Beard Science(52)

“Wait. I’m not finished.”

“I don’t care.”

“Hear me out.” His frowned deepened, looking more genuine, and his hand rose to my arm as though to hold me in place.

I shook off his fingers and took a step back. “No, I will not hear you out. I will not stand here and listen to you tell me that we were just practicing, or that we’re not suited, or that you don’t feel for me what I so clearly feel for you. So save the shit for your garden and drive me home.”

Something sharpened behind his eyes as they narrowed on me, and he gained the step I’d placed between us. “What do you feel for me?”

“None-none of your business,” I stammered, the look in his eye unnerving, “Now either you take me home, or back to my car, or—”

“I hypothesize that you’re in love with me.”

My mouth fell open. “Pardon?”

“You’re in love with me.” He nodded, like I’d said the words.

I stared at his handsome face, gawking. My mind now completely devoid of thought because he’d chased it away with his hypothesis.

“I’ll take your silence as an implicit agreement.” Cletus’s voice lowered an octave and he gained another step forward, his eyes on my lips.

“You-you-you will do no such thing.” I backed away. “I’m not in love with you.”

. . . am I?

I shook my head, scrunching my face with frustration. Maybe now wasn’t the best time to be having this conversation.

“Really?” His gaze grew softer, his voice echoed the gentle and vulnerable quality of his eyes. “Because I’m in love with you.”

My mouth dropped open. Then it closed. Then it opened again. An explosion of sensations rocked me back on my heels. Those were not the words I’d expected him to say. Not at all.

Not ever.

All the air left my lungs on a whoosh and frenzied heat slid up my neck and chest. “I don’t . . . I don’t understand you,” I whispered, shaking my head, rejecting his words while attempting to make sense of the moment.

We’re not well suited.

Confusion clouded my vision, I couldn’t see.

“I’m not surprised. I’m not very understandable,” he said softly. “But understand this.” Cletus captured my chin with deft fingers and lifted it. I braced myself, preparing for whatever handsome assault he had planned, then met his eyes.

My knees wobbled. The way he was looking at me, at my mouth . . . Good Lord!

I swayed, feeling light-headed. He was going to kiss me again. And this time, looking into his eyes, I surmised the only thing stopping us from consummating our bewildering relationship was me. And I didn’t want to stop us.

“What are you doing?” I flattened my hands on his chest.

“You know what I’m doing,” he grumbly whispered, sending a wave of white-hot loveliness and tension through my body, making my toes curl.

I shook my head, panic and hope picking fights with each other, causing a ruckus. “I don’t. I honestly do not.”

“Then let me show you.”

“Cletus.” I bent my head to the side but maintained eye contact, moving my hands to grip is biceps. “I’m not made for this.”

“What’s that?”

“For love.” The words were out before I could catch them, before I knew I was going to say them.

I immediately regretted my honesty because his eyes both gentled and hardened. “I beg to differ. I propose it’s exactly what you’re made for.” An edge of anger entered his voice.

Giving into my panic, I blurted, “Because that’s what would happen. I would fall in love with you and then you’d break my heart.”

“I can’t break your heart without breaking mine, and I’m terribly fond of my heart.”

“I don’t think I’ll be able to separate the act from the feeling. I can’t treat it like a sport. I’m going to burn the toast.”

He nodded thoughtfully, as though considering my words, his hand sliding down my back to cup my bottom; he rubbed my backside from hip to thigh, then squeezed.

“I’m good with that.” His tone was maddeningly pragmatic.

I moaned as he pressed my body to his and I felt the evidence of his desire. “Be serious, Cletus.”

“I am serious, Jenn. I need to finish what I started when we were prematurely interrupted earlier. Nothing is going to happen tonight beyond some serious touching.” He paused, then tilted his head to the side in a considering manner. “Depending on what your definition of ‘serious’ is.”

“This is not a game!”

He loosened his grip, his eyes turning earnest but no less desirous. “You’re not a game to me.”

“Then what am I to you, Cletus? Because you can’t possibly expect me to believe that you’re in love with me,” I scoffed, shaking my head.

But then he looked at me.

Just simply looked.

And I blinked my surprise.

The many different “Cletuses” fell away. No artifice, no mind games, no jokes, no walls—it was just the man. The raw truth of him—of his soul—was beautiful. It was precious to me.

He was precious to me.

“You want to know what you are to me? Fine. You’re my beginning, middle, and end.”

The words hit me square in the chest, through the heart, straight to my soul.

Our gazes clashed and held. I gasped for air, tears stinging behind my eyes one moment, then leaving hot trails down my cheeks the next.

Unable to help myself, I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him.





CHAPTER 22


“Perhaps there is a soul hidden in everything and it can always speak, without even making a sound, to another soul.”

 Frances Hodgson Burnett, A Little Princess



~Cletus~

My woman was extraordinary.

She was also unzipping my jacket, her greedy hands sliding over my chest and stomach. I tensed under her fingertips and reinitiated composing the unsexy list I’d been making in the car, before Jessica had happened upon us with her flashlight. I was detailing a list of all the old fellas I played shuffleboard with and whether I’d won or let them win. Proud old men threw the worst temper tantrums and thinking on their disgruntled faces would hopefully save my sanity.

Not much about my Friday had gone according to design, but things were certainly looking up.

I’d begun my day with a solid plan to win Jennifer’s affections. We weren’t going to rush things, just the opposite. The first phase of my plan included bumping into her at the Piggly Wiggly. I was going to play it like a happy coincidence. Then, I was going to strike up a conversation, as the people do, during which I would invite her to dinner.

I knew Jennifer stopped into the store every Friday and Sunday for a crate of bananas. Everyone knew this. So I arrived early, before they opened, and waited. By 4:00 PM I was worried. By 8:00 PM I was near a fit. I asked Billy to drive past the bakery on his way home, and he’d confirmed her car was still there.

I waited.

I watched the Wraiths walk into the store around 9:40 PM, not thinking much of it. Jenn finally pulled into the parking lot ten minutes later and jogged inside, obviously in a rush. I followed. And that’s when the plan went to Hades in a handbasket.

The original plan had several phases, all of which adhered to the commonly accepted rituals of human courtship. I’d intended to keep the depth of my feelings to myself for as long as she needed to catch up, at which point she would say the words first, I would concur, we would become engaged, buy a stretch of land, Jethro would build a house as a wedding present, and I’d insist on raised garden beds for Jennifer’s overall-wearing activities.

Now, the primary phase of the plan was mostly irrelevant, seeing as how her hands were currently moving over my body like I was something brand new.

Which brings me back to my extraordinary woman.

I hadn’t expected this accelerated pace of change in the emotional or physical portions of our relationship. I could and would adapt, but the suddenness required a quantity of unsexy lists.

My jacket fell to the floor and her mouth moved to my shoulder and collarbone, biting a trail to my chest. Her movements were almost frantic, and I recognized she was losing herself to the moment. I needed to be level-headed enough for both of us, and so focused on my list.

I bent and kissed her just under her ear, blowing hot breath along her neck and shoulder, allowing myself to enjoy how her body responded, how she stiffened and arched. She pressed against me and I felt her restlessness.

What she’d experienced in the canned vegetable aisle of the Piggly Wiggly had been a trauma, not only because of what her brother had said, but also due to what I had done in punching the little shit.

Let me be clear: I didn’t regret it, and I would do it again. Gladly.

But we wouldn’t be losing ourselves to passion tonight. I wouldn’t allow it. I didn’t wish to compound her ordeal by crossing a line she’d regret. I worried for her even as I lifted the cotton shirt she wore and slipped my hands up her sides, her hot, satin-smooth skin beneath my fingertips fraying the edges of my self-possession.

I gripped her and my restraint, held both close. She had my heart. I wanted hers very, very badly. And I wanted her heart for the long term. I would do whatever was required to demonstrate the depth of my regard. I wanted her to feel good.