“Let's clear one thing up: Introverts do not hate small talk because we dislike people. We hate small talk because we hate the barrier it creates between people.”
― Laurie Helgoe, Introvert Power
~Jennifer~
Over a week later and I hadn’t heard from Cletus.
I tried not to feel disappointed and mostly succeeded. We weren’t friends. I might’ve been developing affection for him and enjoying our time together; but I couldn’t allow myself to forget that I was, in fact, blackmailing the man.
The only reason he was talking to me at all was because of that video. Once our deal was over, he’d likely avoid me. I’d become invisible again. And that was okay. I just needed to prepare myself for the eventual rejection.
I was good at dealing with rejection. No biggie.
Therefore, my decision to seek him out ten days after our last lesson made no rational sense.
“What are you doing, Jennifer Sylvester?” I asked myself out loud as I pulled into the parking lot of the Winston Brothers Auto Shop. “You’ve obviously lost your mind.”
I had definitely lost my mind.
I was blackmailing him to help me find a husband. But recently, when I thought about him, when I thought back on our stolen moments together and my heart became too full for my chest, part of me—clearly the very wrong in the head part of me—wondered if I should just blackmail him into marrying me instead.
See? I’d lost my mind.
I’d lost it the moment I stepped forward, bent into his car, and placed that kiss on his cheek ten days ago.
But he was just so . . .
I sighed and glanced in my rearview mirror, my chest aching as I watched shadows and shapes of movement within the shop’s garage. My eyes snagged on my nails where they rested on the steering wheel. They were painted black.
Yes. Black.
I’d painted my nails black.
I’d also stopped wearing the yellow dresses during the day, preferring to bake in jeans, T-shirts, and Converse. And I’d made an appointment with my hair stylist for mid-November. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do to my hair, but I did know I was going to change it.
My mother was not happy. There had been much wringing of hands and wailing over the last few weeks. But each time she threw a fit, I met her hysteria with calm reassurances that I still wore the yellow dress and heels during the special events, and when pictures needed to be taken for social media. It didn’t matter what I wore in my free time.
Regardless, she gave me indigestion-face whenever she spotted me without full makeup, or wearing jeans, or my hair in a ponytail. Sometimes I’d catch her mumbling the word farmer.
My father also seemed to be at a loss. On the one hand, I hadn’t corrected his assumption that Billy Winston and I were still seeing each other. “Billy Winston” seemed to be the magic phrase; I could do no wrong as long as Billy and I were potentially an item, à la, “Billy likes it when I wear my hair like this.” Or “Billy likes these shoes.”
On the other hand, his default these days was enabling my mother. He’d never been good at saying no to her, so the last few weeks hadn’t been pleasant. Plus recently, every time he made a comment about my intelligence, I left the room. I didn’t try to turn it into a compliment or make excuses for him. I just stood and left.
I debated leaving the auto shop now, driving off without stopping in, because I didn’t have much of a plan. I’d made a new recipe, blueberry pancake muffins, so basically, muffins that tasted like blueberry pancakes. On a whim I thought since Cletus had liked the butternut squash pie experiment, he might enjoy being my first taste-tester for the muffins.
So, in summary, I no plan. I only had a whim.
Movement in the rearview mirror caught my eye and I glanced at the reflection once more. Beau Winston was walking toward my car, a wry smile on his handsome face, his dirty coveralls zipped open to his waist showcasing a pristine white undershirt.
Caught, I took a bracing breath and grabbed the plate of muffins; it felt like a shield. I exited my car.
“Hey, Jenn,” he said with a friendly smile, his gaze traveling to the plate I held, down to my shoes, up to my hair—which was in a ponytail—then back to my eyes. “Something wrong with your car?”
“Hiya, Beau.” I cleared my throat because my voice was squeaky with nerves. “No. Nothing wrong with the car. I was just driving by and thought I’d stop in and bring y’all some muffins.”
His blue eyes—which were already clear and bright as the summer sky—brightened further. “What’d you bring?”
Some of my nerves dissipated; it was nice to see baked goods would always be welcomed. “Um, something new I’m trying out. They’re blueberry pancake muffins.”
He laughed lightly. “They’re for Cletus, right?”
“No, no. They’re for all of you.”
He narrowed his eyes, his look suspicious. “Blueberry pancakes are his favorite.”
“Are they?”
His glare of doubt diffused. “You didn’t know that?”
“No. I had no idea.” But I did make a mental note.
“Huh. Well.” Beau’s gaze moved over me anew, like he found me to be a curiosity—and not in a bad way—then turned and motioned for me to follow. “Come on in. I’m just finishing up. I can make some coffee and we’ll hang out for bit.”
“Oh, that sounds nice.” I was surprised by the offer. I’d never had a real conversation with Beau Winston, but I’d formed an opinion during my people watching. He was unfailingly friendly and quite popular with the ladies.
He glanced over his shoulder and slowed his steps so we could walk together. “Wait ’til you try my coffee. I doubt it’ll do justice to your muffins.”
“Don’t get your hopes up. They could taste like feet,” I warned.
He barked a laugh, his eyes twinkling at me with real warmth. “I seriously doubt that anything you made could—”
“What is the status of the Ford Expedition? Did you finish with the radiator?” a female voice, shaded with a Yankee accent, interrupted just as we stepped into the garage.
I didn’t miss how Beau stiffened at my side even as I searched for the owner of the voice.
Almost immediately, I spotted her. She was hard to miss, standing just three or so feet away. Her eyes grabbed my attention first. They seemed to glow and were the most vibrant dark blue I’d ever seen, like sapphires. The rest of her was just as striking.
She was tall. Like, really tall, six foot or more, and her shape was that of a healthy supermodel. She wore no makeup, but her skin was flawless, her lips generous, and her cheekbones impossibly high. She had one of those perfectly proportioned faces, the kind magazines are always talking about as the definition of true beauty.
Her brownish, blondish hair was braided in a thick rope down her back. The austere style only served to highlight the dramatic exquisiteness of her face. She was stunning in coveralls. In fact, she looked like she might’ve just walked out of a fashion shoot even though she was covered in grease. I couldn’t fathom what she’d look like in normal clothes.
The woman’s gaze moved over me with disinterest. I honestly had no idea how old she was. Though her face had no visible wrinkles, her features were mature and her eyes exuded an awareness I’d only ever witnessed in those of advanced age.
“Shelly.” Beau’s sharp tone pulled me from my gawking. “This is Jennifer Sylvester. You’ve probably heard of her banana cake. Jennifer . . .” his earlier levity had entirely disappeared, replaced with a stern and shuttered glare, “this is Shelly Sullivan. She’s new to town and works here.”
I extended my hand toward Shelly. “Nice to meet you.”
She looked at my offered fingers, then at me. Shelly set her teeth and crossed her arms. “Nice to meet you, too.”
Her tone was flat and frustrated and it quickly became obvious she wasn’t going to shake my hand. I let mine drop, feeling disoriented and embarrassed. I wondered what she’d heard about me, if someone had said something disparaging. Or maybe she didn’t like me because of the whole Banana Cake Queen persona.
“Don’t take it personally.” Beau gave me a small, reassuring smile. The warmth left his face once again as he turned his eyes to Shelly. “She doesn’t shake anyone’s hand.”
Shelly’s eyes dropped to the cement for a brief moment and I got the sense she was just as—if not more so—embarrassed as I was. But then she lifted her gaze to Beau and it was bursting with defiance.
He met her glare with one of his own.
Meanwhile, I stood there, stuck between their glares.
When I couldn’t tolerate the tension any longer I sought to fill it. “How are you settling in, Ms. Sullivan?”
Her cobalt eyes moved to mine and some of the rigidness eased. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, uh, how are things? How’s your place? Do you need anything? Are your neighbors nice?”
She studied me for a long moment, like I was something interesting. She reminded me so much of a regal bird of prey, and I couldn’t help but compare her to a hawk or a falcon: proud, beautiful, clearly intelligent, and yet distant and removed somehow.
Untouchable.
Finally, just before the silence grew untenable, she answered, “My house is adequate. I need potholders, I keep using towels and I’ve burned my hand three times. I haven’t met my neighbors, so I don’t know if they’re nice.”
I grinned, because I liked how she’d answered my questions, straightforward and without any artifice or fuss.
“Maybe you should make more of an effort,” Beau snapped.
I gaped at him and his rudeness. I’d never seen or heard Beau Winston be rude to anyone. He didn’t seem to notice my stare because, though his next words were addressed to me, Beau kept his gaze on Shelly. “I’ll go start that coffee.”
He walked away.
Shelly followed him with her eyes until he left the garage and was lost to the sunlight. She brought her gaze back to mine, again looking at me like I was something interesting.
“He doesn’t like me,” she said simply, sounding thoughtful rather than upset about her observation.
My ingrained instinct was to reassure her, respond with something like, Oh, I’m sure you’re wrong. I’m sure he likes you. But I got the sense Shelly Sullivan didn’t suffer false pleasantries.
Plus, I was curious . . .
“Why do you think he doesn’t like you?”
“Because he said to me, ‘I don’t like you.’” A small smile hovered behind her hawkish eyes and I was surprised by their twinkle, especially given the subject matter.
“Does that bother you?” I asked, before I could stop myself, then attempted to explain my curiosity. “I have plenty of people who call me all sorts of names on social media, and folks around town call me uppity sometimes. Or they say I’m simple when they think I can’t hear them.”
“You’re not simple.” Her thoughtful frown returned. “The people who call you simple are the simple ones. You should put castor oil in their banana cake frosting and weld their toilet shut.”
I giggled, because castor oil frosting would certainly call for several trips to the bathroom. “Maybe you could help me weld the toilets shut. I wouldn’t know how to go about that.”
Her face suddenly blossomed with a grin and it took me by surprise, the expression looked so foreign on her, I got the sense I was seeing a once-in-a-lifetime event, like a total solar eclipse or Halley’s comet.
“I’ve welded toilets shut before.”
The humor behind her words and tone also took me by surprise and had me smiling. “What else have you welded?”
“Anything I can get my hands on. I once welded the driver’s side door shut on my brother’s . . .” Her grin waned by degrees until she looked a little lost and overwhelmed, and a flicker of intense sorrow flashed behind her eyes before she effectively concealed it with swift stoicism. She swallowed and stuffed her hands into her pockets. “I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Okay. You don’t have to talk about that.”
Her stare moved over my features. “You have seven dark freckles on your face.” I lifted my eyebrows at this observation and sudden subject change. She was right. But she wasn’t finished. “Your shirt also has seven buttons. Most women’s shirts have eight buttons.”
I glanced at my shirt, then back to her. “Why does my shirt only have seven buttons?”
“The shirt you’re wearing has only seven buttons because it was specifically made for a short person.”
“You’re right. I got it in the petite section.” I smiled at her, because her observation and subsequent conclusion was useless, but it was also oddly cool. “You’re kinda like Sherlock Holmes.”
“I just notice things, meaningless things, typically having to do with numbers or patterns.” Her intense blue gaze swept over me and she pressed her lips together, like she was forcefully stopping herself from continuing.
So I prompted, “What is it? Is something wrong?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t shake your hand,” she blurted, then she sighed, as though the words cost her.
“That’s okay.” I waved away her apology; I didn’t want to make a big deal of it. “It confused me at first, but I’d much prefer to talk to you than hold your hand.”
Her smile was smaller this time, but struck me as no less singular.
I liked Shelly Sullivan. She was weird. I imagined her type of odd made it difficult to find friends; but to me, she seemed like someone worth knowing.
Therefore, before I could think better of it, I suggested, “We should go out. You and me. We should go out and do stuff.”
“What kind of stuff?” She looked wary.
“I don’t know.” I didn’t know. I didn’t know what two women did when they got together other than gossip—which is what my mother did with her friends—and I had no interest in that. I’d never had an in-person girlfriend. All my friends were pen pals. Except Cletus, but he wasn’t really my friend since I was blackmailing him; and he wasn’t a woman.
Definitely not a woman.
“We could make soap,” I suggested for no reason in particular.
Her eyes lit. “You know how to make soap?”
“I do. I make soap all the time, when I’m not baking.”
“I’d like to learn how to make it. I like soap.”
“Good.” I grinned, excited.
“Yeah. Good.” She also grinned, but it was tinged with confusion, like she couldn’t believe what had just happened.
“We’ll make it at my kitchen, at the bakery. It’s a sterile environment, it has to be, and that’s important for soap making.”
Her eyes grew even wider at this news. “It’s sterile?”
“Yes. Well, not hermetically sealed type of sterile. But it’s professionally cleaned—from top to bottom—every day.”
“That sounds amazing.”
I chuckled. Her enthusiasm about the cleanliness of my kitchen was adorable. Seeing that she had a thing for hygiene, I added, “And we’ll wear latex gloves while we do it.”
“While you do what?” Cletus’s voice cut in; both Shelly and I turned our heads toward the sound.
My heart did a pathetic little flutter, leaping toward him, and my eyes devoured every visible detail of Cletus Winston. It was the first time I’d seen him in over a week and I . . . well, I’d missed him. I’d missed his company and bluntness. I’d missed his funny facial expressions and deadpan jokes. I’d missed his somber nod, because he did it so well and used it when he didn’t know what else to do.
I braced my feet apart as he neared and my heart continued to act erratically. I made an effort to subdue the misbehaving organ by reminding it that I was blackmailing this man.
We were not friends. He did not like me. He tolerated me, nothing more.
But he is so . . .
“Hi, Cletus,” I said, feeling inexplicably out of breath.
He stepped next to Shelly and offered a disappointingly benign, “Hello.”
Cletus’s eyes skimmed over me briefly with what felt like purposeful detachment, then he turned his attention to Shelly. “Do you need me to order gloves for the shop?”
She shook her head. “No. I told you, I’m fine with grease. Car engines are cleaner than people.”
“Unfortunate, but true.” He gave her a half smile.
The sad little flutter became a painful, deflating flop. But I plastered a grin on my face, because I was good at this. I was good at people being disinterested in my presence.
I shoved the muffins at Cletus’s chest, unable to raise my eyes higher than his chin. “Here. These are for . . . for your family.”
In an automatic movement, his hands lifted to the plate and I released it to his grip.
Not waiting for a response, because my heart hurt and was screaming at me to leave, I gave Shelly a quick smile and promised, “I’ll see you later.”
I turned and walked quickly out of the garage.
You have lost your mind. Your mind is lost. What were you expecting? Honestly, what did you think was going to happen? He doesn’t care two sticks about you.
I was a good five feet from the shop, lost to my litany of regret, when I felt fingers close over my arm and spin me around.
Startled, my hands flew to my chest and I gasped. It was Beau. He released me immediately.
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“No.” I exhaled a shaky laugh and shook my head. “No, it’s fine. I just didn’t see you.”
He gave me an apologetic grin. “Did Shelly say something? To make you leave?”
“What? No! Not at all. She’s great.”
His grin wavered, disbelief clouding his eyes. “Really?”
I didn’t get a chance to respond because Cletus emerged from the shop, clutching the plate I’d brought to his chest. I took an automatic step backward, prepared to finish the march to my car and make my hasty escape.
“Just stop right there,” he called, his forehead stitched with irritation.
Drawing even with Beau, he scrutinized me. Then he scrutinized Beau. Then he scrutinized me again.
“Beau,” he passed the plate to Beau but kept his eyes trained on me, “take these to the front and close up. We’ll join you in a moment.”
Beau’s gaze moved over Cletus’s stern profile, his eyebrows lifting in surprise as his attention bounced between us. Eventually, he said, “Sure thing,” while turning and strolling to the front office of the shop.
Once Beau was gone, Cletus placed his hands on his hips. “Something is wrong with you.”
I straightened my spine, flinching at his statement. “I beg your pardon, but that was incredibly rude.”
He blinked at me as though he were confused, much of the irritation waning from his features. As though finally realizing what he’d said—or at least how it sounded—a regretful noise escaped his throat and he scrunched his face like he was frustrated with himself.
“No. You mistake my meaning. I’m . . . concerned. You appear to be upset. What’s wrong?” His voice gentled and his eyes searched mine. “What’s happened? And what can I do to help?”
I crossed my arms because my stupid heart was fluttering again. He caught me off guard. I was not at all prepared for Cletus Winston’s concern.
“Nothing. Nothing is wrong. I just wanted to bring y’all muffins. Can’t I bring y’all muffins?”
He was scrutinizing me again. “No. Something’s off. Is it Jackson James? Do I need to maim him? Because I will. I could give him leprosy, you know. Armadillos are carriers.”
My mouth fell open and a bubble of laughter emerged unchecked. “Cletus Winston, you will do no such thing.”
“Sheriff’s deputy or not. Just say the word. It might improve him, actually.”
“You are terrible.” I laughed, even though he was terrible, and I felt terrible laughing at such a terrible joke.
At least, I hope it’s a joke.
Before I could give the matter too much thought, Cletus nodded, reached for my hand, and tugged me toward the front office. “That’s better. I much prefer your real smiles. Those fake ones don’t fit your face. By the way, I like your shoes.”
I stumbled, having trouble keeping up with him, both his long stride and the rapid subject changes. He opened the door and guided me inside, keeping our hands linked as he pulled the door shut behind us and turned the bolt.
“Shelly said she’d close up the garage,” he called to Beau, who was just setting three coffee mugs on the counter. “She doesn’t want any of these mystery muffins and I didn’t try to talk her out of her poor decision.”
“More for us,” Beau agreed with a grin.
“Exactly.”
I shook my head at the two brothers. “Y’all need to learn how to share.”
Cletus turned his gaze on me, his eyes darting from my chin to my forehead before moving between mine. “Sharing is overrated.”
“I agree,” Beau approved cheerfully. “Who wants coffee?”
Cletus brought us even with the front of the counter, whereas Beau was standing on the other side. He pulled the plate of muffins to the center of the tabletop. “Is it decaf? I don’t want to be up all night.”
“It is,” Beau confirmed, already filling his cup.
“Jenn?” Cletus prompted, “Do you want any?”
“Yes, please.”
“How do you take your coffee?” Beau set out a bowl of sugar.
“Black is fine.”
Beau and Cletus exchanged a glance, then they both turned identical questioning looks on me.
“You don’t take anything in your coffee?” Cletus asked.
“No. I’m surrounded by sweets all day. I like my coffee black.”
“Huh . . .” Beau studied me, like I’d revealed something important about myself. Then, out of the blue, he said, “Jennifer Sylvester, you have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen.”
I stared blankly at Beau, frustration and disappointment warring with feelings of being flattered. During my date with Billy, when he had called me gorgeous, I experienced similar emotions. Like any normal person, I appreciated compliments about my exterior, but they also just felt like confirmation that my father was right. My outside was what people were interested in, and that my face and body determined my value.
Cletus stiffened beside me but said nothing. When I glanced at him his expression was carefully blank.
“Oh, thank you, Beau,” I said, trying to focus on the positive. It had been a very nice compliment, even if it had been in reference to something that wasn’t even really about me. I had no control over the color and shape of my eyes.
“No, thank you.” His spreading grin was both sweet and seductive. “You should come with us on Saturday. I’ll drive you.”
“Where are you going?”
“Cletus and Claire tried out over the summer and made it to the semifinals in a big-deal talent show. Saturday is the last round. There’ll be record labels, the whole nine yards.”
I eyeballed Cletus. He maintained his air of determined inscrutability and took a gulp of his coffee.
I couldn’t read Cletus’s thoughts on the matter, and I didn’t want to overstep. “I appreciate the invitation, but I wouldn’t want to impose.”
“You wouldn’t be imposing.” This assurance came from Cletus and he paired it with a soft smile. “If you want to come, you should come.”
“Good.” Beau nodded, grinning at me happily. “It’s a date.”
“It’s not a date,” Cletus contradicted, casting a frown at Beau.
I didn’t know if he realized it, but Cletus was still holding my hand and his grip tightened as he challenged his brother. He’d linked our fingers together and held my palm pressed against his thigh. His hands were magnificent, strong, and beautiful. A thrilling current of energy raced up my arm at the contact.
“Not you, dummy. Me.” Beau wrinkled his nose at Cletus and grabbed a muffin. “Jenn and me.”
“Jenn and you?” Cletus looked and sounded mystified.
“That’s right.” Beau spoke around a bite of muffin, then moaned, looking at me. “What the hell did you put in these things?” He chewed, finished the first muffin with one more bite, then grabbed a second. “When we get married, you should make these every day.”
I smirked at this, because years of people watching meant I knew how Beau operated. He was a shameless flirt.
“Slow your gourd, Beauford.” Cletus pulled the plate farther away from Beau, his voice rising with irritation. “Don’t eat the whole plate, greedy britches.”
“There are at least twenty muffins here, Cletus. Slow your own gourd.”
“I want them to last,” he argued.
“Or, she could just make more. Because, I have to tell you, Jenn, I’ve never had a muffin this good before.” Beau pointed a remarkably attractive and flirtatious smile at me; it was one I recognized well from every time he attempted to put the moves on Darlene Simmons. His voice was deep with lurid suggestiveness.
However, and sadly, his suggestiveness—the real meaning behind his words—mostly flew over my head. I hazarded a guess, but decided to look up how a muffin might be a euphemism for intimacy.
“Hey, hey. Switch off the high beams, Beauford Winston.” Cletus snapped his fingers in front of Beau’s face. “Jennifer isn’t one of your lady prospects.”
Beau lifted a dismissive eyebrow at Cletus, then slid his eyes back to me, mischief written all over his features. He winked. “I was just complimenting her muffin.”
“That’s it.” Cletus grabbed the plate of muffins, administering a severe glare of disapproval to his younger brother, and turned back to the office door, bringing me along with him where our hands were linked.
“Hey! Where are you going?”
“You’ve lost the right to these muffins.”
“Cletus,” Beau’s shout was ripe with strangled frustration, “you can’t have all the muffins.”
“I can and I will,” he called over his shoulder, then tilted his chin toward the bolt. “Jenn, unlock that for me, please.”
Flustered, I obliged and he pushed the door open with his elbow.
“When you get home, you and I are going to have words.” Anger seeped into Beau’s tone and the unexpectedness of it had me turning back to Cletus’s brother. His usually friendly gaze was harsh with fury.
Cletus hesitated, a deep crease appearing between his eyebrows, and then he turned his glare on his brother. “Beauford Fitzgerald Winston, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately. But you need to sort it out. I’m giving you a month.”
With that, Cletus steered us out of the office and left his brother to stew.