Beard Necessities: Winston Brothers Book #7 Read online

  With any luck, her thoughtless behavior might mortify her enough to send someone else with the tray from now on.

  So, I waited. As predicted, Scarlet flinched again, apparently coming to herself. She squeezed her eyes shut, and then covered them with her hands.

  “I—um, I just—you’re—I brought you—you have—” Huffing harshly, her hands fell from her face, which was now bright red. She pointed at the tray behind her, opened her eyes, anchored them to the ceiling, and yelled, “FOOD! Okay? I brought food!”

  I said nothing, nor did I make a move, too busy trying not to notice how cute she was, flustered and aggrieved by the sight of my bare chest. I reckoned I had only a second or two to look my fill before she stormed from the room and slammed the door. Or maybe she’d rush out without closing the door, darting down the stairs and fleeing to parts unknown in this gigantic villa, beyond my sinister reach.

  These days, my sinister reach was limited due to the limp, but that made no difference. She didn’t know it yet, but she needn’t run. I wasn’t chasing her anymore.

  So, again, I waited, scratching my jaw, watching Scarlet wrestle her humiliation, and unintentionally taking note of her burning cheeks and ears and neck, how nice her legs looked in that dress, how her feet were bare, and that her toenails were painted red.

  Moments passed, perhaps a full minute, and she didn’t leave. Meanwhile, my skin had also heated. Memories of holding her overlaid with the image of her now—in her pink summer dress and bare feet and loose hair—made me tense, and then harden with a decidedly awkward, uncomfortable, and useless result.

  Dammit.

  Now? Really? Right now I’m getting wood? What the fucking hell kind of special torture was this?

  “Are you going to participate willingly today?” she asked the ceiling, cutting through my particular thoughts, her voice high and strained, her hands settling back on her hips. “Or do I need to give you the rocking chair torture?”

  Rocking chair torture? She had no idea.

  Now I was the one caught, begrudgingly taking notice of how the thin fabric highlighted every inch it was supposed to cover, ravenously devouring the sweet curves of her form. My chest expanded and tightened—everything tightened—with want.

  God. Damn. It.

  Not for the first time—or tenth time, or hundredth time—I wondered, had I done it to myself? After she’d left Green Valley the first time and I’d been stuck in the hospital, using her name as a prayer, had I unintentionally damaged myself? Broken myself? Imprinted Scarlet on my heart and mind and body, impairing my ability to notice or want anyone but her? The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts, and my soul was still Scarlet.

  At my continued staring and silence, she cleared her throat. And that’s when I ripped my attention from the delectably rosy patches heating her soft, pale skin. Glancing around the room, I shook myself, searching for my suitcase. Evidently, I’d forgotten where it was located at some point in the last three minutes.

  “Leave it there, please. Thank you.” The request was gruff, but there wasn’t much I could do about the tenor of my voice right now. Her mere presence fractured my concentration, invaded the comfortably numb spaces I required to go through the motions, to make it through the day.

  Towel held firmly just under my belly button, I ignored the renewed weight of her gaze and walked to my suitcase, grabbed the first set of clothes I found, and returned to the bathroom. Once inside with the door closed, I tossed the T-shirt, boxers, and jeans on the counter and leaned my palms against it, taking a deep, bracing breath and clearing my mind of her. Or trying to.

  But I couldn’t, not with her so close.

  Lifting my chin, I stared at my reflection in the mirror, endeavoring to see myself the way she saw me—someone she didn’t love but desired despite her best efforts and intentions and guilt. All I saw was a fool. Perhaps that’s what she saw too. Perhaps that’s why she’d never wanted me badly enough to do anything about it.

  A sour taste singed the back of my throat and I swallowed the rising resentment. But then Dani’s words from earlier came back to me: Which is worse? Scarlet being addicted to her guilt, or you being addicted to your bitterness?

  Dani was right. As much as I loved Scarlet, part of me also hated her. I hated that I’d been the source of her guilt, that she considered me a weakness, something to overcome rather than someone to cherish, like I wanted to cherish her. Even now, her cheeks had caught fire and she hadn’t known where to settle her eyes; her agitation had been cute, but the root of it had not.

  I’d never wanted to be a source of weakness for Scarlet. I’d wanted to be a source of strength.

  Leaning away from the counter, I tugged on my clothes. This wasn’t going to work. Roscoe almost dying, donating the marrow to Darrell, the constant pain in my hip and back, being limited to where I could go and what I could do, the senate race, the mill, people counting on me—I had enough to deal with. Her being here made everything worse, chaotic. She divided my attention: it was Scarlet, and then everything and everyone else. Let it go. Let her go.

  Something for me to work on.

  Certain she’d be gone by now, I turned for the door, ignoring the unkempt appearance of my beard. I didn’t have the patience or steady hand needed to shave and trim. It would have to wait. First, I’d drown myself with emails, work, government business, proposal writing, spreadsheets, and labor statistics. Then, my family, their troubles, worries, triumphs—just as long as no one asks me if I’ve eaten anything.

  Leaving the bathroom a second time, I belatedly realized I hadn’t seen my namesake yet. Only Duane had been awake when I arrived, and he’d looked as tired as I felt. Maybe, if I could manage, I’d head down one flight of stairs and see if I could—

  “I think I’ll stay.”

  My head whipped up and I stopped mid-stride, shocked confusion rooting me to the spot.

  “I want to make sure the appropriate amount of food makes it into your stomach.” Scarlet, who hadn’t left, was standing next to the desk where I’d set my laptop bag, now no longer in sight. She’d replaced it with plates full of food and, I noticed, a small bud vase containing three red poppies. One hand on her hip, she gestured to the top of the desk with the other, Vanna White style.

  “Biscuits and gravy and bacon and eggs. Come on, sit down.” She motioned me forward, her tone sweet and melodic. Tilting her head to the side, her long, red hair spilled over the bare skin of her shoulder, framing her exquisite face. It was like something out of a dream, but the reality of it was a nightmare.

  I didn’t know what Cletus had told her, but it was clear he’d done some serious over-exaggerating. When he got here, my brother and I were going to have words.

  “You don’t need to stay,” I said, my voice low. Please. Leave. Now.

  As though reading my thoughts, she responded softly, “How about this? The sooner you eat, the sooner I’ll leave.”

  I debated my options, eventually conceding with a stiff nod. Eating would be the quickest way to be rid of her; I could eat everything in less than five minutes, but arguing with Scarlet was a gift that lasted a lifetime. Crossing to the desk, I pulled out the chair for myself and she stepped back. In my peripheral vision I saw her claim the rocking chair. She’d moved it closer, sitting on the edge of it just four or so feet away.

  “It’s your momma’s biscuit recipe. Ashley gave it to me.”

  Absentmindedly, I nodded again, my stomach cold and sour despite the delicious looking meal before me. I still had no appetite, my tongue tasted like sawdust, the smell of the food made me sick. But I’d eat it, every single bite.

  I’d just placed the napkin on my lap and picked up my fork when she said, “Hey, Billy.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why’d the early bird end up in Alpha Centauri?”

  It was like being sideswiped, the blow coming out of nowhere. A booming, jarring shock of pain radiated from my heart to my limbs, debilitating me for a s
econd. I closed my eyes, grimacing in the wake of it.

  “Are you okay?” Her concerned voice was suddenly closer, I felt her hand press against my forehead, touching me. She touched me. “You don’t have a fever. Is it your hip? Can I—”

  I pushed back from the table, standing, limping and stumbling away from wherever she was.

  Without a doubt, I believed Scarlet had no idea what she did to me. She’d never sought to hurt me on purpose, I truly believed that. But in the end, it didn’t matter. It hadn’t mattered when we were teenagers and she left with Ben McClure; it hadn’t mattered during our short, tortuous months together or the years since; it definitely didn’t matter now.

  In the end, it hurt badly, and I couldn’t handle any more hurt right now, especially not her brand of it. And given everything going on, I didn’t have the energy to lie—or hide, or pretend I wasn’t affected by her presence—in order to protect her feelings.

  So I struggled to calm my racing pulse and the painful aftershocks squeezing my heart with every beat.

  “Billy—”

  I lifted a hand to stay her, closed my eyes briefly. When I opened them, I kept my attention affixed to the floor at her feet.

  “Claire,” I began, hoping my use of her legal name would place more than just distance between us as I picked through my words carefully, “Please leave.”

  “You’re in pain,” she both accused and pleaded. “I know the doctors gave you something for it, why won’t you take it?”

  I winced. “It doesn’t—”

  “Don’t tell me it doesn’t hurt. I know what I saw, it nearly doubled you over just now.”

  “It’s not my hip.”

  “Like hell it isn’t. Take a Tylenol, or anything! Something over the counter. I know sometimes pain meds can make people feel funny, out of it, and you don’t want the loss of control. I get that.”

  She moved closer, and so I stepped back. “You don’t get it. You don’t understand.”

  “Then tell me so I can help you—”

  “It’s you,” I blurted, part of me regretting the words as soon as I said them.

  But there was no taking back the truth now. As tired as I was of being rejected by this woman, I was equally tired of trying to hurt her with false indifference and simmering resentment. She’d never sought to injure, but—to my shame—the same couldn’t be said for me. I’d wanted to matter to her and in my desperation to matter, I’d been hostile and harsh, unkind.

  But I didn’t want to try to force her to care about me anymore. She didn’t want me, I got it, message finally fucking received. I didn’t want to be that idiotic wasp, a modern-day Man of La Mancha, mindlessly hurling itself against an invisible, impenetrable barrier, or chasing windmills. I wanted peace. Quiet. Numbness. Silence. I wanted her to leave me alone.

  I was done.

  Rubbing my forehead with my fingertips, I committed to the truth. “It’s you, being here. It’s not my hip or my back. It’s you. I don’t want to see you, I don’t want to talk to you, and I don’t want you to tell me any goddamn jokes. I’ll eat whatever y’all bring up, but I’m asking you to leave and not come back.”

  Steadying myself, I lifted my gaze to her wide, watchful one, hoping she’d understand the goal of my intentions was honesty. But my next words stalled as I looked at her, taking in her glassy eyes and ashen skin.

  “Are you—are you okay?” The question launched out of me, propelled by concern. Truly, she did not look well.

  Her mouth opened and closed with no sound and she stared at me, like I’d just slapped her.

  And then, her chin wobbled. Damn.

  “Scarlet. I’m . . .” I wanted to say I was sorry, but everything I’d said was true. So instead, I said, “I’m so tired of the hurt. Aren’t you tired of it?”

  She nodded, pressing her lips together, her eyes filling with tears. God, I wanted to go to her, hold her, comfort her, but that would lead to me being frustrated—and resenting her—and her feeling guilty, always guilty.

  “I told you last Christmas that nothing had changed for me,” I said. “That was true then, but it’s not true now. I give up.”

  Her face contorted like it might crumple, but at the last minute she regained her composure and lifted her chin, her stained-glass eyes shining brightly. Dani was right, Scarlet wasn’t ruined, and I was glad to see her spirit. It helped me focus my thoughts.

  “I understand you’re doing my brother a favor, bringing me food and whatnot. I appreciate it. I’ll eat the food. Thank you. But you’ve been right all along.”

  “I’m right?” she choked out, like she didn’t know whether to scream or laugh. “What am I right about?”

  I gave myself a second to take a mental snapshot of her as she was now. And then I hardened my resolve. “We aren’t good for each other,” I said quietly.

  She cleared her expression completely, the emotion leeching out of her, leaving just grim determination. “I see.”

  “We never have been,” I went on, endeavoring to remove myself from this room, this woman, these final words. This was how it ended between us, I was certain of it, I surrendered to it. I was so tired. “I can see that now. I’ve been a fool—and unkind, I reckon—pushing for something that’s never going to happen.”

  Scarlet’s throat worked but she said nothing, just glared at me.

  “I’m sorry for ignoring you when you came back to town, withholding myself and my friendship. I’m sorry for pushing you to leave Ben and I’m sorry for being hateful and spiteful when you wouldn’t. I’m sorry for showing up the night before your wedding, my mind set on seducing you—we both know that’s why I was there, no denying it—and I’m sorry for all the fights since, all the angry words. I’m sorry for all of it. You deserve so much more than my resentment.”

  She lowered her hands to her thighs, pressed them there, holding perfectly still.

  “Like you said years ago, we bring out the worst in each other. That’s not your fault, it’s just how we—we don’t work.” The words suffocated me even though they needed saying. I was so damn tired of chasing windmills. “But being around you, near you, it’s difficult for me. I don’t know how to stop wanting something from you that you’ll never give.”

  Her lips pressed in a line that looked stubborn, and she blinked several times. “You don’t think it’s difficult for me?”

  I glared at her, resentment threatening like a thundercloud, flaring, and I barely stopped myself from saying something like, If looking at me still makes you feel so guilty, there’s the door.

  She wasn’t finished. “Don’t you think, if I could’ve, I would’ve given you what you want? It wasn’t you. It’s never been you.” She pointed to her chest with both hands. “I was the problem, Billy. I was the one who made selfish decisions, kept secrets, hurt you, hurt Ben—”

  I looked away, clenching my jaw. I swore to God, I was so fucking tired of hearing about Ben McClure’s hurt when all he did from day one was take advantage of her being fourteen and homeless, scared, alone. As far as I was concerned, what he did to her made him a predator. Worst of all, he believed all his own bullshit, which made it easy for other folks to believe it too.

  “No, wait. Let me finish, please.” Her voice firmed, beseeching, and she darted forward, coming to stop about three feet away. “Let me say this, because I don’t know if I’ll ever have the bravery to say it again.”

  I looked everywhere but at her. “No. No, I don’t care. I don’t want to know. I’m tired. I’m so tired of this.”

  “Billy—”

  “It’s over. I’m done. I don’t want to fight anymore.” I said this slowly, carefully, not looking at her. I couldn’t say it and look at her. I needed to tell her the truth, but I wanted my words to be as gentle as possible. “I’d appreciate it if, while I’m limited in my mobility, someone else brought up whatever food y’all want me to eat.”

  I sensed her move away a step, maybe more. “If that’s what you want,” she s
aid, her voice remote, like she was speaking from the other side of the room.

  “It is.” I swallowed against the knot in my throat, my eyes pointed at the ground. “While we’re both here, I’ll keep my distance. And I’d appreciate it if you kept yours.”

  Chapter Five

  *Claire*

  “In a weird way I must have loved my little collection of hurts and wounds. They provided me with some real nice sympathy, with the feeling I was exceptional...What a special case I was.”

  Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

  It was official, I’d had too much wine.

  My eyes had trouble fixing on the stars. The bottle was empty—I’d been the only one drinking it—and I was feeling sorry for myself. When I was drunk, I always felt sorry for myself like a drunk, idiotic, dumb, foolish, drunk person.

  Also, I wasn’t at all eloquent. I was anti-eloquent. Words were like lightning bugs, or hints, or peace, or a break, or anything else that’s hard to catch but we keep on chasing. Ah, well. If I was going to drink an entire bottle of wine, I supposed a Chianti from a winery just down the road wasn’t a bad way to go about it.

  “Claire? Are you out here?” Sienna’s voice called from somewhere behind me, probably the stone porch behind the house.

  I’d taken a blanket down the hill—not far, just about twenty feet—and spread it on the grass. I’d watched the sun set over the Tuscan hills, thinking about Billy Winston’s breathtaking torso, angry eyes, and the goat tattoo on his left shoulder I’d had no idea existed, and, apparently, drank an entire bottle of wine all by myself. I only drank like this when I was celebrating or wallowing. However, I could’ve sworn I’d only had two glasses. . .

  “Claire?”

  “Here,” I called back, not turning. Instead, I reclined on the blanket and closed my eyes. Bad idea. I felt the rotation of the earth flinging through space and I was half afraid I’d be thrown from the planet. Everything was spinning, including my eyeballs.