Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(11)

The timer went off for the rolls and I lunged, flipping it off, spinning to the oven, opening the door, reaching for the dinner rolls, and then snatching my hands back when I realized I wasn’t wearing oven mitts.

“You might want to use some oven mitts,” came Duane’s flat voice from behind me.

“Yes. Obviously,” I said, frowning at my surly brother.

Loving Duane had been easy, but his grumpiness definitely took some getting used to. He didn’t mean anything by it, it was just how he was. But whenever Beau, Duane, and me were together, Beau and I shared a fair number of commiserating glances.

Seizing the oven mitts, I pulled out the rolls, pleased at the color of their browned tops. Basting them with butter before and during the baking process had made a difference, and I took note.

“Man, those smell good,” Duane said around a bite of his cinnamon bun, swallowing before asking, “Can I have one of those too? And some chicken soup?”

I nodded, whipping off the mitts and grabbing two hot rolls for the tray. “Yep. But you can either serve yourself or wait ’til I get back from taking this up to your brother. I shouldn’t be long.” God willing.

He pushed back in his seat, bent to give Liam another snuggly kiss, and rounded the table. “No problem, I can get it. I just wanted to make sure it was allowed.”

“Allowed?” Putting the finishing touches on Billy’s tray—a stick of butter, a linen napkin, a butter knife, blackberry jam—I gave Duane a look. “Why wouldn’t it be allowed?”

He rolled his eyes. “Cletus.”

I laughed. He didn’t have to say anything else.

I picked up the tray and walked mindfully out of the kitchen, refusing to think about the next ten minutes. No use speculating on a future I couldn’t see, but I did have a plan.

I’d worked it all out over the course of the morning: I’d walk up the stairs very carefully, my mind and attention on the stairs so I wouldn’t trip; then I’d place the tray on the table just outside Billy’s door; then I’d knock, pick the tray back up, and wait for him to answer. When he did answer, I’d hand him the tray—saying something like, Here you go, Billy, or Eat this, please.

It was a good plan, solid, normal. My mind behaved while I climbed the two flights of stone steps, and even though I was a little out of breath when I reached the top landing, I was certain it was due to exercise and not nerves. I was fine. It was fine. Everything was fine.

Setting down the tray, I wiped my hands on the towel still stuck in my pocket, lifted my fist, and knocked on the door. My heart chose that moment to jump up my esophagus. I ignored it. I was an adult and I didn’t have time for jumping hearts anymore. Jumping hearts were firmly in my past along with unfounded guilt, making excuses for folks being a-holes, trying to live my life for a dead person, and serially apologizing for things that didn’t need to be apologized for, like saying hi. Or bumping into someone. Or ordering dinner at a restaurant.

No. More. Apologizing.

I picked up the tray. I turned back to the door. I waited, bracing for the impact of his voice. I figured he’d say something like, Yeah? or Who’s there? But he didn’t. He didn’t make a sound. One full minute ticked by and my ears encountered nothing but silence.

Setting the tray down again I knocked again but this time louder and picked up the tray. I waited.

No answer.

Frowning, I stared at the door, my heart jumping with a new kind of anxiety as Cletus’s words from earlier returned to me: I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t serious.

Setting the tray down a third time, I lifted my hand to knock but stopped. Duane had been right. There was no forcing Billy to do something he didn’t want to do, not without offering him something in return, something he wanted.

Sensitive pinpricks of awareness were chased by a crest of heat, racing over my skin. I was breathing hard again, staring forward, the door blurring as I worked to ignore the sensations turning me hot and cold and making my insides freeze and boil.

. . . I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t serious.

“Dammit,” I grumbled, raising my fist and pounding on the door. “Billy Winston, open this door.”

Silence.

Then, a bed squeaked. It squeaked again. It squeaked a third time followed by more silence. A whole damn ocean of it.

Obviously, he was inside. Obviously, he hadn’t eaten. Obviously, he knew his family was in a tizzy, worried about him. Obviously, he wasn’t too sick to move around on his bed.

Not obvious? Whether he was too sick to stand or speak.

I glared at the latch, allowing myself to get worked up. I was going to need to be worked up if I was going to open the door.

You can do this. He’s just a man. Just like any other man. Except, not the boogeyman. He’s not the boogeyman. He’s just like all ordinary, regular men. He is a normal, run of the mill, average man.

Even as I was thinking these thoughts, I knew they were nonsense. Billy Winston wasn’t just a man, and he’d never been just a man to me. When we were teenagers, he’d been my enemy, and then my friend, my love, and ultimately a traitor. He’d betrayed me, he’d abandoned me.

When I returned to our hometown at eighteen, secretly married to my husband but engaged as far as anyone else was concerned, Billy had been my dream, my fantasy, my solace and comfort, and ultimately my enemy once again.