Beard Science(44)

So I blurted, “Have you ever done a cookie stand?”

She shook her head, sniffing, turning away from me to grab two cups.

“What’s that?” Her voice was rough.

“It’s like a keg stand, but with cookies.”

Jenn’s movements stilled. She blinked. A new frown formed, but this one was thoughtful, not miserable.

“You mean where those people do a handstand and drink beer?”

“That’s right. But with cookies.”

“That sounds awful.”

“At least you don’t get crumbs on your shirt.” I bit into the third cookie.

“Yes, but,” Jenn shook her head, a hesitant smile claiming her luscious lips, “then they’d go up your nose.”

“That’s the best part. You can save them for later.”

She made an amused face of disgust and shook her head. Her eyes flickered to mine for a split second then away, turning to the stove to retrieve the water.

Another minute passed before she said, “If you want to do a cookie stand, I’ll hold your legs. Because you have a lot of cookies left.”

I lifted an eyebrow at the jar. She was right. According to her mandate, I had about a dozen cookies to consume. It wasn’t a metric ton, but it was more than plenty.

“Explain to me again why I have to eat all these cookies.”

“There’s something at the bottom I want to give to you.”

“Why don’t you just dump them out?”

Jenn twisted her lips to the side, her downcast eyes flaring with some emotion, and then she huffed. “Fine. If you don’t want my cookies, I’ll just dump them.”

I got the sense she was referring to something more than her cookies. But before I could question her, she picked up the jar. Her movements were jerky and agitated as she dumped the delicious vanilla cookies on the counter, picked through them to retrieve four gray inch-long thumb drives, and then swiped the cookies with her arm into a waiting trash bin.

I gasped.

“Good God, woman. Did you just throw those delectable cookies away?”

She ignored the question, gritting her teeth and shoving the thumb drives toward me. “These are yours.”

“What are you talking about?” My mind was still on the loss of those exceptional cookies. I might never recover.

Finally, finally, she lifted her eyes to mine, and what I saw felt like a punch in the stomach. They were both fire and ice, red and blue, livid and sorrowful.

“The video of you taking the evidence is on these thumb drives. I hid them here, in this kitchen. They’re yours now. I don’t want them.”

My mouth parted and I felt my eyes go wide. I gaped—which was not a common expression for me—glancing between her and the inch-long pieces of technology that could have spelled my doom.

“You kept them on thumb drives.” It wasn’t a question; it was a revelation of how utterly wrong I’d been.

I thought my friend in Chicago had erased the evidence from all sources. That was not the case. She’d been in control the whole time. And she was in control now. She was deciding when our deal was over. Not me.

Not me.

My heart thundered between my ears, fueled by panic. The sensation was similar to the seconds before a head-on collision, when you can see the other car coming, but you can’t do anything to stop what happens next.

Jenn angled her chin defiantly, placing her hands on her hips. “I don’t want your help anymore.”

I winced, unable to catch the reaction in time because my heart was hurling itself against my ribcage again. But I did manage to imbue my tone with gentle calm when I asked, “What if I want to help?”

“No, thank you,” she said firmly, shaking her head and lowering her eyes to the teacups. “I appreciate you giving me a good start, and taking the time out of your busy life to . . . to . . . to show me that what I want matters. I know I have a ways to go. As Claire put it, I’d like to try flying on my own before I look for a new cage.”

I stared at her, unable to move, dually proud and dejected.

I’m not ready.

I’m not ready to let her go.

“Since the cookies are gone, there’s no call for the tea.” She sounded distracted and was frowning again. Abruptly, she turned and placed the teacups back on the shelf, wiping her hands on her apron unnecessarily. “I have a few things to finish up front, so I’ll let you see yourself out.”

Jenn gave me a polite smile, but didn’t lift her eyes higher than my neck. With light steps, she left the kitchen for the main bakery.

I stood very still, staring at the spot where she’d disappeared, listening. Unlike the last time she’d unceremoniously abandoned me to see myself out, I heard chairs scrape against the floor, keys jingle, and the telltale sounds of glass cases sliding open, then shut.

I searched for words, but couldn’t find them. So I left, dazed, and confused as to why I was heartsick. But not really confused. Rather, I was heartsick and too stubborn to admit the reason.

On the drive home, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I thought about her smile when I’d arrived and her frown when I’d left. I thought about the dress she was wearing. It wasn’t yellow. I thought about our kiss and why I’d stopped. For the first time in a long time, I second-guessed myself.

But mostly I couldn’t shake the notion that Jennifer had discarded something vitally important to me when she’d thrown away those vanilla cookies.

And even though I wasn’t completely sure what that thing was, I might never recover.





CHAPTER 19


“I love you as the plant that never blooms, but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers.”

 Pablo Neruda



~Cletus~

“You’re tense. You can’t do yoga if you’re tense.”

I broke form and frowned at my yoga partner. “Would you quit henpecking me?”

Sienna lifted an eyebrow. “Only if you stop crowing.”

My mouth twitched, but I caught my smile before it could spread. “Next you’re going to call me cocky.”

“I wasn’t. I was going to call you a chick magnet.”

I gave in to a laugh and shook my head at Jethro’s fiancée. She was good at puns, and I liked this about her. She always put me in a better mood.

Sienna flashed a smile and her trademark dimples made an appearance. “Did you enjoy that one?”

“It’s better than being called a motherclucker.”

Now she laughed, tossing her head back. “Oh, that’s funny. I’m using that for one of my movies.”

“Go right ahead. I ain’t using it for anything profitable.” Readjusting myself on my mat, I closed my eyes, breathed in and out—clearing my mind—and tried the pose again.

It was Monday morning, and happened to be Halloween, one week after my last and final lesson with Jennifer Sylvester.

I was . . . unhappy. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Sienna and I were outside on the back deck of the homestead, facing the national park where it backed up to our land. It was mid-morning, chilly but not too cold, and the sun was just peeking above the Smokies. Mist still clung to the wildflower field since our place was deep in the Valley; this time of year, the sun didn’t touch the house until after 9:30 AM.

Sienna and I had done yoga together a few times before she and Jethro had left to film her last movie in Washington State. Since she’d returned, we’d been meeting for yoga three mornings a week. I didn’t want her doing any positions that might hurt the baby, so I’d drafted a pregnancy-safe routine. She told me I was ridiculous and a hovering uncle, but she did them anyway.

“So,” Sienna interrupted the quiet, “about Jethro’s bachelor party . . .” She ended the sentence on a leading high note, as though I was expected to fill in the blank.

I shook my head, refusing to look at her. I knew what she was after.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. And you can tell Jethro to stop asking his woman do his dirty work.”

“What if I’m curious?”

“I’ll share the pictures after the fact.”

I felt her eyeballs on me, considering. “Is it true you’ve hired a stripper?” I heard the smile in her voice. “Because I’m fairly certain Jessica has for mine. My sister Marta is going to be horrified.”

“Your sister is always horrified.”

Sienna released a surprised laugh. “You are tense.” I heard her switch poses. “And you’ve been grumpy.”

“I’m always grumpy.”

I was grumpy.

Duane and Jess hadn’t been upset when we didn’t show at Big Todd’s. But I’d been upset and still was upset.

I hadn’t seen Jennifer in a week. Absence doesn’t make the heart grow fonder. Whoever said that was a damn fool. Absence makes the heart suicidal. Take my heart for example. It hadn’t stopped hurling itself against my ribs—at odd times, day or night—for a week.

Clearly, my heart was a danger to itself and to me because Jennifer Sylvester and I were not suited, not at all.

If I’d pursued her, assuming she even desired my attentions, things would be complicated between us. I couldn’t abide complicated. Her parents would not approve, and I would not seek their approval. I wanted predictable, and she’d never ceased to surprise me. Together we would not be perfectly pragmatic. We would be impressively impractical.