Beard In Mind: (Winston Brothers, #4) Read online

  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.