by Reid, Penny
Maybe once we get married . . .
A smoky fire of restlessness rekindled in my stomach. Over Thanksgiving, we’d—
Well, I’d—
Dammit.
The truth was, we’d discussed marriage once. Just once. I’d asked her while we’d been informal. She’d said yes. That was that.
But now it was January, and she hadn’t deigned to mention the wedding, or marriage. Furthermore, when she introduced me, I was a boyfriend.
Boy. Friend.
Now I ask, would anyone who’d met me ever use either of those words as a descriptor? Can you imagine? And would a boyfriend have five different engagement rings—all of superior cut, color, and internal flawlessness—sitting in his top dresser drawer, just waiting for the best opportunity to clandestinely ascertain her preference? When would she have five minutes to spare for such an exercise? I had no idea.
In her defense, Jenn’s busiest season was between Thanksgiving and New Year’s, and, unfortunately, her momma was going through a tough time. Diane Donner-Sylvester’s soon-to-be ex-husband—and Jennifer’s daddy—Kip Sylvester, was a sinister pain in the ass.
Thus, I did my duty as her betrothed and administered foot rubs and back rubs, completed her grocery shopping, maintained her homestead, car maintenance, and burdened her with absolutely no expectations.
That’s right. No expectations. Merely a heckvalot of anticipation.
In the meantime, Jenn’s porch had received two new coats of lacquer, her shutters had all been cleaned, repainted, and rehung, I’d installed two ceiling fans in anticipation of the summer, and I’d replaced her garbage disposal.
But New Year’s was last week. I’d gathered all my anticipation and hopes, stacked them in a pile, and stapled them to today’s date on the calendar. She’d broken promises before, but that was all in the past, all forgiven and forgotten. Tonight was the night, our night. Finally. She was supposed to leave work on time, come to the jam session, and we’d make up for lost time.
Sitting as straight as my spine would allow, I craned my neck, lifting my chin and peering at the back row of the room, specifically the seats closest to the door. My attention flicked through the faces there. Mr. Roger Gangersworth was wearing unsurprising overalls; Posey Lamont was wearing a bright pink shirt heavy with unfortunate plastic beading in the shape of a rainbow, except it was a calamitous arrangement of RYOGBVI instead of ROYGBIV; and Mrs. Scotia Simmons wore a lemony expression indicative of a woman who’d lived a self-centered existence and was thusly dissatisfied with everything and everyone.
But there was no Jennifer.
I needed to get away from the crowd and their talking.
“Go on with the set if you want. I can jump back in when I return from making my call.” Standing, I placed my banjo in its case, and leaned the case against the back corner, away from the threat of any future lumbering morons.
“Fine. Once Billy’s fan club clears out, we’ll get started again.” Drew sounded unperturbed at the loss of my superior banjo skills, which meant he must’ve sensed the call was important. “Tell Jenn I say hi.”
I grunted once, in both acknowledgement and aggravation. Great. Now I had to remember to say “hi” to Jenn from Drew on the off chance she picked up her phone when I called. And if she didn’t pick up, I’d have to remember to say “hi” the next time I happened to see her.
Why did people do that? Send salutations through other people? I am not the post office, nor am I a candygram. Why not send a text message if one is so eager to impart a greeting? Why did I have to be a “hi” messenger? Another reason why a silence ordinance was needed: if today had been a no-talking day, the chances of Drew writing me a note, pointedly asking me to say “hi” to Jenn, would’ve precipitously decreased my chances of being an unwilling messenger of said “hi” or anything else.
You don’t write a note unless you mean the words. Not like talking. Folks often talk just to hear themselves, maybe because thoughts don’t exist inside their brains. Talking, I was beginning to suspect, was the root of all evil. The ease of it in particular was an issue.
Talk it out. Talk it over. Talk it through.
Useless.
If more folks thought it out, thought it over, and thought it through instead of talking, then the world would be less cluttered with opinions and assholes.
Navigating the room, I made a point to give Posey Lamont a wide berth, careful to keep my beard far away from her beaded shirt. The last thing I needed was a beard-tangle with an ignorant representation of the visible light spectrum.
Once free of the labyrinth, I strolled down the hall, aiming for the front door of the Green Valley Community Center and the parking lot beyond. It was cold, even for January, and the lot would likely be empty. My head down to avoid eye contact with passersby and hangers-on, I typed in my password and navigated to Jenn’s number.
I was just bringing the phone to my ear when I heard a woman shout, “Cletus!”
I halted, only because the voice sounded like Jenn’s, anticipation refilling my lungs. And there she was.
Well, more precisely, there was a version of her. She wore a blonde wig to cover her dark brown hair, a yellow dress with a brown collar and trim, and pearls around her neck and at her ears. Frustration grabbed a shovel and dug a deeper well within me.
Jenn jogged to me in high heels, rushing to close the distance between us while I stood stock-still, her expression a mixture of guilt and hope, a bakery box clutched to her chest. My eyes moved from the bakery box to her shoes. I released a silent sigh.
She must’ve just left work.
As an aside, jogging in high heels really should be added to the Olympics as a sport, but I digress.
When Jenn was about five feet away, her smile—looking forced, or pained, or worried, or some combination thereof—widened unnaturally and she said, “Hey, there you are.”
“Here I am.” I stuffed my hands in my pants pockets.
She stopped about two feet away, unable to come closer without moving the Donner Bakery box to one side, and that would have been awkward. It was a big box. I contemplated the big box, which was both a literal barrier as well as a figurative representation of what separated us.
A second ticked by. I felt her eyes on me, but she said nothing, maybe because I was glaring at the box. I didn’t want to be the first to speak. I was too persnickety to be trusted to talk—see? I knew when to talk, when not to talk. Why couldn’t other folks learn?
But then I remembered Drew’s request, and relented. “Drew says ‘hi.’”
There. That’s done. Message conveyed.
“Oh.” The word was airy, like she was out of breath. If I’d just jogged a hallway in high heels, I would’ve been out of breath too.
Another second ticked by, then another, and that deep well of frustration began to rise, reaching my esophagus and higher, flooding my chest with suffocating disappointment. And maybe a little bit of resentment.
Dammit.
I wanted to sabotage her mother. I wanted to intervene and free up Jennifer’s time for nonwork pursuits. All it would take was a few well-timed phone calls to the right people and—abracadabra—the problem would be solved.
BUT I WON’T!
I wouldn’t intervene. Modifying or ending lifelong habits—habits that have served me well and have been efficient mechanisms for achieving ends and aims—in an effort to be respectful of my lady love’s autonomy was perhaps the most maddening endeavor of my existence.
I felt her shift closer, and the movement drew my attention to her sweet face, pointed chin, and gorgeous eyes.
“Please don’t be mad.” The hope in her features was now entirely eclipsed by guilt. “I am so sorry. I would’ve been on time, but Mr. Badcock sold all my eggs to somebody. He treated me like I was a person of suspicion, like he couldn’t trust me. Truth be told, he was downright hostile.”
What’s this? Hostile? A modicum of my frustration eased. I could do something a
bout unwanted hostility from an egg farmer, that was actionable; whereas, forcing Jenn’s momma, Diane “Dragon Lady” Donner, to retract her claws of maniacal manipulation was not.
Stepping around the box, I came to her side, my hand automatically lifting to her back. “What did he say to you?”
Note to self, Richard Badcock, add to list: Maim for mistreatment of my Jenn.
“Nothing harsh.” She quickly shook her head, holding my gaze and allowing me to steer us down the hall, away from the entrance. “But I did have to convince him to sell me eggs again, and then he’ll only sell me eggs with advance notice and a deposit. And then, once that was settled, it turns out he did have a few dozen in his house, which he eventually gave me. But trekking up the hill and back down again took longer than I’d planned.”
I stopped in front of the door leading to the stage area of the old cafeteria and pulled out a key to unlock it, listening intently to her version of events while keeping an eye out for any passersby or hangers-on. I didn’t need folks following us or asking me how it was that I possessed a key.
“So when I got back to the bakery,” she went on, her words dripping with fatigue, “Momma was in tears, ’cause my daddy had just called. And you know he wants half the hotel and the bakery, even though my granddaddy made him sign an ironclad prenup. He was threatening her with that again.”
I grimaced, well aware of Kip Sylvester’s pattern of reprehensible behavior and what he was capable of. He’d popped up again this last week after being mostly gone for over a month, making all kinds of threats.
“When she stopped crying, there was still the custard to make, and only four dozen eggs. After some fretting and discussing the issue with Momma, I decided it was best to go to the store and pick up a few dozen eggs there—since Blair Tanner had already left, I was the only one to do it—and use half Badcock eggs and half store-bought to get the most out of the Badcock four dozen. I’ll need them later this week.”
“Did you make the custard?” I ushered her forward and shut the door to the backstage area, tired on her behalf. Maybe I could do the shopping for the bakery for her? Stop by all her local suppliers so she didn’t have to.
Which, now that I thought about it, why the heck was she running all over town picking up supplies? Shouldn’t someone else do that?
“Yes. I made the custard, it’s sitting in the fridge, used the last of my vanilla. I’ll need to order more. I just hope no one realizes about the eggs.” She huffed an agitated exhale, allowing me to lead her through the darkness. She couldn’t see at all, and I—like all my siblings—could see tolerably well.
I took the infernal bakery box from her grip. I set it on a nearby crate, brought her near a corner, and leaned her against the wall. This particular corner was scarcely illuminated by a sliver of light coming in through the stage curtains.
The cafeteria was just beyond the curtains, and the loud buzzing of town gossip and chatter from earlier in the evening was now a low murmur of scant conversation. Most folks had moved on to the music rooms, likely because all the coleslaw had been eaten. As long as we whispered, we wouldn’t be overheard or noticed.
“Is everything settled? With Mr. Badcock?” I studied her expression, noting the grooves of worry on her forehead and the way she was twisting her fingers.
“I think so. Momma is going to drive out there tonight and drop off a deposit check, try to smooth things over with Mr. Badcock.”
“That was your idea?” I questioned, already knowing the answer.
It was a great idea. Of course it was Jenn’s idea. Diane Donner was one of the most powerful businesspersons in the region. A visit from Diane was a big deal indeed. As well, this would provide Diane a distraction from her divorce woes.
“Yes,” Jenn whispered, her eyes searching for mine, but seemingly unable to settle. My face must’ve been wholly in shadow. “We’re putting in an order for the entire year.”
“That’s good.” I nodded, but part of her story troubled me.
Why would Mr. Richard Badcock treat Jenn with even an ounce of hostility? It didn’t make any sense. Folks who knew Jenn—or of Jenn—considered her harmless, or less than harmless. A novelty, a local celebrity of no real substance or consequence, which was also how they saw me (minus the celebrity part).
I knew better. She’d revealed her genius to me last fall while proving to be the most brilliant opponent I’d ever faced, by far. She’d bested me. Consequently, having no choice in the matter, I’d promptly fallen in love with her and was now besotted. Obviously.
But back to Dick Mal-Rooster and his antagonism.
“Did he give a reason for his poor temper?” I asked, studying her.
The question seemed to agitate her, and she huffed, stepping forward and reaching out blindly. “Cletus, can we talk about that later? Where are you?”
My mental processes shifted gears away from her chicken troubles, and suddenly the flood of disappointment returned, rose to my throat. I swallowed, stepping away from Jenn’s searching hands as I stuffed mine back in my pockets.
“Jenn—”
“I am sorry, Cletus. I know I promised I’d be here on time, and I wasn’t here on time, and for that I’m sorry.” She found me, her hands grabbing the front of my shirt. Her warm palms slid over my chest, up to my shoulders, her arms twisting around my neck.
I braced myself for the feel of her body, but I was unprepared for the reality of it. Soft and warm and impatient, Jenn pressed herself to me in a way that felt at once impatient and content. Her lips brushed lightly over my neck, causing me to tense. But her hot tongue coming out to lick a path to my ear made me jump, every inch of me aware of every inch of her.
“I’ve missed you,” she whispered, a note of vulnerability in the words, her breath scorching as it spilled over my skin, a counterpoint to the disappointment still burning my chest. “Have you missed me?”
I was at once inebriated by her actions and incredulous of them.
“You know I have,” I answered gruffly, keeping my hands in my pockets for both our benefits.
Likely she didn’t want our first time together in over six weeks—and our second time together ever—to be me ripping off her underwear and taking her against the backstage wall of the Green Valley Community Center. Rationally, I knew this to be true.
Irrationally, however, I wanted to rip off her underwear and take her against the backstage wall of the Green Valley Community Center. I wanted to rip open the buttons of her dress and feast on her body, the smooth silk of her skin, while I filled her and claimed her and satiated myself with what would surely be an unrefined display of possessive carnality.
And also complicating matters, resentment lingered like a hangnail. Part of me wanted to punish her. I know that’s not noble nor gentlemanly, but I am neither noble nor a gentleman.
Yet, I was trying to be. For her.
Probably not a good idea to be intimate until such time as we—
Jennifer pressed her body more fully against me, one arm still hooked around my neck, a hand sliding dangerously lower, from my shoulder to my chest and stomach. I caught her fingers before she could slip them between us and cup me over my pants. Or inside my pants.
“Not a good idea.” My body shook, a surge of covetous mindlessness threatening to overtake my good intentions.
“It’s been weeks,” she complained between biting kisses on my neck, bringing my hand to her breast, pressing it there. “Don’t you want me?”
I choked on nothing but air. If she didn’t know how much I wanted her, then either she was stupid—which she wasn’t—or she was pretending to be in order to test my control.
“You’re asking me foolish questions,” I ground out, catching both her hands and holding them between us, forcing her to back away a step. “And you’re not foolish.”
I needed a minute.
“Then what’s the problem?” She pressed forward, not fighting my hold but feeling restless beneath my fingers. “Wh
y aren’t you kissing me back? Why do you keep stuffing your hands in your pockets? Why won’t you touch me?”
Lost for words, I settled on whispering truth, “I’d like nothing more than to rip off your underwear and—”
“No need, I’m not wearing underwear.”
Chapter Three
“If there is one thing I dislike, it is the man who tries to air his grievances when I wish to air mine.”
― P.G. Wodehouse, Love Among the Chickens
*Cletus*
Jenn bent her head and placed a kiss on my knuckles.
Meanwhile, I needed . . . another minute.
What?
“What?” Equal measures of astonishment and lust drove away any of my remaining premeditated intentions, leaving me only with lust.
“I took them off in the car.” Her tongue licked the juncture between my index and middle fingers. “I know I’ve been working a lot and—oh!”
I backed her against the wall, tossing away her hands and clamoring for the hem of her skirt. Sliding my fingers up her legs as I lifted her dress, I groaned when I discovered no material at her hip or bottom. Since I already had a handful of her, I squeezed, resisting the urge to fall to my knees and take a bite of her perfect backside.
I’d wanted us to have privacy. I’d wanted to unwrap her. I’d wanted to take my time. I’d wanted conversation and kisses—many kisses—and a lot more light. Definitely more light.
I pressed my forehead against the cold wall, unable to resist touching her, slipping my middle finger into that hot, silky place.
Her breath hitched, her arms once again wrapping around my neck as her hips rolled forward into my hand. “Please, please.”
Damn, but I missed her. Her skin was heaven, her fragrance paradise, I was already drunk with it. Breathing heavy, wanting her all around me, in my lungs. I couldn’t think. I just wanted.
I took her mouth with mine, no preamble or gentle invasion, but a frenzy. She moaned. Jenn’s nails scratched down my shirt, her fingers shaking as they found my belt, tugging and pulling frantically while I greedily nipped and licked and kissed her jaw and neck, stopping at the fabric covering her breast to place a wet, biting kiss at the center, feeling her bead and stiffen beneath my tongue, and continuing to work her slowly with my fingers.
