Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(108)

I hope you’ve enjoyed the Winston Brothers series. It’s been difficult to contemplate that my time with this family is at an end. On behalf of Ashley, Duane, Jethro, Cletus, Beau, Roscoe, and Billy, thank you for reading.

-Penny





About the Author





Penny Reid is the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today Bestselling Author of the Winston Brothers, Knitting in the City, Rugby, Dear Professor, and Hypothesis series. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books. She’s also a full time mom to three diminutive adults, wife, daughter, knitter, crocheter, sewer, general crafter, and thought ninja.

Come find me -

Mailing List: http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/

Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/ReidRomance

Email: [email protected] …hey, you! Email me ;-)





Read on for:

1. A sneak peek of Engagement and Espionage, Book #1 in the Handcrafted Mystery Series

2. Penny’s Booklist





Sneak Peek: Engagement and Espionage, Handcrafted Mysteries Book #1





Cletus





Why must people always talk?

“What’s wrong?” Drew leaned toward me as folks closest to our make-shift stage swarmed around my brother Billy, chattering good-naturedly and getting on my last nerve with their vociferous compliments.

Mind, the compliments didn’t ruffle my feathers, it was the talking and ensuing racket that had my back up.

If folks could’ve communicated their praise via some other means—perhaps via a silent handshake and shared stare of admiration, or a hand-written note, or a mime routine, or an interpretive dance—I wouldn’t have cared. Mylar balloons with tidy messages were an underutilized resource, for example.

A silence ordinance: that’s what we needed. A day where folks would be forced to keep their voice boxes on the shelf or else pay a fine. I made a mental note to discuss it with the mayor, he’d always been pragmatic about new revenue streams.

“Cletus?” Drew was still looking at me, one eyebrow lifted higher than the other.

We’d just finished the last stanza of ‘Orange Blossom Special.’ I surmised my friend’s unbalanced brow and question was in response to the frown affixed to my features.

I should have been pleased.

I was not pleased.

Drew was on guitar, I was on banjo, Grady was on fiddle, and I’d talked my brother Billy into singing–a rare achievement as Billy hardly ever agreed to lend his pipes to our Friday night improvising at the Green Valley jam session.

But Jenn was late.

Correction, she wasn’t just late, she was late as usual on a night she’d promised to be early.

“It’s time to take a break” I didn’t look at my watch again, I’d already looked at it ten times. “I need to make a call.”

Drew’s stare turned probing. Abruptly, his expression cleared, and then he smirked a little, in that very Drew-like way of his. Which is to say, his mouth barely moved.

“Ah. I see.” Drew nodded, returning his attention to his instrument and plucked out a C followed by a G. “Where’s Jenn, Cletus?”

A person walked between Drew and I, side stepping and almost knocking my banjo with his knee in his eagerness to reach my brother Billy. Drew lifted the neck of his guitar to keep it safe, tracking the lumbering moron with his eyes.

Usually I’d take notice, add this person to my list of affronters as, One who does not respect the sanctity of the banjo. But I didn’t, because I was fixating.

Billy had finished the song with flourish, which earned him happy gasp from the audience. They’d begun their applause before the strings had ceased vibrating. Several of the spectators had even come to their feet to whoop and holler their appreciation. I wasn’t surprised. My brother had a stellar voice, I mean cosmically good.

He should’ve been a musician. Or, he could’ve been one of those Ph.D. engineer fellas with a mohawk on the TV, telling folks how rockets work. If he hadn’t had his leg broken in high school, he also could’ve been a pro-football player.

But no.

Now he was the vice president in charge of everything at Payton Mills in the middle of Appalachia. And he’s probably going to be a state senator, next. And after that, a congressman.

Good lord.

My expression of displeasure intensified.

I was officially fixating on my misaligned hopes for my brother, determined to be irritated with his course in life since I couldn’t be content with my present circumstances.

She better not be working.

I swear, if that dragon-lady mother of hers was keeping her late at the bakery yet again, I would . . .

I would . . .

I won’t do a thing.

Damnit.

I took a deep breath, scowling at the bright red theater chair in the front row. Next to it was a wooden chair that my youngest brother, Roscoe, would’ve called mid-century modern, or something hoity-toity like that.

“Where’s Jenn?” Drew repeated the question, apparently convinced the lumbering disrupter was no longer a threat, his attention coming back to me.

“I don’t know, Drew.” I didn’t precisely snap at my friend, it was more of a nip than a bite.