Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(37)

“Claire made it?” I stood and walked slowly over to the tray. My limp was almost gone if I walked slowly.

“Yeah. She also made the chicken and squash flowers last week, the salmon with capers, the flatbread, the melon and meat thing, the steak and parmesan that smelled so good, the meatloaf two days ago, the lamb yesterday, and all those cookies last Tuesday.”

My stomach rumbled at the mention of the cookies and I searched the tray for them. They’d been the first thing that tasted any good since . . . well, since before Roscoe got stabbed. It was like the cookies had unlocked my taste buds; everything had been fantastic after.

“There’s no cookies today?” I lifted the lid covering the bowl, steam and the mouthwatering smell of alfredo sauce done right rising out of it. I had to swallow.

“There should be. There’s no cookies on there?” Jethro set the lunch tray on the floor just outside the door and walked back over, checking out my dinner. “Like I said, there should be. She just made some again two nights ago. Or was it last night?” He scratched his neck, chuckling. “Claire keeps baking in the middle of the night. We wake up to all these desserts. It’s the best.”

“Middle of the night?” I frowned, inspecting him. “I know she’s the one making the breakfast tray too. When does she sleep?”

Jethro pressed his lips together like he either thought my question was amusing or he was fighting a grin. “She said she was having trouble with the jet lag. Maybe she hasn’t adjusted to the time change yet.”

“Huh,” was all I said, because Jethro’s assumption seemed unlikely. She’d been here for weeks.

My mind assembled a picture, taking note of the potentially relevant puzzle pieces within. Since our discussion last week, every time I entered a room, she left it. Having her so close and leaving whenever she saw me grated on my nerves. I couldn’t figure out why it continued to bother me so much, left me with a lingering sense of restlessness and irritation. I’d been the one to ask her to keep her distance, she was just doing what I wanted. And Scarlet avoiding me had been our modus operandi for years. One would think I’d be used to it by now.

Point was, the only time I’d gotten a good look at her was when she’d come to my room that second day. When she’d stopped blushing, her skin had been too pale, her eyes glassy. I’d wondered before if she still had nightmares. I wondered if she was having them now. I wondered if she was baking so much to avoid sleep.

“She shouldn’t be baking in the middle of the night,” I muttered. “Someone should make sure she’s getting enough sleep.”

“Oh really?”

Jet’s question reminded me he was still present. I frowned, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Well, if she’s cooking for everyone, which she seems to be doing, then—”

“She ain’t cooking for everyone, Billy. I mean, she made that chicken dinner for everyone last week, and the cakes and pies and cookies are for everybody. But mostly—” my brother held my eyes, an uncharacteristically intense look in his “—she just cooks for you.”





After finishing my call with Roscoe, my intention had been to return the empty dinner tray and see if I could find some of those cookies. My intention had not been to lose my sense of direction just outside the kitchen door and listen with paralyzing anticipation as Scarlet sang.

But here I was.

Holding the tray and facing the open doorway, I stared at nothing. Her quiet rendition of The Beatles’ “Blackbird” carried to me and I was sixteen again, my heart in my throat, caught in the snare of her heavenly voice. She kept her volume low, likely so as not to wake anyone. That also meant I hadn’t heard her until I’d almost reached the kitchen.

She switched from “Blackbird” to “Let it Be,” humming the intro before reciting the words, and then humming the refrain too. My feet moved, carrying me closer to the threshold, and I peeked around the doorframe.

Her eyes were closed. She was dancing with abandon and joy, hopping around, her hands in the air, her hips and head rocking out like she was at a concert, not holding a one-woman show in a basement kitchen. A dirty apron covered what looked like a pink tank top and shorts. Thick, long hair gathered on top of her head in a careless bun, a smudge of something brown on her cheek. Maybe chocolate?

This. This was the Scarlet I loved beyond sense and reason. Her irrepressible spirit, funny and sweet, smart and so incredibly strong. An urgent wish invaded my head and heart, a longing with fangs and claws, teeth and talons: I want to dance with her.

When my mother was alive, she’d make us dance with her, all us boys, mostly when we were just littles. I’d escaped early because I could play the guitar. Cletus was excused when he taught himself the banjo. Beau and Duane, Jethro and Roscoe never admitted it, but they loved it. Duane probably most of all; out of all of us, he was the best dancer, Jethro a close second. I’d never wanted to dance. It made me feel foolish, being taught, having to follow until I could lead.

But in this moment, more than anything, more than taking my next breath or seeing another sunrise, I wanted to dance with Scarlet. Just once. I wanted to hold her while she moved, I wanted my hands on her body and her beaming smile in my face and her joyful eyes on mine. I wanted her to teach me how to dance.

And then she caught me.