Beauty and the Mustache (Knitting in the City #4)(62)
Author: Penny Reid

I blinked my confusion at him. “What do you mean?”

“Drew is a good guy, a smart guy. Like any smart, good guy, when presented with a remarkable woman, he’s going to do the right thing by her, the honorable thing, even if that means giving you up. That’s what he did; he gave you up because he thought it was the right thing to do. But if you tell him you want him, he’ll move heaven and earth to make that happen.”

I stared at him for a beat then leaned forward and asked quietly, “Why didn’t you give up Janie? There was a time when you thought you were putting her in danger, why didn’t you give her up? Do the right thing?”

His eyes narrowed further, but a hint of a smile moved over his lips. “Because, unlike Drew, I wasn’t a good guy.”

***

Quinn’s words echoed in my head the entire drive up the mountain.

If Drew was one thing and one thing only, he was a good guy. He was the best guy. He was loyal to a fault. He was self-sacrificing. He was the epitome of the strong, sacrificing, silent type.

In a lot of ways he reminded me of my mother, honorable to the point of madness. But he wasn’t a martyr. He was sneaky about his honor, held it close, was secretive about it.

It drove me crazy and it pissed me off. Maybe if he’d been a little more selfish, we wouldn’t be in this mess. Then again, if he were a little more selfish, he wouldn’t be Drew.

At the same time, he’d tried to burn the notebook. He’d tossed it in the fire and walked away. He knew I was coming home for Christmas. Obviously, he’d had no intention of telling me how he felt. Or maybe his feelings had changed.

My emotions might have been a tangled skein of yarn, but everything was going according to plan; we were even running ahead of schedule. The ladies were back at the homestead, likely causing a ruckus.

My heart hammered in my chest when I recognized how close we were to Drew’s house, though the scenery looked different because the trees were wintry bare. I sat a bit straighter, my hands clenching and unclenching in my lap. Finally, Jethro pulled into the short driveway and stopped the truck.

He put it in neutral and set the emergency brake.

“Ash.”

I swallowed, nodded. I didn’t look at Jethro because I was too busy greedily memorizing every detail I could about Drew’s house.

“Ash, go get the letters so we can get back home. I’m starving.” Jethro sounded irritated.

I glanced at him. “I’m sorry I dragged you into my drama. I promise, Jethro, this is not like me. I never have drama. I’m usually completely drama-free.”

Jethro placed his hand on my knee and squeezed, his kind eyes moving between mine. “It’s okay. We’ve all been through a lot. Momma’s death; Darrell being crazy. I’m glad he’s locked up, and it looks like the charges will stick. But this year has been rough.”

I covered his hand with mine. “Thanks for being such a great big brother.”

He gave me a small grin. “You know I’ll always do what’s best for you, right?”

I nodded, returning his smile.

“Okay, go do this thing. Go on, get going.” He lifted his chin toward the house.

I took a deep breath and exited the cab of the truck. It was cold outside, and there was a thin layer of snow on the ground; nothing like Chicago, but just enough for winter to make its presence known. I rubbed my hands together and jogged around the side of the house to the porch where I found the large ceramic pot next to the guest bedroom door where Drew hid a spare key.

It was then that I heard the sound of wheels on the gravel driveway.

My body was motionless with astonishment. I shook myself and forced my feet to move. As quietly and as sneakily as I could, I tiptoed to the side of the house and peeked around the corner just in time to see my brother Jethro leaving.

That’s right.

Jethro abandoned me, in the Smoky Mountains, on Drew’s porch, in the winter.

Instinctively, I jogged to the front of the house and down the porch steps to the drive. I was about to call out my brother’s name but stopped myself. He wouldn’t come back even if he heard me. I couldn’t believe it. For several seconds I stared stupidly where his truck had just been, my mouth wide open.

Meanwhile, another completely unexpected thing happened. I heard the front door to Drew’s house open and footsteps behind me, the unmistakable sound of boots on a wooden porch.

My heart stopped. Time—the hussy—stopped. Everything stopped.

And then he said, “Ash?”

I closed my eyes. The sound of Drew’s voice saying my name, so uncertain, so hopeful, so confused—he was my summer rainstorm. He did things to me, bizarre things that I was incapable of describing. My feelings eclipsed my ability to think.

I inhaled a steadying breath, opened my eyes, and recognized what I was feeling. I was feeling fear. It was like facing down the bear on the side of that hill. I needed to woman-up and stop playing dead. This was my life and I needed to live it.

My throat worked and I finally managed to swallow as I lifted my eyes to Drew.

He stood just outside the door. He had a towel in his hands. He was wearing jeans slung low on his waist because he was without his SAVAGE belt. His shirt was a dark green thermal. His beard was ridiculous, bushy, untrimmed, unkempt…like a marauding Viking. And his eyes moved over me as though he couldn’t believe I was there. I think he half expected me to be someone else when I faced him.

My heart gave a giant lurch and my stomach tumbled into oblivion. I had to stuff my hands in my pockets to keep from grabbing my chest.

He was so handsome…so epically swoony. I wanted to stare at him all day while he read me field notes. But more than that, I wanted to be with him. Just be.

I swallowed again and cleared my throat. “Hi, Drew.”

His eyes flared when I spoke, settled on mine, and his expression transformed from confused to guarded.

“What are you doing here?” He glanced behind me, obviously looking for my means of transportation.

I thought about that question and how best to answer it, which version of the truth to tell.

For some reason, my momma’s words from months ago chose that moment to echo in my head: Fear don’t count if you really want something.

She was right. She was so right. And besides, being completely honest couldn’t be any more dangerous than flashing a four hundred pound bear Mardi Gras style.

Gathering every ounce of my courage, I took a step forward, then two, then three. My voice was shakier than I would have liked when I said, “I sent you some letters while you were gone. Did you get them?”

His eyes narrowed on me, a new shadow of confusion falling over his features, and he responded haltingly. “I don’t know. I haven’t gone through the mail yet.”

I nodded, pressing my lips together, and mounted the steps. “There should be about fifteen of them. I came by to….” I stopped, feeling a little out of breath for no reason. I waited until I reached the final step before continuing.

“I came by to get them before you had a chance to open them.”

We were now face to face, just three feet between us.

His brow pulled low at my confession even as his eyes—heated, intense—moved over my face. The hunger in his gaze was a raw, tangible thing. I almost took a step back under the weight of it, and I wondered if he’d always looked at me this way. Had he been as obvious before? Had I been so completely blind?

“Why?” His voice was rough and the single word sounded like a demand.

“Because,” I stopped again, overwhelmed under the intensity of his gaze. Unthinkingly, I took a step forward.

Drew flinched at the movement, his hands on the towel gripping it with tight fists. In that moment he reminded me of a wounded animal and my chest felt like it might crack from the force of my admiration and love for him.

I remembered his words from the notebook, and I realized that my suspicions had been right. He lived his life in an unfathomable labyrinth, paralyzed by the depth of his feelings. Poetry was his outlet, his pressure valve; he held close, a carefully guarded secret.

“Because Jethro sent me your notebook.” I said on a rush. He didn’t appear to understand my meaning immediately, so I used his disorientation to explain the entire story.

“Jethro saved your notebook from the fire and he sent it to me. I thought you sent it, so I read it.”

Understanding dawned in his eyes and he straightened, stiffened, and I recognized his panic because it mirrored my own from just minutes ago. Urgency fueled my words. I needed to tell him everything before he had a chance to process this betrayal of trust. “He thought he was doing a good thing. When I read it, I…I…words cannot describe what I felt. I immediately wrote you a letter telling you how I felt, how I feel, how I love you.”

I swallowed the last word because my own fear had finally caught up with me. I squeezed my eyes shut and shook my head. I couldn’t look at him and continue speaking, so I didn’t look at him.

“I love you, Drew. I love you. I love you so much. I don’t know how to say it any other way. I sent you fifteen letters over the last three weeks. They’re love letters, and they’re the best I could do. And when you didn’t send me anything back, I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer. Then Jethro told me that he’d sent the notebook. He told me that you wanted to burn it. And I panicked. I thought….”