by Reid, Penny
I wasn't going to do that this time.
I missed Cletus. I physically ached for him, his small, knowing smiles. His hands, holding me. His eyes, how watchful and clever. I missed the way he looked at me, like I was the butter on his bread, the frosting in his cake, the cream in his puff.
And I missed his family. I missed Shelly and Ashley. We were supposed to make soap, I was going to teach them how, and I hadn't a spare moment even to do that, to spend time with my new friends.
Laying my palm flat on the counter, I worked to keep the volume of my voice steady. "I am sorry Daddy is a villain and has been treating you poorly. But I am no longer driving around half of Tennessee picking up baking supplies.”
“Of course.” She swiped at her eyes, sniffling. “We could order from distributors. It would likely save a lot of money too.”
I held up my palm. “Nope. I’m not doing that either. I refuse to use substandard ingredients.”
“Jenn—”
“No. Do you remember what happened in December with the choir? When I didn’t use the Badcock eggs?” I lifted my eyebrows.
She relented at once. “Yes. I see your point.”
“You will hire someone to interact with the farmers and make them feel valued. And that person will remember their birthdays and their children’s names—except Old Man Blount. He doesn’t like to talk.”
Her expression softened and her eyes lost focus as she vacillated between self-pity and problem-solving mode. “I—I’ll do it, until we get someone hired. I’ll take over.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to object, to tell her she was crazy, that she had enough to do without ferrying around butter and eggs and honey. I bit my tongue.
She peered at me, like she was waiting for me to say something. I stared at her, waiting. Waiting. Cletus once told me that being quiet can be louder than shouting. I’d never thought of my silence as loud and I didn’t quite understand what he’d meant at the time.
But now, in this moment, I understood.
Eventually, her chest rose with a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll ask Monsieur Auclair to open a position with the lodge. We could probably use a courier anyway, for running errands for high profile guests.”
“Good.” I nodded once. “And I need help baking.”
Her gaze sharpened and came back to mine. “Well, now, I don’t know.” She sounded equal parts panicked and hurt. “Running errands, cleaning, helping manage vendor expectations—that’s one thing. But you know people order from us exclusively and so often because they’re expecting you, your cakes and creations.”
The look she was giving me now would’ve smarted a few months ago, made my heart twinge with guilt, made my hands a little sweaty. I felt none of that at present. Not a twinge, not a flutter, none of it.
“When I agreed to come back to the bakery, you promised me things would be better. They are not better.”
“Going through this divorce with your daddy, keeping up a good front, it’s been real hard for me, Jenn. You know what it’s been like. So far, folks have been impressed with how nothing has suffered at the lodge, how unaffected we seem to be, and that includes the bakery. I can’t let them think I’m falling apart. I can’t let him think I’ve been affected.”
I shook my head, gritting my teeth. “But I have been affected.”
She winced, more panic surfacing. "You're going to abandon me."
I balled my hands into fists to keep from reaching out to her. Stay strong! Do not apologize!
“No. I'm not going to abandon you,” I said softly. I would stay strong, I would not apologize, but there was no reason to be harsh with her. I knew she was going through a trial, and I had no desire to kick her while she was down. “But I'm not working myself ragged anymore either. You’re going to hire another baker. And you can clean up those tracks or wait for first shift to come in and mop it up. Before I leave, I'm giving you a list of all my vendors, all the farmers who supply our bakery. The dairy run with Miller Farm has to be done today.”
"And the bananas?"
“No, I'll keep picking up the bananas. They need to be inspected, and I honestly don't trust anyone else to do it.”
She exhaled loudly. For some reason, this statement seemed to make a big difference. Her expression cleared of panic, but about a second later, remorse took its place.
"Oh, Jenn. Of course. I'm so sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me. I should've offered. I've been so blind and selfish. I'm—"
"Stop it. Just stop." I held up my hand again. "I don't want you to feel bad. I just want you to—to—"
"Help you. I see that now. I’m sor—” She stopped herself, rolling her lips between her teeth.
"I'm setting boundaries. This time, I'm sticking to them. No matter what, I'm not baking on Saturday mornings. No matter what. In fact, I want Saturdays off, the whole day, and Sunday too."
"But we already have special orders for the next six months. Wedding cakes and parties.”
"Okay, I'll give you six weeks to find a second baker, and then I get the weekends off. Until then, I get Mondays and Tuesdays completely off. Blair Tanner can do the regular orders and the bakery case."
My mother nodded fretfully. "Okay. Okay."
"But starting now, I'm no longer picking up the supplies—except bananas."
"Except the bananas."
"That's right. Except bananas."
"That's fair. I'll figure it out." She pulled a hidden handkerchief from the sleeve of her dress and dabbed at her eyes before closing them. Standing silent for a few moments, she inhaled, breathed out. She did this twice more, and then opened her eyes again. My mother had collected herself, resolve and steel in her gaze, grit, and determination.
Oh no.
I braced myself for an onslaught of guilt trips and pushy arguments.
But she said, "I—I'm going to do right by you. I'm proud of you, baby girl.”
“You are?” I stared at her, making no attempt to hide my bewilderment, too wrung out to do much else.
Squaring her shoulders, she smoothed her hands down the front of her outfit, affixed a confident smile on her face, and tucked the handkerchief back in her sleeve. She then walked to me and opened her arms. “I’m glad we talked. I’m glad you are telling me what’s on your mind. You drive a hard bargain, and I plan to rise to the occasion.”
I was so confused. Her mood swings were confusing. One minute she was angry and stern, the next she was worried, then she was crying, and now self-assured and proud of me? I supposed going through a contentious divorce likely messed with a person’s mental health. Or maybe I was just too tired to keep up.
Resolving to just go with it, I stepped into her embrace. The hug was tight. Extremely tight. The strength in her arms squeezed the air out of my lungs.
“I love you, Jennifer.”
“I love you too.” I wheezed, wiggling a little, hoping she’d loosen her hold.
Her constricting eased a little. “Don’t you ever forget that.”
“I won’t.”
“Good.” Her hand moved up and down my back. “I better get moving,” she muttered, sounding resigned, “if I'm going to find a pastry chef by March.”
I stiffened, rolled my eyes, drawing away. "No. February, Momma.” Giving her a glare and using a tone I’d seen her employ a million times with troublesome staff at the lodge, I crossed my arms. “You have ’til the end of February.”
Chapter Six
“But no man would sacrifice his honor for the one he loves.”
“It is a thing hundreds of thousands of women have done.”
― Henrik Ibsen, A Doll's House
*Jenn*
Nursing a half cup of coffee, I made a list of all the vendors my mother needed to contact, adding notations about pickup times and the peculiarities she could expect from each local supplier. I then drove home, took a shower, pulled on a pair of thick yoga pants, a long-sleeve T-shirt, and climbed into bed.
I couldn't sleep.
The whole day was open to me and I couldn't sleep. I kept seeing Cletus’s handsome face from last night, the way his enigmatic and gorgeous eyes darted away from mine, like he’d been working to keep his thoughts and feelings—his disappointment—from me.
And, gosh, that was just unacceptable.
Turning on my side, I stared at the wall of my bedroom, recalling how he'd stepped up at Mr. Badcock's, with all the good ideas, saving the day, just because I’d asked. He never let me down, and that was a fact. I knew he'd been taking care of my house without me asking, doing my grocery shopping, leaving me meals in the freezer. He'd been taking care of me, and I'd been too busy to take care of him. The truth of it made me feel sick with remorse. I will make it up to him.
And to myself. I would make it up to myself too.
The bedside clock read 9:15 AM. Flinging off the covers, I knew I needed sleep, but there was no reason I needed to sleep here.
Dressing in a plain black circle skirt that ended just above the knee—and no underwear, since he seemed to appreciate my initiative last night—I whipped up a batch of blueberry pancake muffins and drove over to the Winston house. I also tucked a pair of underwear in my purse, for after. Going all day without underwear felt entirely too bohemian—that is, brave—for me. Although, maybe one day, I’d be bohemian enough to attempt it.
Since we lived close, I was on their porch by 10:30 AM, fitting my key into the back door lock while trying to keep my skirt from flying up and flashing their wildflower field. It was an unaccountably windy day.
The interior of the house was quiet. I assumed Cletus was still asleep, seeing as how they must've been plucking those chickens most of the night. My plan was to prep a pot of coffee, set the timer for noon, and leave the muffins on the counter as a surprise. I would then climb into bed with him and we would sleep together, wrapped in each other’s arms. And then we would not sleep together. And then we’d have breakfast—or brunch, or lunch, or whatever mealtime it would be when we finally left his room.
Coffee pot prepped and timer set, I moved to arrange the muffins on the kitchen island, removing the foil from the plate and restacking them for best aesthetic presentation. I’d just toed off my shoes by the back door and picked up my purse to head upstairs when Billy Winston walked in, doing a double take when he spotted me.
"Jennifer." Cletus’s older brother stopped midstride, his hand coming up to his dark brown beard. He seemed to be touching the unkempt new growth of it high on his cheek. “I didn’t know you were here.”
"Billy." I found enough energy to give him a smile. Billy Winston was one of the sweetest, kindest, and most compassionate men on the planet and always deserved a smile. Plus, on a shallow note, he was just so darn good-looking, it was difficult not to smile when he spoke. “I just arrived a few minutes ago. No one seemed to be up, so I set the timer on the coffee for twelve.”
Billy’s blue eyes moved between me and the plate of muffins.
"Those for Cletus?" He took a step back, like they were dangerous.
"They are, but you're welcome to one, if you'd like."
He pushed his hands into his pockets in a way that reminded me of Cletus when he was trying to hold himself back from something he wanted. "Uh, I better not."
Before I could insist, the back door opened, and Roscoe entered on a burst of wind. My hands flew to my skirt, holding it down and in place.
Why hadn't I just worn the underwear over and taken it off in Cletus's room? What is wrong with my brain?
You're tired. You've been up for over twenty-four hours and you're tired.
"Jenn!" Cletus’s youngest brother grinned his huge grin and sauntered over. His nose and cheeks were red, and he was dressed in workout clothes. "Are those for us?"
Billy made a sound, like a breath but with meaning. "Obviously not, Roscoe. And you know what kind of mood Cletus is in. It's in your best interest to avoid Jenn's muffins if you don't want Cletus to change all your phone settings to Russian again."
Roscoe chuckled, but then his expression sobered, like he was remembering something unpleasant. "Yeah, I just got back from a run with Drew. I should probably steer clear of muffins in any case. Do you want some coffee, Jenn?"
“I believe she prepared the coffee too?” Billy looked to me for confirmation. I gave him a short nod. “Again, if you don't want Cletus's wrath, make a new pot when you're done.”
Roscoe’s grin morphed into an irritated frown. “You know, tiptoeing around Cletus and his moods gets old.”
“No one is asking you to tiptoe.” Billy's voice softened. “Just replace what you take.” Billy sauntered further into the kitchen, walking to the cupboard where the coffee cups were kept.
"Well maybe someone could talk him into doing his dishes?” Roscoe pressed the brew button on the machine, fully absorbed in his complaints. “Those dishes have been piled up here since I got home on Thursday."
Anxious to get upstairs, I slipped out of the room unnoticed, Billy’s reasonable words following me out, "He'll get to them when he has time."
I heard Roscoe just as I placed my foot on the first step, "Why does he get to leave his stuff all over the place and no one cares? When is he going to get a place of his own?"
Roscoe's frustrated questions followed me up the stairs. By the time I'd crept to Cletus’s door, their conversation had dissolved into just faint murmurs, but I could still sense the irritation in Roscoe’s voice. It wasn't a secret that he and Cletus often quarreled. I didn't know why Cletus picked on him—and let me be clear, Cletus picked on Roscoe—I'd never had that kind of relationship with my older brother. We'd never teased each other that way. You know, not mean, but not nice either. Isaac and I only ever had good-natured teasing between us.
He didn't talk to me at all these days, just the one time in the Piggly Wiggly last fall, and those harsh words hadn’t been meant to tease. I hadn't spoken to or seen him since, and I wish I could say I was glad about it, but I wasn't. Despite his meanness, I still missed him with my whole heart.
Ugh. I don’t want to think about this.
Why was it that grief could sneak up on a person? Most emotions don’t sneak, they build. But not grief. Stupid grief.
Breathing through the tears pricking at my eyes, I paused outside of Cletus's door. I refused to think about Isaac right now, or anything other than spending time—quality, sweet, sexy, dirty, graphic, erotic time—with my man.
Oh gracious, now I'm all hot. But at least I wasn’t sad.
Ignoring the electricity of excitement zinging around my insides, I carefully twisted the doorknob, wanting to be as quiet as possible. He needed sleep. I needed sleep. Sleeping with him would be nice. Plus, I needed him well rested for what I wanted to do once we woke up.
Yep. Still hot. Hot like a furnace.
Entering the room on silent bare feet, I closed the door behind me and waited a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the dark room. He had all the curtains drawn, blackout curtains, but I knew his bed was in the far corner. Assuming his room was tidy—which it always seemed to be—I should be able to walk in a diagonal line to his bed, slip in, and curl around him.
So I walked that diagonal line, smiling when my knees brushed against the bed. I could barely see the line of his body under the covers, but I saw enough to see he was facing the wall. Slowly, I let my purse drop to the floor, lifted the comforter, and arranged myself next to him.
I thought I heard someone call my name beyond his door, maybe downstairs or outside. It sounded far away, and I couldn’t be sure. I ignored it. Cletus—shirtless, his back to me—shifted only a little as I wrapped my arm around his middle, the back of my mind noting that he must’ve lost weight over the last few weeks. His bulky muscle still felt hard and smooth, just . . . less. Leaner.
I frowned, wishing I’d made two batches of muffins, and closed my eyes, snuggling closer to his back, but then frowning. He smelled different, like he was wearing cologne, maybe? And not the stuff Sie
nna—his sister-in-law—had bought him for Christmas. Something else.
A soft sound rumbled out of him, distracting me from this smell mystery, and I worried I’d woken him up.
"Shh," I soothed, sliding my hand down the hot skin of his torso to his hip, expecting more bare skin and surprised to find the thick elastic band of . . . underwear? Or boxer briefs? What?
He rolled to face me before I could determine which—boxer briefs or briefs, neither of which Cletus wore. His calloused hand was suddenly on my leg, lifting my skirt.
Before I quite knew what was happening, he kissed me, just a brush of lips, but I felt him smile against my mouth as he said, “I missed you.”
And that’s when I realized, this was not Cletus.
I sucked in a startled breath, scrambling to turn and push myself away.
Beau’s hands caught me. "Shelly? What’s wrong?"
“You’re not Cletus!” I whisper-screeched as my head fell to the floor, my legs still on the bed tangled in the sheets and comforter, my hips hanging over the side.
Footsteps, heavy ones, thundered down the hall.
“Jenn?” Beau reached for me as though to help, but when his hands came in contact with my bare ass, I sensed him rear backward as though burned. His head hit the wall and he cursed.
“Jenn? What the—?”
The bedroom door swung open and I kicked my legs, desperate to be free of the bed before the light flicked on, and I mooned Beau and whoever had just opened the door.
“Ow!” Beau made some movement that pulled the covers with him, likely trying to evade my wild legs, or maybe help me untangle, but it was too late.
Light filled the room and, momentarily blinded, I had no idea who’d flipped the switch. I hurried to push my skirt over my bare bottom, but it was no use. Gravity was my enemy, and the front of my skirt was trapped between my hips and the side of the mattress.
“Oh my God!”
