked the items off a printed list.

“Leave them there.”

“What?”

“Your underwear.”

“Where?”

“In Chicago.”

Shelly tilted her head to the side, her gaze flickering over me. “Why would I leave my underwear in Chicago?”

I was lying in the bed on my side, watching her. My pillow was folded behind my head, hers was clutched to my chest. “All they do is get in the way.”

She threw three pairs of underwear at me.

I laughed, pulling them away from my face. She had good aim.

Shelly was packing for Chicago. She’d promised to spend Thanksgiving with Janie, Quinn, and Desmond, and so she was keeping her word. She’d only be gone five days, but I was going to miss her.

“T-shirts, extra T-shirts, sweaters, extra sweaters. Floss, toothbrush, toothpaste, night guard—”

“Night guard?”

“It’s the thing I wear to keep from grinding my teeth.”

“Oh. Right.” I twirled a pair of her panties around my index finger. It was blue and lacy. Just looking at it turned me on. I stopped twirling it.

“Moisturizer, cotton balls, Q-tips, shampoo, conditioner, brush. Yarn for Janie, whiskey for Quinn, thankful journal, two pens, graphite pencils, sketchbook, book for flight.”

“What’s that?” I sat up, inspecting her suitcase.

“What?”

“Thankful journal? What’s that?”

Shelly reached into her grey bag on the floor, pulled out a composition notebook, and tossed it to me. “This.”

“You have a diary?” I didn’t open it.

“No. Dr. West said a diary wouldn’t be a productive use of my time. That’s just a book of lists.”

“Oh.” I glanced at the cover; she’d written Thankful Journal in black sharpie, all caps. “What do you mean, lists?”

“Things I’m thankful for.” She scratched her forehead distractedly. “I’m going to bring LUNA Bars, in case I get hungry on the plane.”

“It’s your brother’s private plane. He’ll probably have food for you. And by lists, do you mean a running list? You keep a running list of things you like?”

“No. Every day, a list of—just look at it. You’ll see what I mean.” She grabbed her checklist from the dresser and strolled out of the room.

I watched her walk down the hall, and then turn right, into the kitchen. She was probably grabbing those LUNA Bars.

Smirking at her stubbornness, I flipped open the journal and scanned the first page. It started spring last year and it was just what she’d said, a list of three things under each date.

April 6

1. Pepper

2. Awls

3. Stoneware mugs

APRIL 7

1. Sunshine

2. Rain

3. Mud

APRIL 8

1. Ivan

2. Laika

3. Oliver

FLIPPING AHEAD, I skimmed pages until something caught my eye toward the middle of the book.

SEPTEMBER 22

1. Auto lifts

2. Air compressors

3. Beau Winston

I LOOKED down the hall again, heard a kitchen cabinet open and then close. Then I glanced back to the book, flipping another page, then another, automatically scanning it for my name.

OCTOBER 8

1. Silver forks

2. Switchbacks

3. Beau Winston

OCTOBER 18

1. Classic cars

2. Beau Winston

3. Kissing

OCTOBER 19

1. Beau Winston

2. The basin sink at the shop

3. My brother

PS I am not thankful for corn chips

A SHORT, disbelieving laugh burst from my lungs. I shook my head, sitting up completely in the bed as I read page after page, seeing my name more and more each day.

OCTOBER 28

1. Beau

2. Dr. West

3. Pajamas

OCTOBER 29

1. Beau

2. Long walks

3. Autumn

OCTOBER 30

1. Beau

2. Cotton sheets

3. Hot tea

OCTOBER 31

1. My TIG Welder

2. Beau

3. Books

NOVEMBER 1

1. Beau

2. Sex—especially oral sex

3. Teacups

“SEE? LISTS.” Shelly said, breezing back into the room.

I looked up, finding her carrying two boxes of LUNA Bars and shoving them into her suitcase.

It was too much.

The journal was too much.

She was too much.

Placing the book reverently on the nightstand, I reached for her arm as she straightened and pulled her to the bed, bringing her on top of me. Her hair fell like a curtain around us, her eyes wide as they moved between mine.

“What?” she asked, soft and curious.

“I love you.”

“I know that.” She grinned, soft and open.

“And I’m grateful for you.”

“Good.” Her grin grew, her lovely gaze dropping to my mouth. “What date did you read last?”

“November 1. It was my favorite. I might read it again.”

She laughed, resting her elbow on my chest and placing her chin in her palm. “You stopped just when it was getting good.”

Holding her gaze, I lifted my head. I kissed her.

And I stopped, just as it was getting good.

I stopped my mind.

I also asked time to stand still.

Because I’d been wrong.

In life, there are three periods of time: before, after, and now. I’d always thought of now as a limbo. Sometimes, rarely, it was limbo.

But in the scheme of things, if I took the time to stop and open my eyes; if I paid attention, and counted my blessings, now wasn’t limbo.

Now was heaven.

EPILOGUE

“Whenever you think or you believe or you know, you're a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you're nobody-but-yourself.”

― E.E. Cummings

*Beau*

“BEND OVER, DARIN!”

Shelly grimaced, her gaze lifting to Ashley. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought him.”

“I think he’s great.” Ashley leaned her elbow on the table, her attention affixed to Oliver. “He should come to Christmas Eve dinner every year and we should make his statements into a drinking game. Every time he tells Darin to bend over, we take a drink of Cletus’s moonshine eggnog.”

“Hard pass.” Jethro shook his head adamantly. “Not to the drinking game, but to Cletus’s moonshine eggnog.”

I had to agree with Jethro, the stuff was like drinking paint thinner mixed with eggs. But I wasn’t about to say so out loud, not while Cletus was sitting three chairs down from me and glaring at Jethro with malicious intent.

“Why does he keep telling Darin to bend over?” Jennifer Sylvester wrinkled her nose. She was sitting on Cletus’s lap, an arm draped along his shoulders while she absentmindedly twisted one of his curls around a finger.

Before Shelly could explain, Cletus suggested evenly, “Perhaps his last owner used suppositories.”

Both Shelly and I glanced at Cletus, then at each other. My shoulders shook with silent laughter and she closed her eyes, her full lips pressing together.

Despite Duane and Jess not being there, it had been a great evening and—so far—a great Christmas. Shelly had helped us put up a tree in the family room a few weeks ago and had assisted Jennifer, Ashley, and Sienna with decorations for the place.

Every time Ashley would say something like, “I wish we had some of those frosted glass bulbs,” or, “I wish we had real silver bells,” or, “I wish we had a better wreath holder,” Shelly would show up three days later with the item—custom made and gorgeous—and Ashley would trip all over herself with gratitude, wonder, and awe.

I think, other than me, Ashley had become her biggest fan.

So I wasn’t surprised my sister didn’t mind Oliver. As long as Oliver belonged to Shelly, the bird could do no wrong.

“Are we opening gifts soon?” Sienna yawned. “I’m sorry I’m so sleepy.”

“You’re pregnant, you’re allowed to be sleepy.” Jethro rubbed her back.

Roscoe sent her a cheeky smile. “Yeah. You’re sleeping for two now.”

I hid a yawn behind my hand, glancing at my watch—the Rolex, but now with a leather band—and saw it was getting late. We’d skyped with Duane and Jess earlier, both at Shelly’s place before we’d driven over, and again with the whole family once we’d arrived. They looked happy, like they were having the time of their lives, and Duane tried to impress us with his command of the Italian language.

Basically, he knew how to ask, Where is the toilet? and, How much for that car?

It was good to see him. We’d been emailing back and forth regularly, but it was good to actually see his face.

Shelly stood, taking Oliver with her. “I’ll put him back in his cage.”

The rest of my family also stood, most of us stretching as we did so.

“Let me get the pie out of the oven.” Jenn gave Cletus a kiss on the cheek, then moved quickly into the kitchen; my brother’s gaze followed her as she went.

I would have grinned at his obvious devotion to the woman, poking fun at his recent domestication much like I’d done to Duane last year with Jess. But I couldn’t seem to manage a grin. I was too nervous.

Shelly and I had an early flight in the morning to Chicago. I wasn’t stressing about traveling on Christmas Day, but I did feel slightly ridiculous about our mode of travel. Quinn was sending his private plane to pick us up.

The nerves had very little to do with tomorrow and everything to do with today. I had something special prepared for Shelly and my whole family was in on the plan.

“Stop fretting, she’ll love it.” Ashley caught me by the arm as we migrated from the dining room to the Christmas tree. “And we’ll wait to give her our gifts until after she opens the book.”

“Okay.” My attention moved from Ashely to Drew; he was standing behind her, his hands on her arms. “And don’t make a show about it. Just give her the boxes like it’s no big deal. She doesn’t like to be the center of attention.”

“Don’t worry. We won’t,” Drew promised, issuing me solemn nod.

“Stop stalling,” Cletus appeared suddenly, put his hands on my shoulders, and steered me toward the living room, “y’all need to get a move on before Sienna passes out and we all have to watch Jethro revive her using mouth-to-mouth.”

I let him push me forward. I even let him guide me to the ottoman in front of the hearth. And when Shelly appeared, he insisted she take the spot next to mine.

Roscoe assumed his usual role of handing out gifts from under the tree, and soon the room was a mess of wrapping paper and opened boxes. Soft chatter was punctuated every so often by an exclamation of surprise and gratitude. A Bluegrass Christmas played softly over the speakers while the fire dying in the hearth crackled and hissed.

I held Shelly’s first gift on my lap, but I was running out of time. Soon my stalling would become obvious.

I didn’t want to do that. I didn’t want to stall. I wanted to be brave. I wanted to be worthy of her bravery.

Thus, I turned to her and shoved the first gift into her hands. “Hey, this is for you.”

She’d been talking to Billy about something—I didn’t know what—so my abrupt disruption of their conversation and thrusting of an object onto her lap was considerably less graceful than what I’d been planning. Oh well. Bravery was still bravery, no matter how clumsy the execution.

Shelly gave me a startled look. “Oh, thank you.”

I glanced at Billy, about to offer an apology for the interruption, but he was staring at me like my discomfort amused him. I decided not to apologize.

Also my knee was bouncing, fueled by nerves. I squirmed in my seat as Shelly flipped the gift and carefully removed the tape. Then she slipped the book from the paper with excessive caution. I suspected she was having obsessive thoughts about ripping wrapping paper. This was the first time I’d given her a wrapped present, so I had to wonder if this was a new compulsion or an old one.

I made a note to ask her later.

Shelly stared at the revealed object, her brows pulling together. “What is this?”

I had to clear my throat before I could speak. “It’s a book on how to do kintsugi. It’s a Japanese method of fixing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold. I guess they also can use silver or platinum, but gold seems to be the most popular.”

Her eyes moved over the cover, and then lifted to mine, her gaze telling me she was confused. “You want me to learn how to do kintsugi?”

I reached forward and flipped it open to a dog-eared page, where a fancy-as-shit teacup had been repaired using the method. The elegant white of its porcelain was interrupted by graceful lines of gold—where the handle had broken off, where the cup had cracked in two.

“As a philosophy,” I pointed to the cup, “the point of kintsugi is to treat broken pieces and their repair as part of the history of an object. A break is something to remember, something of value, a way to make the piece more beautiful, rather than something to disguise. They use gold, not invisible superglue, because mistakes shouldn’t be considered ugly. Broken pieces and their repair merely contribute to the story of an object, they don’t ruin it.”

Shelly stared at the page, saying nothing. She stared for a long time, her finger tracing the line of gold traversing the teacup.

“It is beautiful.”

I decided to ignore the unsteady quality of her voice, saying instead, “Much more interesting than a plain old perfect teacup. If you think about it, no two teacups break in the same way. So of course each repaired teacup becomes something new, and wholly unique.”

She closed the book and brought it to her chest, clutching it reverently. “I love it.”

“Good.”

Thank God.

Her gaze landed on mine and it shone with what looked like unshed tears, but she was wearing a smile. Warmth spread outward from my chest to my limbs. It was the kind of smile that made me fuzzy-headed and happy, and aware of the now.

But before either of us could speak, another present was dropped on her lap.

“This is from me and Jenn.”

We both looked up. Cletus was standing in front of us, his arms crossed. “You should open it now. I like it a lot, so if you don’t want it, I’ll take it.”

“Cletus,” Jenn hollered from the kitchen, “stop being a bully!”

I rolled my lips between my teeth and shook my head at my brother. Shelly, however, smiled widely, her attention moving beyond Cletus to the entryway of the kitchen just as Jenn appeared.

“And I told you to wait to give it to her until I was here.” Jenn wiped her hands on a towel attached to her apron and crossed to Cletus, wrapping her arm around his waist and grinning down at Shelly. “Go on and open it.”

Shelly carefully removed the tape, just as she’d done with my gift, and set the wrapping paper aside. As she did this, the rest of my family pulled out their wrapped boxes, each similar to the one Cletus had just deposited in her lap.

My pulse jumped, picking up speed, because I knew what was going to happen next.

Actually, that wasn’t precisely true. I knew what my family was going to do because I knew what was in the boxes. But I didn’t know what would happen when she opened them. Either she’d hate the gesture, or she’d love it.

Just own it.

I braced myself, glancing between her and the box as I bent to the side and grabbed the other two items I’d brought for her. One was a box like all the others—about eight inches deep, wide, and tall—and the other was much smaller, weighing about six ounces.

As soon as Shelly removed the lid, a small sound of surprise slipped past her lips and her eyes darted to mine. They were wide and rimmed with an alarming number of conflicting emotions.

“It’s a teacup.”

“Take it out of the box so you can admire its superiority over all other teacups.” Cletus hugged Jenn to him.

Shelly breathed in through her nose, swallowed, then reached for the cup and pulled it from the box. As soon as I saw it, my lips parted and my eyes sliced to my brother.

“Really, Cletus? Where did you even find that?”

“It’s nice, right?” He grinned. “I’ve discovered the existence of a website entitled Etsy. You can order just about anything custom made.”

“So you ordered a teacup with stamped on hot dogs?” I didn’t try to hide my irritation.

“It is hand painted, Beauford,” he sniffed. “And technically, they’re Bavarian bratwursts.”

Shelly placed her hand on my knee and gave it a squeeze, forcing my attention to hers.

“I love it,” she whispered to me, then tilted her chin back to look at Cletus. “You’re not getting it back.”

My brother’s smile returned—smaller, but more genuine than before—and he nodded once. “I figured as much, so I ordered a set for myself.”

Ashely and Drew’s cup was next, a vintage cup and saucer with gold lining the interior and large pink and blue flowers painted on the outside.

Then Roscoe gave her one with little, happy looking dogs, immortalized mid-leap like they were chasing each other’s tails.

Billy’s was blue and white with faded gold on the handle. Lonely birds lined the rim as though flying in a never-ending circle.

Sienna and Jethro’s came from an artist in Mexico, a distant relative of hers, and was painted in swirling design with bright colors against a brown background.

Claire had dropped one off on her way to the McClure’s, a light-blue set with a delicate butterfly for the cup handle.

Duane and Jess had also sent one from Italy, but theirs was made of ruby red Venetian glass.

Each time Shelly opened a box, she’d suck in a small breath, holding the teacups like they were priceless treasures. Her eyes were still shining with unshed tears, but the smile never left her lips.

She’d said, “Thank you,” after the first three, but then stopped talking altogether after a while, giving me the sense she didn’t trust her voice.

Then I handed her my box.

I watched as she took a shaky breath and diligently unwrapped the present, slipping the top off and staring at the cup within. She lifted it and her chin wobbled.

“That’s kintsugi.” I pointed to the gold vein running through the side of the ancient Japanese cup where it had been repaired. “See how beautiful it is?”

She nodded and she firmed her lips, her eyes avoiding mine.

Wrapping my arm around her waist and giving a squeeze, I placed the last gift on her lap and glanced around the room. Though each of my siblings and their significant others had taken the time to hand her the teacups, they hadn’t loitered after. They hadn’t gawked at her while she opened the boxes or made her feel like a spectacle.

They’d given her space to open each one.

They’d continued their conversations and inspection of their own gifts.

They seemed to accept and understand that this woman needed privacy, even when in a room full of people.

The thoughtfulness and generosity of my family blew me away. It was another reminder of stopping to appreciate the heavenly now.

“What is this?”

I shifted my gaze back to Shelly. She was holding a six ounce bar of 18k gold.

“It’s six ounces of gold.”

Her mouth fell open. “You bought me six ounces of gold?”

“No.” I lifted my wrist. “Technically, Hank bought me six ounces of gold. I melted down the band of my watch.”

A wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows. “Why would you do that?”

“It’s for your teacups. So you can repair them when they break.”

A short laugh tumbled from her lips, sounding like amazement and disbelief, and she covered her mouth just as a tear slid down her cheek.

I caught it with my thumb, wiping it away. “I love you, Shelly. I’ll love you when you break. And I’ll love you when you put yourself back together.”

She closed her eyes, leaning forward until her forehead rested on my shoulder, her face turned towards my neck.

I felt her breathe in and out.

I felt her relax against me—little by little—and regain her control.

And I felt the kiss she placed on my neck just before she whispered, “I just realized something.”

“What?”

“I don’t want to be perfect.”

I grinned, smoothing my hand down her back and placing a kiss on her temple. “Good. ’Cause perfect is boring.”

*THE END*

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS AND A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

I have to thank my editor first and foremost. Marion suffered right along with me as I wrote this book. She shared my struggles and my burdens (taking on the burden of doing the impossible in an impossible timeframe). She is a super woman.

I also want to thank Heather, April, and Shan for being the voices of reason.

A note about OCD

I’d like to thank all the wonderful humans who allowed me to incessantly question them about their experiences with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder (treating it and living it). Thank you K., Ta., G., H., To., and D. I have my own experiences with OCD and depression, but I felt it was important to draw upon the experiences of others to inform the character of Shelly Sullivan more fully. Additionally, it is my hope the expertise provided by these shared experiences contributed to an accurate portrayal of how Shelly’s disorder would have been treated (once she finally sought help).

It’s interesting to me how “OCD” is used in conversation to denote “fastidious” or “particular”. If I had a nickel for every time someone offhandedly mentioned during a conversation that they, “were a little OCD about (fill in the blank),” I’d have 876 nickels.

I suppose we do this with many disorders and diseases. Except I’ve never heard someone say, “I’m feeling a little cancerous today.”

I do not presume to instruct or chastise with this observation, but rather to increase awareness. That is all.

A note about Shelly and Neurocognitively Diverse Characters

One of my BETA readers asked me if I thought Shelly might have too much baggage to be a heroine in a romance novel. My answer was a resounding, “HELL NO.”

All people who sincerely want love (to love and be loved) deserve to be a main character in a romance novel. I firmly believe we are all puzzle pieces, and no matter our shape, color, size, or level of neurocognitive diversity, there is another puzzle piece out there in the world, waiting to click with our own.

As Dr. West says to Beau, “One person’s experience with OCD can be night and day different from another person’s.” I know this to be true. Therefore, it is very important that you, dear reader, do not walk away from this book with the misconception that, through Shelly, I’ve endeavored to write an accurate portrayal of all people with OCD.

I have not.

One character/person can never be—and should never be—fully representative of an entire group of people (unless it’s The Borg; and even then, in later episodes, we see some surprising diversity). I am not the Lorax of OCD, I do not speak for the anxious.

Rather, what I have endeavored to do (and what I struggle to do with all of my characters) is to write a person who is believable as herself. Like all *real* people, she is not one thing. She is artist and mechanic, strong and weak, brave and cowardly, rational and irrational.

But above all, she is Shelly Sullivan. She is herself. And she is worthy of love, both giving it and receiving it.

A note about Beau:

I loved writing Beau.

I loved writing a character who was considered simple and straightforward, but through his interactions with a multifaceted issue, his own complexity is discovered. We all do this, or have an opportunity to do it, over the course of our lives. We have our ideas of right and wrong, but then are faced with a situation where right and wrong don’t apply.

We can either chose to continue in ignorance, sticking to the yellow brick road of simplicity, or educate ourselves and unlock a spectrum of possibility.

So here’s to people like Beau, and being receptive to the spectrum of possibility.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Penny Reid lives in Seattle, Washington with her husband, three kids, and an inordinate amount of yarn. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she writes books.

Published in 2017, ‘Beard In Mind’ is Penny’s 15th novel.

Come find me-

Mailing list signup: http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/ (get exclusive stories, sneak peeks, and pictures of cats knitting hats)

Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/PennyReidWriter

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/reidromance/

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/ReidRomance

Email: pennreid@gmail.com …hey, you! Email me ;-)

Blog: http://pennyreid.ninja

Twitter: https://twitter.com/ReidRomance

Ravelry: http://www.ravelry.com/people/ReidRomance (if you crochet or knit…!)

Read on for:

Penny Reid’s Booklist (current and planned publications)

Sneak Peek: Dating-ish, book 6 in the Knitting in the City Series (Available Now!)

OTHER BOOKS BY PENNY REID

Knitting in the City Series

(Contemporary Romantic Comedy)

Neanderthal Seeks Human: A Smart Romance (#1)

Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (#1.5)

Friends without Benefits: An Unrequited Romance (#2)

Love Hacked: A Reluctant Romance (#3)

Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance (#4)

Ninja at First Sight (#4.75)

Happily Ever Ninja: A Married Romance (#5)

Dating-ish (#6)

Marriage of Inconvenience (#7, coming 2017)

Winston Brothers Series

(Contemporary Romantic Comedy, spinoff of Beauty and the Mustache)

Truth or Beard (#1)

Grin and Beard It (#2)

Beard Science (#3)

Beard in Mind (#4)

Dr. Strange Beard (#5, coming 2018)

Beard Necessities (#6, coming 2018)

Irish Players (Rugby) Series – by L.H. Cosway and Penny Reid

(Contemporary Sports Romance)

The Hooker and the Hermit (#1)

The Pixie and the Player (#2)

The Cad and the Co-ed (#3)

SNEAK PEEK: DATING-ISH (AVAILABLE NOW!)

BY PENNY REID, BOOK #6 IN THE KNITTING IN THE CITY SERIES

DEEPMIND

A neural network that learns in a fashion similar to that of humans and may be able to access an external memory like a conventional Turing machine, resulting in a computer that mimics the short-term memory of the human brain.

–Source: Google’s Artificial Intelligence Program

I WAS SWEATING.

“Is this seat taken?”

My head whipped up from the book I wasn’t actually reading to look at the café employee. Her hands rested on the only other chair at my table and she gazed at me with an affable, expectant smile.

“It’s taken,” I shrieked. Like a lunatic.

But, man, I need that chair!

She lifted her hands, recoiling as though the metal singed her skin, and gave me a wide-eyed stare. My attention moved behind her and I spotted the nearby table of university students, obviously hunting for an extra seat.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I shook my head, gathering a deep breath and telling myself to calm down. “I’m meeting someone and he’ll be here soon. I’m a little early.”

“Okay, no problem.” She affixed a polite smile and moved to another table, making the same enquiry.

Longingly, I gazed at the booth by the window. Every café or coffee shop has that one coveted table, where two to four friends can gather and spend an afternoon not being overheard while sharing ideas and stories. Or where a person can go to work—impervious to the room and its distractions—headphones on, laptop open, losing count of how many lattes and croissants were consumed over an eight-hour day.

I did not have that table. I had a mediocre table, set in the center of the coffee shop, surrounded by other mediocre tables.

But I would not let my mediocre table get me down.

My attention flickered to the door of the café, then to the clock above it. He wasn’t late. Yet.

Squirming, wishing I’d worn anything other than this sweater dress, my eyes returned to the book on my lap.

Pay no attention to me, nothing to see here. I’m just perspiring, wearing a sweater dress in May, and not reading while waiting for my perfect match.

Derek Simmons. Six foot three with a well-maintained beard, great smile, gray eyes, tan complexion, and short hair. He didn’t work out regularly—which was great, because that meant he didn’t expect me to work out either—but enjoyed some outdoorsy activities. Engineer. Thirty-nine. Divorced, two kids.

Derek and I were a perfect match. That’s what FindUrPartner.com indicated last Thursday.

You have a perfect match. The notification alerted me as soon as I signed in. The irony was, I’d been logging in to suspend my account. After almost two years of Internet dating debacles and equally disappointing men, I was ready for a break. But then I’d received the perfect match message. Therefore, I did what any normal person would do.

I Internet stalked him.

Loves: cooking, hiking, camping, eighties music, film noir. Reads: GQ Magazine, The Economist, Politico. TV shows: The Walking Dead, Daredevil, and Project Runway.

. . . cooking, film noir, The Economist, and Project Runway?

YES! A man unicorn.

Compelled by his uni-horn, I emailed him.

HI DEREK,

I hope you are well. According to this website, we’re a perfect match. This has never happened to me before, so I thought I’d reach out and say hi. Let me know if you’d like to meet up for coffee sometime. I work downtown near the Loop and am free next Monday afternoon.

Best, Marie

THE NEXT MORNING, I was alerted that he’d looked at my profile, and I read his response with bated breath.

HI MARIE,

Thanks so much for your note.

Next Monday works for me. I’m near the university. You name the place and I’ll be there.

-Derek

I LOVED HIS RESPONSE.

Direct. To the point. Polite. No detour into unnecessary topics. No typos.

To say my hopes were high would be a gross understatement. My hopes had reached astronomical. Since our exchange of emails, I’d tried to curtail those blasted hopes to no avail. I couldn’t help my hopes.

Don’t run away from me, hopes! I can’t move that fast in these heels and we’re in this together.

But they did run away, hopping onto a spaceship—likely one of those SpaceX crafts that keeps infuriating Elon Musk by blowing up—leaving me on the ground, waving frantically, which was probably compounding my sweating problem.

Arm waving at one’s high hopes while wearing a sweater dress in May is a workout.

But he’s perfect!

This squealing nugget of optimism originated from some dark corner in my brain. Once I found the owner of this voice inside my head, I was going to . . . I didn’t honestly know. On the one hand, I didn’t want to be bitter and jaded, trading optimism for pessimism.

Or worse, nihilism. Nihilism was the worst. And the perpetuators of it had no imagination when it came to accessorizing. All black, all the time? No, thank you.

I checked the clock over the entrance for maybe the hundredth time just as a man walked through the door. My heart did an odd prickling thing, but then the sensation eased. He wasn’t Derek. The man was too short and had no beard. And he was clearly younger than thirty-nine, more like late twenties.

With another sigh, I returned my attention to the book in my lap. I didn’t even know the title, having grabbed it from the bookstore across the street in a fit of pre-date-overthinking-induced insanity. I didn’t want to wait for him by scrolling through messages on my phone. I felt like phone-scrolling was too prosaic. And I didn’t want to be one of those people who just stared forward or people-watched while waiting, even though I loved to people watch. And I didn’t—

“You’re Marie.”

I glanced up, blinking at the man standing in front of my table, the man who I’d just dismissed as being not-Derek. He wasn’t looking at me. Rather, his gaze was on the open pages of my book.

“Yes?”

His eyes quickly darted to mine and then away as he removed his coat. “I’m your date.”

I frowned because I was surprised. And because I was surprised, it took me a solid five seconds to respond. By then he’d already placed his jacket on the back of his chair.

“Oh! Hi. Hi. Please sit down.” I gestured to the seat across from mine and belatedly stood, trying not to feel weird about my smile. I never knew how big to smile during these things. I missed the days when I could just smile naturally and not have to think about it.

Reassessing my date, my eyes flicked over him. He was definitely not six foot three. More like six foot even, or a little shorter.

No big deal. A lot of guys embellish their height on dating sites, except . . .

He shaved his beard.

Sad face :-(

And again, he looked younger than thirty-nine. And his skin was white, paler than the olive complexion I’d been expecting, which was fine, but different from his picture.

“Derek?” I really was confused by the differences between his photo and his reality.

“Yes. I’m Derek. Derek is my name. That’s me.” Derek, my date, extended his hand, shook mine with a perfunctory up-down movement, and then claimed the seat I’d offered.

My smile wavered. My hopes crashed to the earth in a giant, burning cluster-comet of disappointment. I braced myself. We hadn’t made it past the first minute of awkward and I already knew things weren’t going to work out.

Derek was not my perfect match.

We had zero chemistry. No spark when we touched. No shock or magic voodoo juju awesomeness. No nothing.

And no eye contact. He wouldn’t even look at me.

Inwardly, I sighed and cringed, wondering if we’d be able to wrap this up quickly so I could run to the drugstore for some tampons before meeting my knitting group for wine, and yarn, and then more wine.

Outwardly, I pressed my lips into a shape I hoped resembled a smile and sat in my chair. My eyes sought the clock over the door. It was only 3:14. My record for a coffee date was twenty minutes. I wondered if I could break it today.

“Did you want anything?” I motioned to the cup in front of me, keeping my voice light. “I grabbed a drink already.”

“No,” he said, a slight business-like smile affixed to his features. “Let’s get started.”

“S-started?”

Derek was looking at his watch. He pressed a button. He let his hands drop to his lap. Only then did he lift his eyes to mine.

And then he blinked, his smile slipping infinitesimally, as though the sight of me was unexpected.

I lifted my eyebrows, waiting, because apparently it was time for us to get started. Whatever that meant.

“Hi,” he said. His gaze moved over my features, his smile growing hazy, more genuine.

. . . Huh.

He had brown eyes. His brown eyes held me momentarily transfixed, and not just because they weren’t gray—as he’d listed on his page—but because they were expressive and remarkably attractive.

His hair was also brown, but longer than it had been in his pictures.

Truly, he really did look significantly different than his profile—surely not just because of the absent beard? Nevertheless, despite being beardless, his face was handsome: high cheekbones, strong nose, a jaw that was decidedly square. His eyes were remarkably wide and round, but somehow they suited him perfectly, and I decided his eyes were my favorite part of him.

I allowed my smile to mirror his, my gaze dropping momentarily to his very nice lips, which honestly struck me as oddly pouty for a man.

Okay, let’s give him a chance. Even though he misrepresented his height, age, and eye color . . .

So. Weird.

Who does that?

“Hi,” I finally replied, examining him, my reporter spidey-sense tingling.

Derek flinched at my returned greeting, his eyes narrowing, and he frowned.

“You’re Marie?” His tone was distrustful?

“Yes.” I nodded once, slowly, cataloging his clothes. “And you’re Derek.”

“Of course I’m Derek. Who else would I be?”

“Uh . . .” Yeeeeeah no. I can’t wait to tell Sandra about this guy.

“Moving on.” He shook his head again, as though shaking himself, and frowned at the table. “So, Marie, you’re a writer?”

“That’s right. And you’re an engineer?” I asked, no longer in date mode.

“Your profile said you’ve had one serious relationship in the past, is this true?” Derek lifted his dark eyes to mine again and this time his expression struck me as carefully neutral.

“Yes.” I gave him a pointed look. “Everything on my profile is true.”

It didn’t feel necessary to clarify that though I’d only been in one serious relationship, I’d had relationships in my early twenties, all of which—except my last boyfriend—had been bad and/or unhealthy decisions.

So, yes, technically everything on my profile was true.

Not like your profile, buddy. Not even your eye color is right.

He didn’t seem to catch my hint. “As a woman in your thirties, what are you most looking for in a companion?”

I flinched, unaccustomed to such severely direct questions right off the bat. Not that I was opposed to directness, just that it wasn’t typical on first dates.

In my limited experience with online dating, the order of actions was usually as follows:

1. Both people smile and try not to betray their thoughts as expectations based on photos are either surpassed, met, or disappointed.

2. I shake off my initial impression and try to have an open mind, talk about inconsequential things like movies and the weather.

3. I don’t get my hopes up if things are going well.

4. I never commit to seeing him again in order to avoid appearing overeager.

5. I wait three days, and then text. If the text is not returned, forget him and move on.

I’d only sent a text to four guys over the last two years. Three had returned my message. None had lasted longer than the third date, and no one had ever felt right.

“I guess . . .” I cleared my throat, glancing over Derek’s shoulder to the busy café behind him, as I attempted to parse my thoughts.

As a woman in your thirties was a strange way to frame the question. What did my age have to do with anything?

“So, you would say that you don’t know what you want?” He sounded curious.

My gaze cut back to his. “Yes, I know what I want.”

“But you don’t want to tell me?”

“I don’t mind telling you.” I studied him for a moment, gathered a deep breath, and spoke the truth. “I’m looking for the right person.”

I’m looking for my perfect match.

Derek’s expression didn’t change, and he continued to gaze at me with a patient, watchful expression. But when I didn’t continue, he angled his head forward as though to say, go on.

“And?”

“And that’s it. I’m looking for the right person.”

“Ah, okay. And what traits will this right person have? Starting with the most important.”

What?

“I—”

“And if you could rank each attribute on a ten-point scale of importance—where ten is the most important—that would be very helpful.”

Now I openly frowned at him. “You want me to rank personality traits on a ten-point scale, starting with what I find most important?”

“Not just personality traits, physical attributes as well. Or, if you like, you can start with your love dialect.”

“My love dialect?”

“Correct. What form of affection is most meaningful to you, and so forth.”

We stared at each other. He continued to regard me placidly, with a friendly albeit detached smile. Meanwhile, I was plotting my escape, polite social discourse be damned.

Usually, I didn’t agree to meeting face to face unless I’d spoken to the potential date on the phone first, ensuring we had some level of chemistry. But I’d made an exception for Derek, because he was supposed to be my perfect match.

But clearly the system didn’t factor in the degree to which a person is a loon.

Says the sweating woman who had astronomical—and therefore understandably annihilated—hopes. Look in the mirror, looney bird.

I was just about to make an excuse when he announced, “We should engage in small talk. How was your day?”

“Pardon me?”

Nuts. He’s completely nuts.

“Or if you don’t wish to discuss your day, we could talk about hobbies,” he offered cordially, gesturing to my lap. “Do you read for work or pleasure?”

Distracted by his rapid and bizarre subject change, I responded unthinkingly, “I usually read for fun.” I’m sure the look I gave him was one of complete bewilderment.

“Really? Does kidnapping and sexual torture sound like fun to you?”

My mouth fell open and I reared back in my seat.

This guy wasn’t a loon, he was completely insane.

I managed to sputter, “What are you suggesting?”

“The 120 Days of Sodom.” He tilted his chin toward my lap.

I flinched, a short, aggrieved, disbelieving laugh bursting from my lips. “Oh my God.” Then to the table I said, “You’re completely crazy.”

Derek frowned at me, as though I’d confused him. His eyes bounced between the table and me. “What?”

“You’re completely crazy,” I repeated, reaching behind me for my coat.

“I’m crazy?”

If he hadn’t just suggested four months of sodomy I might have found the concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows adorable. But, given the fact that sexual torture wasn’t far from his mind, I decided the wrinkle wasn’t adorable. It was distressing.

“Yes. You’re nuts. Don’t email me. Don’t call me. Pretend we never met.”

I was no longer sweating as I pulled on my jacket and grabbed my things. This was an odd quirk about my personality: put me in an innocuous situation where I need to be normal, and I’m bouncing off the walls. But send me into a dangerous or emergency situation, and I’m cool and focused.

Derek—or whatever his name was—started to stand so I held out my hand.

“Don’t. Don’t stand up. Don’t even look at me. And don’t think about following me either or I’ll call the police.” Lunatic.

Without another glance, I wove through the tables and out the door, anger, indignation, and frustration spurring my movements.

Wow.

WOW.

Wow.

The first thing I’d do upon arriving home would be reporting that freak to FindUrPartner.com.

The second thing I’d do is delete my profile. I’d been with David, my ex, for six years, and because we’d met in college, I’d missed out on the early years of Internet dating. No great loss. Clearly it wasn’t for me.

I’d had some terrible first dates since breaking up with David, but this one took the cake. It took all the cakes. In less than twenty minutes, my perfect match had irrevocably propelled himself to the top of my worst-date list.

Thanks, dating algorithms, for pairing me with a psycho.

I moved to retrieve my cell from my purse. I needed to call my friend Sandra immediately. I couldn’t wait until knit night to tell someone about this fiasco. But then my attention snagged on the spine of my book—the book I’d purchased in a rush so as to not seem prosaic for Derek—and I stopped short, gaping at the title and author.

It read, The 120 Days of Sodom, by Marquis de Sade.

*End Sneak Peek*

Dating-ish is available on Kobo Now!

Table of Contents

Title Page

Table of Contents

Beard In Mind

Copyright

Dedication

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!)