Beauty and the Mustache (19 page)

This thought depressed me.
I was missing my friends. “Yes. Today’s Tuesday, isn’t it? I’d be
with my knitting group right about now….”

“
So you like living in the
city?”

“
Yes.”

“
Why?”

I shrugged, searching for
the words, and coming up a little thin on reasons. I liked my
knitting group. I liked that people didn’t know me, didn’t
automatically expect me to be Darrell Winston’s trashy daughter. I
liked that I’d been able to reinvent myself. I liked that I was
respected at my job. I liked my independence.

Finally, I settled on, “I like my friends.
And I like the culture.”

His gaze narrowed as he quoted, “In
individuals, insanity is rare; but in groups, parties, nations and
epochs, it is the rule.”

I glared at him and
tsked
. “Did you just call
my knitting group insane, Nietzsche? That’s not nice, especially
after Elizabeth made you that delicious ravioli.”

He shook his head. “No, I
don’t know your knitting group well enough to label them as insane.
But I am calling clustered society insane. Don’t you find
conformism and adhering to arbitrary societal norms
suffocating?”

“
I find small minds
suffocating, yes. But there are just as many small minds in the
backwoods of Tennessee as in the bustling metropolis of
Chicago.”

He scoffed. “Except in the
backwoods of Tennessee you don’t have to answer to them; you don’t
even have to speak to them.”

“
Unless they kidnap you
and make you eat peasant soup and pie.”

His grin was immediate,
and it looked like it took him by surprise, because he quickly
tried to cover it by clearing his throat. “You don’t have pie with
your knitting group?”

“
Not pie that tastes this
good, but I still miss them.”

“
Instead you’re here with
me, having a great time, and not at all uncomfortable.” He was
still fighting his grin.

I couldn’t believe anyone
would ever call Drew shy or reserved. He wasn’t shy. He was a bear,
and he was pawing at me.

“
I’m not uncomfortable,” I
snapped, but that was a lie. I was uncomfortable. And I was hot.
And I was getting angry. “Maybe I just don’t like bossy,
presumptuous, mule-headed men who take forever to eat their
pie.”

His smile was wide and
immediate. “So, what
is
your type?”

“
I don’t really have a
type.”

“
Everyone has a
type.”

“
Fine, what’s
yours?”

“
Small,
petite, blonde, big boobs.” He made a curving motion in front of
his chest with his hands, presumably to emphasize the
bigness
of the boobs, or
to demonstrate that he might—in fact—be a big boob. His beard
twitched, but his eyes were sober. I couldn’t tell if he was
serious or if he was being purposefully irritating.

Because here’s the thing,
when a girl asks a guy what his type is, she wants at least one of
her physical characteristics to be a match. Otherwise, she’s just
been told he considers her repulsive.

Behold the logic of the female brain!

Alas, I am five foot nine;
therefore, not small and petite. I have very brown hair and not big
boobs, at least, not as big as Drew seemed to prefer.

I nodded slowly, fought
against the urge to tally up his physical characteristics and claim
swoony allegiance to his outward opposite. Under normal
circumstances, I was politely honest to a fault, because that’s how
my momma raised me. Drew wreaked havoc on normal, and now I was
tempted to irritate him in return.

I sucked in a large, silent breath, and
forced myself to elbow past the petty desire. Maybe it was just a
sign of my exhaustion.

I ultimately answered with honesty. “Fine.
You want to know my type?”

He half nodded, half
shrugged, but his eyes were bright and betrayed his interest.
“Sure.”

“
Okay.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “My type has a romantic soul.
He’ll make my brain and my heart fight over who gets him first. He
does what’s right, even when it’s not easy—actually,
especially
when it’s not
easy. He knows the value of discipline, education, honor, and
restraint. And his strength of character is the only thing that
outweighs the strength of his love for me.”

Drew’s eyes flickered
across my face as I spoke. The earlier sobriety in his gaze
sharpened; otherwise, he held perfectly still.

I readied myself to be
mocked. But it didn’t come.

Several seconds passed
during which we regarded each other like two wary statues. The air
grew thick and my neck itched; it felt like a pressing weight on my
shoulders. But the heaviness was weighted with a meaning I was
likely too tired and aggravated to process.

When I could take no more
of his steady silent stare, I added, “That’s my type. You know,
fictional.”

I didn’t miss his wince or
the way his shoulders bunched at my use of the word fictional,
which he found so offensive. I surmised
fictional
was his least favorite
f-word. In response, I gave him a rueful smile.

“
Fictional,” he said in a
flat, emotionless tone.

I nodded. “That’s right.
Fictional.”

“
You think no man exists
who has honor?”

“
You tell me,
Nietzsche.”

He wrinkled his nose as
though my words gave him a bad taste in his mouth. “Nietzsche
wasn’t opposed to honor. He wanted people to challenge established
societal norms that suffocate individuality and
freedom.”

I shook my head, annoyed
that I was now forced to quote Nietzsche. “Okay, you give me no
option, Drew. Here’s Nietzsche, and I quote: ‘To strive for honor
means to make oneself superior and wish that that also be publicly
evident. If the first is lacking and the second nevertheless
desired, one speaks of vanity. If the latter is lacking and not
missed, one speaks of pride.’ Nietzsche equated honor with pride
and vanity.”

Drew stared at me, his
eyes filled with wonder. “How did you…?”

“
Of
course
you’re
surprised. You think women are cows.” While he was distracted,
I picked up my fork and nabbed a large bite of his pecan pie. It
was good pie, and if he wasn’t going to eat it then I
would.

Just for fun, I said,
“Moo
.
”

At length Drew released a
long-suffering sigh that ended with a laugh. He shook his head,
staring at me like I was a fascinating new species. I liked how his
white teeth were framed by his lips and beard when he grinned. I
hated that I noticed.

“
Your ability to quote
Nietzsche verbatim is incredibly annoying,” he finally
admitted.

“
Is it?” I lifted my
eyebrow and stole another bite of his pie, pausing before I stuffed
my face to say, “Or is it fantastic?”

“
It’s fantastic…” he
mumbled, his eyes lowering to my mouth, “…and sexy.”

I was startled by the
admission, and I choked on Drew’s pie. My eyes wide, I reached for
my glass of water and chugged three gulps before setting the glass
back to the table and regarding him.

I didn’t actually believe
my ears, so I struggled for a moment before my mouth formed its
question. “What?”

“
What?” He snapped, lifted
a single eyebrow in challenge.

“
What did you just
say?”

“
You heard me.” Once
again, his voice was deep, steady, and intimate—his eyes watchful
and intent.

The top of my head felt
hot, as did my chest, and my neck was on fire. I couldn’t believe
he’d said that. I just…I couldn’t fathom it. It was way, way down
on the list of things I’d expected Drew to say to me, ever,
probably because I was in denial.

I could feel my shocked
stare turn into a livid glare, and my jaw ached because I was
clenching it so hard.

Pretty face, nice piece of ass, low class
accent. That’s what I was.

Drew—fictionally handsome
vessel of Satan—had just really, really pissed me off. I was
bruised and cut and drowning in grief. I didn’t need to hear that I
was sexy,
especially
not from him; not from the guy who held my mother’s power of
attorney and couldn’t seem to make up his mind whether he despised
me or liked me.

Because, the terrible truth was, I thought
he was sexy too.

I thought he was
off-the-charts sexy with his cooking and reading and brooding and
shirtlessness and breathing—which meant he was a user and an
asshole. And it would be completely troublesome for us to be
attracted to each other. It would be epically problematic. The
potential for disastrous heartbreak was momentous.

My mother was dying.
Dying
. I’d just stood up
to a bear and murdered a rabid raccoon. Then I’d been dragged back
here, made to take a shower with his wonderful-smelling soap, wear
his shirt, eat his delicious dinner, and engage in a battle of
wits.

I was surrounded by Drew,
assaulted on all sides.

I didn’t want this. I
wanted none of it. I wanted my mother to be healthy. I wanted
Chicago and books. I wanted comfort and contentment and
predictability. I wanted my knitting group and Tuesday night
shenanigans.

Maybe one day I’d find a
nice normal man—an accountant or an actuary—who tinkered with
clocks. I’d be up front about the arrangement so there’d be no hurt
feelings, and he’d be content with companionship in lieu of
passion.

Or maybe I’d just have my
friends and myself, and that would be great. I could deal with
that. I was fine with that. That was my life now, and I was
happy.

What I didn’t need or want
was a bossy PhD game warden from Texas with sexy brains and sexy
eyes and sexy everything. Because my heart was now smarter than he
was sexy, it warned me that Drew would be my biggest mistake yet. I
didn’t have the strength to recover from the death of my mother and
another man making me feel like trash.

“
Why would you say that?”
My voice was a bit shrill, and I had a hard time keeping the volume
low enough to be considered indoors appropriate.

“
Because it’s
true.”

I shook my head, slowly at
first, then faster. “You are such an ass.”

I stood from the table,
scraping my chair against the floor, but then I hesitated. He’d
made dinner and cleared the dinner plates. Good manners dictated
that I needed to clear the dessert plates and do the
dishes.

Instead of leaving
indignantly like I wanted to do, I surprised us both by pointing to
his barely-touched pie and demanding, “Are you finished with
that?”

“
Why? Do you want my pie?”
He asked this as though he was offering me more than pie, and the
softness of his tone caught me off guard.

I sputtered for a few
seconds then said, “No. I don’t. I don’t want your stupid delicious
pie.”

I grabbed my plate and
fork and the dish of remaining pecan pie and its cover. I marched
to the kitchen, chucked my plate in the sink, covered the pie
plate, and found a home for it in the refrigerator.

Then, my fury a cloak of impervious
distraction, I crossed to the sink and began doing the dishes.

I’d finished our bowls,
dessert plates, and utensils, and was about to go back to the table
for the glasses when Drew reached around me and turned off the
faucet.

“
Sugar, stop doing the
dishes.”

“
Fine. They’re all done
anyway.” I turned away from him and reached for the dry towel on
the counter. “I want to go home. Will you please call one of my
brothers to take me home?”

“
Ash….”

“
Listen, Drew.” I faced
him, my heart pounding in my chest, and I summoned every bit of
ingrained politeness I had. “Thank you for dinner. Thank you for
the shower and your soap and your shirt. Thank you for driving me
here and for carrying me down the hill. Now will you please call
one of my brothers to take me home?”

His eyes seemed to be
searching mine. His expression was guarded, but I perceived flashes
of dejection and misery there.

“
I’ll take you home,” he
said quietly.

I glared at him, debating
whether it would be better to ride in his truck back to Momma’s, or
if waiting at his house until one of my brothers showed up was
preferable.

“
Fine.” I turned on my
heel and walked at a decidedly normal pace to his bathroom. I
gathered my bag and the dirty clothes, pausing for a moment when I
saw Drew’s dark gray shirt in the mix. There was nothing for it. I
would have to wash it along with the black one I was
wearing.

Then, I would give them
back to him the next time he was at our house because I wanted
nothing from Drew Runous.

“
Why is it,” he said, one
time, at the subway entrance, “I feel I’ve known you so many
years?”