Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(101)

When her security had finally cut off the line and she was ushered away, I saw her turn her head, her gaze searching.

She’s looking for you.

My, how times had changed. Used to be, I was the one always searching for her and she was the one hiding in the shadows. But now, as I reflected on it, I decided everything was exactly as it should be. I’d never been comfortable with the spotlight, with attention. Standing in the wings, waiting for Scarlet was one of my favorite places to be.

After chopping wood and drinking beer for an hour, we’d done a brief perimeter check of the property, right up to the tree line, and then made our way back to the house.

It was at the tree line that an idea had formed, a notion, and I made a plan. What I had in mind was a surprise and I figured the tricky part would be talking her into leaving without telling her why.

However, as soon as we walked in the back door we were met with the sounds of chaos. The ladies were laughing, Beau—who I didn’t see—was yelling, and a cluster of bodies stood between Scarlet and the twin, as though to protect her.

Upon seeing me, Scarlet darted over, grabbed my hand, and yanked me back outside, saying, “Go, go, go!”

Bewildered, I let her drag me halfway across the wildflower field still in late summer bloom before I brought her to a stop. “What is going on?”

She glanced quickly at the house, a gleeful smile on her face as a few giggles escaped her. “Payback for Venice.”

“Payback?” I studied her bright eyes, her happy expression, and then looked at the back porch, half expecting an enraged Beau to charge out of the house. “What did you do?”

Scarlet laughed in earnest, the sound a little sinister. “After getting the okay from Sienna and Jet, I put a bucket of vegetable oil over the entrance to the kitchen and called Beau inside.”

I reared back. “And then it dumped on his head?”

She covered her mouth, still laughing. “But then—oh my God, Billy. The feathers.” She doubled over, holding her stomach, her shoulders shaking.

Since her merriment was contagious, I also laughed, shaking my head and trying to follow. “Feathers?”

“Sent him upstairs—bathroom—” She pointed up at the sky. “Feathers—” Now she made a raining motion with her hand. “Another bucket—and the—they—they—his face! His beard!” She snorted, which only made her laugh harder, tears of hilarity in her eyes.

Rolling my eyes, I grabbed her hand and tugged her across the remainder of the field, making a mental note never to play a prank on my beloved.

After a long while, her laughter diminished to a few brief giggles and she seemed to realize I was taking her somewhere specific. “Where are we going?” She sniffed, wiping at the dampness beneath her eyes.

“You’ll see,” I said, smiling slightly and fighting a strange bout of nerves.

She sighed, it sounded happy, and she followed.

A few seconds later, she jogged a few steps so that we were walking side by side and asked, “So, why a goat?”

I glanced at her. “Pardon?”

“Why is your tattoo a goat? I keep meaning to ask.”

I chuckled, glancing away and rolling my eyes at my younger self. “It’s—it’s kind of funny now, in retrospect.”

“Tell me.” She tugged on my arm. “Nothing can be as funny as seeing Beau covered in feathers.”

“You remember that night I came to your house and demanded you leave with me?” It was bizarre to bring this up without the accompanying flare of longing, or irritation, or desolation.

“Yes. I remember,” she responded quietly, perhaps having similar thoughts.

“Do you remember what you said? After I kissed you and we made out? But then I stopped and you got angry.”

“Uh . . .” Her eyes moved up and to the right, and then suddenly came back to mine, wide with realization. “You got a goat tattoo because I said I’d rather sleep with a goat than you?”

Chuckling again, I nodded. “Yeah. I got drunk and got a goat tattoo. That’s what happened.”

“You’re crazy.”

“I was crazy in love with you, and maybe a little overly dramatic. And literal.”

Scarlet was quiet for a moment as we approached the tree line, then asked, “Do you regret it? Do you ever wish you’d gotten something else?”

“No. I don’t.” I stopped at the first tree, searching the forest within, working to find my bearings.

“Huh.”

“It was a reminder,” I said distractedly, deciding to pull her a few paces west and hoping I’d find the path.

“A reminder of what? Don’t get drunk and then go shopping for tattoos?”

“No. It was a reminder of you, and me, and who I wanted to be, which was someone who deserved you.” I brought us to a stop again, finding the two trees I recognized, and then turned to face her.

She was peering at me through narrowed eyes. “Because I deserve a goat?”

I smiled at her, bent my head to give her a kiss on her neck, and then whispered in her ear, “Baaa.”

She laughed, smacking my arm and leaning away. “You are a nut.”

“I thought I was a goat.”

“You are.” Her fingers stroked my beard. “You’re my Billy Goat Gruff.”