Beard Necessities (Winston Brothers, #7)(97)

“You’re a sneak, Cletus,” I said wearily, grabbing my phone from the desk and stuffing it in my pocket.

“True.” He nodded thoughtfully, adding, “But it’s not just you carrying the load anymore, Billy. Like it or not, sometimes the only way to win is to surrender.”





Maybe if I’d been calmer, my mind clearer, I would’ve been more receptive to Karl’s hysteria. Or, if not receptive, dismissive. But I was not calm, and my mind was not clear.

Point was, I shouldn’t have answered the phone. While I’d been traveling, all ten of his previous calls went to voicemail. Pacing Scarlet’s dressing room backstage at the festival, waiting for her to show, I made the mistake of picking up his eleventh call.

“Billy.”

I ground my teeth. “That is my name.”

“You’ve been impossible to reach and we have an emergency. Don’t worry, I’ve handled things. For now.” He sounded like he was out of breath.

“Fine.”

Karl waited for me to ask about the emergency. I wouldn’t. It wasn’t my habit to ask a question when I knew the other person was eager to provide an answer. That would be a waste of breath. Instead, I let my gaze wander over the contents of the dressing room, the big bouquets of flowers, the bags of gifts, the trays of gourmet looking appetizers, the various bottles of champagne, soda, and water on ice.

My hand closed over the small velvet box in my pocket, nerves and anticipation tying a knot in my stomach.

Eventually, the silence stretched past Karl’s capacity for patience. “The situation is bleak. Catastrophic. We are staring down the barrel of defeat. We haven’t started polling yet, but I know you’re going to lose unless we fix some of your issues fast. Is there any chance Ms. Payton might be open to an engagement of convenience? Just until the senate race is over next year. Beg her if you have to.”

“I don’t beg.”

Karl made a series of sputtering sounds.

Enough. I’d had enough.

Before he’d regained his ability to speak, I added, “I’m not running. I withdraw. Tell them to find someone else. Goodbye.”

Well. That’s decided. Moving on.

Ending the call, I easily pushed Karl from my mind and tapped on my message icon again, just in case I’d missed another text from Scarlet. Finding no new messages, I scrolled through the ones she’d sent me while I was on the airplane. I hadn’t received them until after landing.



Scarlet: I miss you and I’m sorry I left so suddenly. If you have time to talk today, let me know.

Scarlet: I hope you’re not upset with me about leaving, but if you are, I completely understand.

Scarlet: A haiku—

When we are angry,

Let’s set a timer, make up

Sex within one hour



Despite the disorder of my thoughts, this last message pulled a smile from me. Most of my anger had dissipated by the time Sienna’s plane had landed. Scarlet was about to perform in front of a huge crowd after facing her father, after lying to the FBI. Mostly, I was anxious to put my eyes and hands on her, to confirm she was safe and well.

And if she wasn’t safe and well, I’d do whatever she needed.

The door opened and I looked up, my heart climbing to my throat. I heard someone greet her, call her Claire. I heard her voice as she said thanks, calm and collected. She then stepped backward into the dressing room, not yet seeing me, while I’m sure my eyes bugged out of my head.

Standing in profile, wearing leather pants like a second skin—which, technically, I guess they were—a black, low-cut tank top, and Converse sneakers, she nodded, smiling at whoever continued to hold her attention beyond the door.

But then, as though sensing she wasn’t alone, her eyes drifted to the room and she did a double take when she spotted me, her expression morphing into one of shock.

The person she’d been speaking with must’ve noticed, because a second later a male wearing a headset peaked inside, looking where Scarlet looked, his eyes also widening.

“Well, hello,” he said, his gazing moving down and then up my new suit from my fairy-suit-father that had been waiting for me upon my arrival in Nashville. “Are you . . .” He glanced at Scarlet, then back at me. “Are you one of her gifts?”

The question seemed to wake Scarlet from her trance, and her cheeks tinted pink. She opened her mouth as though to answer, but I was already answering.

“Yes. I’m one of her gifts.” I couldn’t have her introduce me. No one was supposed to know Congressman Billy Winston was involved with Country Music Star Claire McClure—at least not for a few more weeks.

The man grinned, sending Scarlet a sly smile as he backed out of the room. “I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”

Visibly flustered, she looked at the man, then at me, then at the door he’d swiftly closed, leaving us alone and not to be disturbed.

She exhaled a short, harassed breath and faced me, crossing her arms under her breasts, her gaze cagey. “What are you doing here?”

“Cletus told me. If anyone asks, I’m Alex Greene from Chicago.” No use beating around the bush.

A flash of pain and dismay arrested her features just before she dropped her chin, hiding her face with her long, copper hair. “Please don’t be angry.”