I burst into tears again and nodded. “I will.” He gave me that beard-kiss. I could deal with it better this time.
And that night the beard-kiss felt even better between my legs.
The next day, Marie arrived with suitcases of clothes and a whole lot of bossiness and attitude. She was moving in to get me ready for the wedding.
The three of us walked up and down the beach, picking up sand dollars, starfish, and sea shells, which we soaked in bleach and water to get the sand off, scrubbed, and let dry. I ordered plain white linens from a local party supply store, and got tons of candles and hurricane glass holders.
Simplicity.
With the tent coming and the caterers, we would have a pared-down, but still elegant wedding, with beard and without fancy table settings.
Speaking of beards, Marie made me go online to look at a Tumblr site of beautiful men with scruffy beards. We sat next to each other at the desk and looked at the laptop, sipping margaritas.
I begrudgingly admitted that they looked okay. (Some of them more than okay.)
“Honestly, Amelia. Ryan is so hot, what does it matter?”
I still felt the need to defend my position. I was right, right? “I just like him better without it.”
Of course she wouldn’t let me get away with that. As she licked the salt off the rim of the glass, she said rather forcefully, “And what does his physicality matter? He’s your soulmate, and you know it.”
I took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right.”
Satisfied, she giggled and took a sip of her drink. “Are you willing to take his beard to be your lawfully wedded beard?”
Clinking glasses with her, it was now a no-brainer. “I am.”
“Good.” She stood up and kissed the top of my head.
Our wedding day arrived, and I woke up ready to marry my beard. I mean, my best friend.
A white tent arrived, with tables for our guests—just close friends and family—and we decorated with piles of sea treasures, candles in glasses to protect from the wind, and simple linens and dishes.
It worked for the beach.
And that evening, I took my first step on the sand, barefoot. Still warm from the day, but not too warm, it felt just right. My knee-length, strapless white lace dress looked straight out of the 1950s, but it fit my curves.
My dad offered me his arm and said, “You ready, Princess?”
I beamed at him. I was.
I walked slowly with my dad toward the ocean, following Marie to the rows of chairs set up near the water’s edge. Besides my family and Ryan’s sister, I saw my friends, Jake and Lucy. Jessica and Mikey. Hugo and Neveah. Will. Everyone had gone barefoot, a pile of shoes in a basket at the edge of the sand.
I took a step toward the aisle, and everyone stood.
Ryan’s back had been turned away from me while he talked to the judge quietly. I could see his broad shoulders in his classic black tuxedo. He too was barefoot, with his pant legs rolled up, his hair glinting in the early evening sun.
Then he turned around, caught my eyes, and smiled.
And I felt like I did when I first saw him in the coffee shop. Like time stood still and nothing else existed except me and him. No noise. No waves. No other people.
Just his Sun God smile. His golden glow. Those green eyes that did me in the first time I saw him.
And all of a sudden, I was completely certain that I was doing the right thing. Ryan Fielding was meant for me and no other.
I made it down the aisle, pulled to his presence inevitably, like there was no place else I could go. No place else I wanted to go.
When I got to him, my dad, with tears in his eyes, placed my hand in Ryan’s, and we turned toward the judge. I looked up to Ryan and never felt more whole in my entire life.
We promised each other before the judge and everyone with us to love each other and care for each other as long as we both shall live.
And I knew that I loved him more than I’d ever loved another person and that I would continue to love him, regardless of change. Regardless of what he looked like or what happened to us. I knew that we were meant for each other, despite knowing that things would change. We’d change together or apart, but we would be witnesses to each other’s lives, and we would honor and respect each other.
I couldn’t wait to start the middle part of our journey together.
Once we’d exchanged rings and the judge pronounced us married, Ryan Fielding, my new husband, leaned in to kiss me, and I realized.
He’d shaved.
I’d married him without noticing his facial hair at all. It didn’t matter anymore. I saw him like I always had seen him—his soul, his passion, his sensuality, his love. Not his facial hair.
But he’d shaved it off for me.
“God, I love you,” I whispered.
He smiled. “I love you, too. Forever and ever.”
About Leslie McAdam
Bestselling author Leslie McAdam writes about the men you fantasize about. Her first published novel, The Sun and the Moon, won a 2015 Watty, which is the world’s largest online writing competition. She lives in a drafty old farmhouse on a small orange tree farm in Southern California with her husband and two children.
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Newsletter
Corie
“Heads up, babe—The Beard is here.”
Jill’s words filter through my ear and I gasp. I follow her instructions immediately, my head shooting up as my eyes shift and focus on the man I see through the storefront windows, approaching the coffee shop in all of his glory. My hands stop moving. My heart starts pounding. My lungs struggle for breath, and the sight of him catapults me into a different space-time continuum, where everything moves in slow motion, allowing me to capture every single detail of that fine specimen of a man walking toward us.
Over the last few weeks, I’ve surmised that he stands at the height of about six-foot-three. I know this because when he stands on the other side of the counter to order his red-eye, I have to look up into his eyes. At five-foot-nine, with approximately three feet of counter space between any given customer and myself, I don’t usually have to tip my head up. For him, I can and would look up until my neck ached.
It’s the middle of December in the middle of the mountains, so I’ve only seen him in jeans, thermal, long-sleeved t-shirts, and the occasional sweater; but I can tell by the way the fabric hugs his body that he’s got a body worth hugging. And—oh, my god—can that man wear a pair of jeans. His legs, that ass, they were sculpted to perfection. Never before has a man been able to make my stomach clench walking toward me and walking away from me.
The bell jingles as he opens the front door, and my stomach is instantly full of a million little fireflies, lighting me up from the inside out as he continues to close the distance between us. He shakes off the chill of the frigid morning air, and the snow that has fallen across the shoulders of his big flannel coat begins to melt—seeping into the fabric that keeps him warm.
Oh, how I wish I could be the coat that keeps him warm.
As per usual, he’s wearing a baseball cap over his over-grown, deep brown hair. It gets a little longer every week. If he lets it grow much more, it’ll soon touch his shoulders. I wouldn’t mind. His hair is gorgeous. The thick strands are so dark, they’re almost black—but not quite. This, of course, I know with certainty. It’s the shift in the space-time continuum. I swear.
I watch as he nods politely to a table full of little old ladies before his eyes focus behind the counter. He spots Jill first, and I know I only have another second before I have to stop staring. I won’t
dare look away before I have to, but it’s imperative to my barista reputation that he not know I’m one bold move away from being his stalker on the down-low. These stolen moments have begun to carry me through each day. It’s ridiculous, but it’s true.
I attempt a deep breath as I admire his handsome hazel eyes, hooded beneath the bill of his cap. They’re a perfect mix of dark brown and vibrant green. Regretfully, I don’t let my eyes linger on his for long, my gaze drifting down to his lips. Lips I’m sure were made for long, languorous kisses; lips that are surrounded by that generously full beard that makes me positively weak at the knees.
Before I’m ready, his eyes find mine. Sucking in a quiet breath, I look away in an attempt to mask my blatant stare. I brush my hands against each other, for practically no reason at all, and then I plaster on my most confident smile, abandoning the task I can hardly remember I was doing as I approach the register. He sets his tablet, his journal, and his worn Bible on the counter—the items he brings with him every day—and reaches for his wallet.
“Good morning. Twenty-four ounce red-eye?” I ask, even though we both know I don’t have to.
“Mornin’” he drawls in his unbelievably sexy southern accent, his voice a rich and delicious baritone that makes me press my thighs together. Every. Damn. Time. “A red-eye would be great, darlin’. Thank you.”
I suppress the whimpering sigh that’s dying to be set free from my throat, knowing good and well that it would embarrass the crap out of me if I made a single sound. Not to mention the fact that he calls everyone darlin’—and by everyone, I just mean Jill and me—so I shouldn’t read into it. It’s a southern gentleman thing.
“Coming right up,” I announce after I’ve finished ringing up his order.
I pull the double shot of espresso for his beverage in seconds before filling his cup to the brim with our signature dark roast. After sliding the sleeve on, I set his drink on the counter in front of him, silently cursing myself for being so freaking efficient at my job.
“Let us know if you need anything else.”
“Will do,” he assures me. He then offers me a wink as he gathers his things and heads for the table that has somehow become his over the last month.
A month. He’s been coming into Uncle Cal’s coffee shop for an entire month, and all I really know about him is that he spends half of the day in that journal, sipping strong coffee, ignoring his phone. Yet, deep down inside of me, I’ve convinced myself that he’s something special—someone special. I don’t know why or how, as we exchange the same four sentences every day, revealing absolutely nothing personal, but my heart just knows.
When he’s out of ear shot, I finally free the sigh I’ve been holding back. I can’t help it. The Beard—whose name I’m not brave enough to ask for—is the man dreams are made of, and that’s not a short order. Escaping this little mountain town in backwoods Colorado is just about all I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. It’s a dream that seems to elude me at every turn. And yet, The Beard ignites my hope. It’s as if the way he makes my body come alive just by entering a room is a daily awakening to the reality that life can be more.
I can be more.
Ashley
I shrug my way out of my coat, draping it over the back of the chair before I sit. This table right here is the best spot in the house—a window with a spectacular view to my right, and the coffee bar with a view of that gorgeous girl to my left. After being cooped up for four weeks in self-inflicted isolation, she has been a sight for sore eyes. This intimate and homey coffee shop was my first stop when I finally decided to venture into town, and I haven’t been able to stay away since.
I manage one swallow of my coffee before my phone starts vibrating. I pull it from my pocket and see that it’s my agent calling. I hit ignore, toss the device on the table, and reach for my cup. It doesn’t even make it to my lips before the vibrating starts again. I pick up the phone once more, clenching my jaw in frustration when I see my manager’s name light up the screen. I hit ignore—sure that I don’t want to talk to him either—and set it aside, shifting my gaze out the window.
It’s snowing. I know that out there, the morning is still young, and the silence that comes with the sunrise still lingers. It’s all I want—it’s what I need—the quiet that accompanies seclusion; the peace that comes when I’m out of the spotlight—in the background, where I am home.
I stifle a groan when, not five minutes later, my phone is buzzing across the table. I don’t pick it up, but cough out a humorless laugh when I see it’s my best friend calling. I wish I could answer. I wish I could talk to him. I wish he would understand. But these days, he’s just like everyone else. I know he’s not calling to wish me well today. No, in his eyes, today is no different than yesterday, or the day before that, or the day before that. He’s sold out. He’s on their side. All he cares about is protecting my image, as if it even makes a lick worth of sense for me to fight against the lies people have chosen to believe.
When I’m halfway through with my coffee, the vibrating starts to grate on my nerves. I pick it up to turn the damn thing off, but then I see Mama is calling. A small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I slide my finger across the screen, accepting the call.
“Hey, mama.”
“Happy birthday, honey,” she greets.
I can tell by the tone of her voice that there’s a smile on her face. I miss her; I miss my dad, too, but I can’t go home. Not now. Not yet. I won’t dare bring the attention I’m avoiding to their doorstep. No doubt it would follow me. It’s not a secret that Tennessee is home. I’d touch down on familiar soil and the media would flock, circle, and harass like the vultures they truly are.
“Talk to me, Ashley—I so miss the sound of my boy’s voice.”
“You’d like it out here, mama. It’s quiet.”
“Now you know good and well that I don’t do snow.”
I chuckle, shaking my head at her before I reply, “I’ll have to bring you ‘round here in the fall.”
“Sounds nice, honey.” She sighs and a beat of silence passes between us. Then she sucks in a breath—a subtle warning for the words that are sure to follow. “Ricky’s been tryin’ to reach you.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, my smile fading.
“Ashley, he’s your best friend. Don’t shut him out. Especially not today.”
“He doesn’t give two shits about my birthday.”
“Ashley—”
“He’s worried about his meal ticket; wonderin’ when I’ll come out of hidin’. He’s a musician first, mama—and that’s a proven fact.”
“Well, I won’t argue with you when you’re bein’ bull-headed. But I will ask—when are you comin’ home? Christmas is just around the corner, Ashley.”
I don’t respond right away, sure that I don’t know the answer. Instead, I surrender to the tug in my chest that I feel every time I think of leaving. There are plenty of reasons why I’m here and not there—but one reason in particular that has me here, in this coffee shop, at this table. Here, I get the perfect view of that gorgeous girl.
I allow my eyes to wander in her direction, and I watch as she talks to the other girl behind the counter. She’s smiling and carrying on like she does when she’s not acting all shy. I like it. There’s something incredibly natural about her, and it’s sexy as I don’t know what.
She’s tall and curvy—generous tits, small waist, rounded hips, and a pair of thighs I’ve imagined myself sinking my teeth into. I think about it even now, causing my dick to press against the zipper of my pants. In an attempt to avoid growing even more uncomfortable, I steer my thoughts in a different direction.
I’d bet my left nut that her hair is just as soft as it looks—those brown, shiny, wavy locks always pulled back into a little ponytail at the nape of her neck. She’s got a few stubborn strands that fall in her face regularly, and watching her tuck them behind her ear is way hotter than it should be. And those eyes—I swear on my grandmama�
�s grave, that girl has the prettiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen. They’re warm and inviting, even when she’s timid and nervous.
I’m used to women treating me in a variety of different ways. The bold ones can be flat out frightening, and the quiet ones are often downright frustrating. I’m just a man, not a god. I don’t deserve to be placed on the pedestal they’ve planted me on. I didn’t ask for it, and yet I’m paying for it.
Nevertheless, she’s different. She doesn’t know who I am. She’s shy because she feels the spark that lights up the room whenever we’re both in it. Watching her respond to it is the cutest damn thing.
“Ashley?”
“Sorry, mama,” I mutter, shaking my head clear.
Well, almost.
“I can’t come home, yet. Got a few things I need to see to.”
“Make it quick, honey. So long as my boy is stateside, I want him home for Christmas.”
I nod, even though she can’t see me do it, knowing that she has a point. I’ve missed my fair share of holidays over the last few years, and there’s no real sense in me missing this one. Unlike a moment ago when she mentioned Ricky, I heed her advice now. It’s time to make it quick.
“I hear you. I’ll call you in a couple days, all right?”
“I’ll hold you to that. Love you.”
“Love you too, mama.”
We disconnect and I toss my phone aside before looking back behind the coffee bar. My eyes lock with the pretty brown ones that I’ve been dreaming of for weeks. When she blushes and looks away, trying to appear busy, I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
Yeah. It’s time to make it quick, all right. I’ve done enough pussy-footin’ around.
Corie
“Crap! Jill—oh, no! Jill,” I hiss, my hands busy wiping down the counter I wiped down just two minutes ago.
