“You like control.”
Some of his grumpiness was replaced with suspicion. “That’s one way of putting it.”
I examined him, the unhappy set of his jaw, then spoke without premeditation. “I’d like to understand you.”
“I told you, I’m not very understandable.” He wasn’t meeting my gaze in a way that felt like avoidance.
On a hunch, I said, “Your brothers said that you don’t like bullies.”
Cletus’s hand stilled. He took a breath, then responded, “I don’t.”
“Maybe your vengeful impulses stem from your dislike of bullies. Speaking from firsthand experience, bullies can make you feel like you don’t have any control. And, if that’s the case, you are exceedingly understandable.”
He lifted his eyes to mine and our gazes held. I sensed he wanted to say something. I remained quiet, hoping the silence would drive it out of him.
He turned me such that my back was against the couch and we were both laying on our sides facing each other. His fingers dug into my hip.
“Jenn . . .” He stopped, as though he didn’t know how to continue.
I cupped his jaw and placed a soft kiss on his lips, then leaned away to gaze into his eyes.
He gathered a large breath, clearly torn about proceeding. I waited and offered a small, encouraging smile. Instead of speaking, he kissed me. He kissed me, and he tasted like me, and that thought had me warm and tingling all over.
Eventually, he pulled away, shaking his head. “Never mind. Never mind about that.”
I pressed my lips together to hide my disappointment, but said pragmatically, “One day, Cletus. One day you’ll trust me enough to speak your mind.”
His gaze moved over my face. “I already trust you.”
“But not enough.” I scratched his jaw through his beard. “One day.”
“Jenn, some of my secrets won’t make you happy. In fact, they’ll horrify you.”
“I know.” I continued threading my fingers through his bushy beard, liking the texture just as much as the hair on his chest. “Remember how afraid of you I was? When I first came to you? I know you have dark corners, and I think I know why.”
Cletus’s expression became carefully blank, but his eyes communicated a depth of sadness that felt like a punch to the stomach.
“Oh, honey.” I gave him a small smile of compassion, then kissed him again, wrapping my arms around his neck and pressing my body to his. “You take your time. Anything you want to share, I want to hear. But something you taught me over these last few months is that no one can control who you are—fundamentally, who you are in your heart—except for you. The decision is always yours.”
His arms came around me tightly, holding on as though I might disappear. Or I might leave.
“No matter what happened in your past, what ghosts might lurk there, the road you take is ultimately up to you,” I squeezed him back, “but—selfishly—I hope it’s always the road I’m on.”
CHAPTER 25
“Three things cannot hide for long: the Moon, the Sun and the Truth.”
Gautama Buddha
~Jennifer~
I waited as long as I could. When I could wait no longer, I blurted, “Where are we going?”
“I have an idea.” His eyes darted to me, then back to the road. “More precisely, it’s a surprise.”
It was Tuesday late afternoon. We were in Cletus’s car—the Geo, not the Buick—and we’d left the bakery so he could take me to some undisclosed location. Cletus had come to the bakery after work as promised and said he wanted to take me someplace before night fell.
Presently, we’d been driving in the direction of Cades Cove for about ten minutes.
“A surprise at four-thirty?”
The sun was setting and had set the sky on fire: puffy red, pink, and orange clouds painted even more vividly by the forty-degree temperatures. Something about cold weather this time of year made the sunsets more intense.
“This surprise isn’t dependent on time of day.” He slowed, flicking on his blinker. “And we’re here.”
I squinted out the window, recognizing the long driveway and the white farmhouse at the end of it. “This is Claire McClure’s place.”
“It is.” Cletus pulled into a spot at the front of the house and cut the ignition.
“What are we doing here?”
Not missing a beat, he said, “We’re robbing the place.”
With that, he exited the car, then walked around to my side, leaving me to shake my head at his antics. I opened my door, but he caught it, offering a hand as I stood.
“What should we take first?” I pointed to the front porch. “The flower pots or the house numbers?”
He grinned, sliding his palm against mine, causing a thrill of excitement up my arm. Cletus tugged me toward the porch steps. “Flower pots are dirty and I’m wearing my best coveralls.”
“Cletus. Your coveralls are covered in grease stains.”
“Yes. But not dirt stains. I don’t want to clutter my appearance.”
“Oh, brother.” I rolled my eyes, laughing at his silliness.
“And those numbers are both nailed and glued to the frame. How about, instead, we take the entire house?”
I stumbled on the first step, my smile slipping, and pulled Cletus to a halt. “What?”
“Claire’s been trying to rent this place since she left.” He cleared his throat and looked everywhere but at me. His eyes moved over the porch, the window boxes full of pansies, and the white picket railing. “I’d watched over things while Jethro was with Sienna for her last movie. He’s stepped back in since he returned, but they have a baby on the way. I know this house and it’s well-maintained. And it sits on some land. Building a garden wouldn’t be a problem.”
Finally, he turned back to me, and his voice lowered, gentled. “It would give us a place, just you and me. You don’t have to move in, unless you want to.”
I gaped at him; my brain required several seconds to absorb his words.
Actually, my brain required a full minute.
Less than a week ago I thought he didn’t want me, now he was in love with me and wanted to move in together. Isaac’s words had hurt, plagued me. The car chase had left me shaken. Some fallout or retaliation from the Iron Wraiths—as far as I knew—was still a concern.
I couldn’t keep up with all the changes.
“You want us to move in together? Here?” I squeaked disbelievingly.
A thoughtful frown settled between his eyebrows; beneath the waning sun his clever eyes glittered with a fierceness of longing. He guided me up the remaining two stairs to the front door and under the shadow of the porch.
“I’m not going to be satisfied with stolen moments at your family’s bakery. I’m not just talking about spending time with your body,” his hands slid up my arms then down to my waist, tugging me closer, “though that’s a consideration. I want true privacy, a place where we can talk and be.”
Talk and be.
Well, when he puts it like that . . .
If it were possible to be infatuated with an idea, I was infatuated with this idea. Waking up every morning next to Cletus? Talking over my day with Cletus every evening? Spending every day with him?
YES PLEASE, MAY I HAVE ANOTHER!
And yet.
And yet, was I okay with us living together? And not being married? Was that something I wanted? I’d always pictured myself married before taking that kind of step. But why? Why had I always pictured myself married? Was it because marriage was what I wanted? Or was it because my living with someone before marriage was something my parents would hate?
I didn’t know how to answer these questions. Things between us were moving at a breakneck pace. As much as I wanted to be ready to fling myself into a serious relationship with this smart, beautiful, complicated man, I had other considerations. Trying to think rationally, other than determining my own mind on the matter, the biggest issue was that my parents had no idea Cletus and I were involved. Yet.
I was planning on telling them, but I’d wanted to speak to Cletus first.
Plus, there is the small matter of money . . .
“Jennifer?”
I lifted my eyes to his. The bracing uncertainty in his eyes and the sound of my name on his lips sent a rush of warm tenderness through me.
Quickly, I reassured him. “I like this idea. I like it a lot.” I cupped Cletus’s jaw with one hand and marveled at how natural and right it felt to touch him, to be in his arms. “But before we consider this, things need to settle down. And I need to solidify some outstanding issues first.”
I felt his eyes on me, assessing, before he guessed, “Your parents.”
“Yes. My parents.” However, more than my parents—although definitely related—my finances. Of course I wanted their blessing, but I wasn’t fooling myself into thinking it would be given willingly. I would have to fight for it and I was prepared to do so—including leveraging my place at the bakery and as the Banana Cake Queen.
As per Anne-Claire’s advice, I’d reached out to an accountant in Knoxville, leaving a message Saturday morning about setting up my corporation. My French pen pal had been right all along. I needed to formalize the business relationship with the bakery, because without a formal relationship, I had no freedom. I had no choice.