Beauty and the Mustache

Unable to handle the intensity of his stare a moment longer, I blurted, “I’m so sorry!”

He blinked at me and shook his head once, quickly, as if I’d just appeared. He released my hand and stepped away as though touching me might burn him. “What the hell was that?”

I ripped my gaze from his and looked at his chest. It was a nice chest—a very, very nice chest—but his left nipple was red and angry. My nipple-wist marred the otherwise physical perfection of his chiseled torso. A small sound of dismay tumbled from my lips.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I stammered, and I reached forward and petted the offended skin. “I never would have purpled your nurple if I’d know you weren’t related to me. It’s just that I was trying to sleep. Really, I should have known you weren’t Cletus; he would have guessed my intentions a mile away and taken evasive maneuvers.”

“Evasive maneuvers?”

I glanced up from where my fingers continued to caress his wounded nipple to his silver eyes, now a tad less thunderstormy, but a tad more cautiousy.

I blinked at him, my breath seizing in my chest, and I completely lost my train of thought.

“What?”

The Viking’s eyes looked directly into mine. After a short pause, he glanced down at his chest. I followed his glare to where my fingers were caressing his man-nipple. I flinched, yanked my hands away and balled them into fists between us.

“Sorry,” I blurted again. “Sorry about twisting your nipple. Also sorry about petting it afterward. Furthermore, I’m sorry that I can’t seem to stop talking....”

His eyes lowered to my feet then swept up my body in an unapologetic assessment, loitered on my bare calves and thighs for a minute, then dawdled on my chest.

“Who are you?” He asked my chest, sounding annoyed.

“Who am I?” I asked, because honestly—and I might lose my badass card for this—part of me had forgotten my name. Because he was the kind of ruggedly sexy that made me forget what number I was on and what my name was.

“Yeah, who are you?” His eyes finally met mine and he sounded even more annoyed. I could tell by his accent that he wasn’t from Tennessee, though he had a distinct southern drawl. My brain told me it was Oklahoma or Texas.

“I…I’m Ashley Winston.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, obviously surprised by my response. His frown was equal parts severe, confused, and angry from behind his unwieldy blond beard as he surveyed me.

Then he turned to Jethro. “You have a sister?”

The fact that the golden Viking had addressed my brother rather than me was a slap of sobriety, and I responded with mildly offended displeasure. “Yes they have a sister.”

Jethro had followed me around the car when I charged into the quonset hut and he tipped his head in my direction. “Yep. That’s Ash.”

“I thought Ash was a boy.” The handsome marauder said this like he was both shocked and upset, like he’d been misled, lured into our cluttered garage with trickery and deception.

“No. She’s a girl.” Billy bellowed from under the hood of the car.

The man’s eyes swept up and down my body again, a flagrant scrutiny. He did not look pleased.

“Obviously.” The blond stranger said, like he’d just tasted something sour.

In that moment, I finally figured out what kind of handsome he was. He was fiction-handsome. Romance novel handsome; but not the clean-cut (billionaire) alpha male or even the tattooed (billionaire) bad boy archetype.

He was the Scottish highlander, Viking conqueror, bodice-ripper historical romance kind of handsome; an unshaven, lion wrestling, mountain man recluse, toss you over his shoulder and plunder your goodies kind of handsome. He was both scary and swoony. I wanted to braid his beard. I also wanted to run away.

But his less than flattering expression was just the reality slap I needed to propel me out of my stupor. I finally saw beyond my initial stunned reaction to his rugged handsomeness, and my anger boiled over anew. I remembered that it was six-something in the morning, and this male specimen of fineness was the reason I was awake.

Handsome or not, it didn’t matter. I decided he was a jackass.

I gave him my very best you’re not worth my time glare even as I fought against a delayed blush of embarrassment. I wasn’t sure if I was embarrassed because I’d just inflicted pain to his nipple then tried to pet it, or if I was flustered because he obviously found me repulsive.

Really, I’d ogled him. Then, amidst my ogling, he gave me the grossed-out stink-eye.

Suppressing these disturbing and uncomplimentary musings, I turned to Jethro. “Sorry about maiming your friend, but will you please tell him,” I indicated the bearded stranger with a thumb over my shoulder, “to quit revving the engine at six fourteen in the morning, or else I’ll remove this car’s spark plug wires and lock you all out of the house.”

Jethro sighed, but he was still smiling. Come to think on it, he was smiling a lot, which was not typical for him. “Come on, Ash. We need to be at work in two hours. Cut us a break.”

I blinked at him and briefly considered that I might be dreaming. “You have a job?”

Jethro’s smile dimmed, turned brittle. “Yes. I have a job, baby sister.”

I felt the stern line of my mouth soften and the back of my neck heat with renewed embarrassment. I had been gone a long time, and I had no desire to insult or hurt anyone, least of all my brother. He’d never shown any outward concern for me growing up, but he was still my brother.

Billy poked his head around the hood of the car and glared at me. Even though I was younger than both of them, I’d been the only consistently responsible child of the seven Winston brood when we were growing up, and the only girl. My brothers had always seen me paradoxically as an authority figure and a doormat.

I imagined it was similar to how they viewed my mother.

I fought the jitteriness still plaguing me from the titty-twister tempest and took a calmer approach. “Look, my flight just got in at two this morning, and I’ve had less than three hours of sleep. I’m supposed to be at the hospital in Knoxville at eleven to find out what’s going on with Momma.” I sighed and put my hands on my hips. “I just need some sleep.”

“Bethany is in the hospital?” This question came from the stranger. My back stiffened at his use of my mother’s first name.

Billy walked to the side of the car and leaned against it. “When I came home two days ago, she’d left a note.”

“What kind of note?” The Viking asked; I didn’t want to notice but he had a delicious growly and authoritative quality to his voice.

Stupid growly commanding Texan Viking voice.

“She said she was sick and had to go to the hospital,” Billy explained.

My throat tightened as my eyes moved to the cement floor of the garage. I suppressed the wave of worried panic. I reminded myself that I hadn’t been home in a while, and maybe she was sick with the flu or just needed a vacation from the craziness that was living with my brothers. Maybe she was completely fine.

“I didn’t know she was sick,” the blond man said, coming to stand next to me, my shoulder at his bicep. In my peripheral vision, I noticed that he’d folded his arms across his sculpted chest, his right hand covering his left nipple.

“No one did,” Billy said, looking straight at me. “Not even Ash,” he added in a slightly sardonic tone.

“Why didn’t you tell me? What exactly happened?” An unmistakable air of privilege and authority hung heavy around the stranger. “Start from the beginning,” he demanded.

A gathering ache of frustration set up camp at the base of my neck. This man, this unknown person, sounded so entitled, as though he should be kept in the loop regarding what happened to my mother.

Maybe it was my lack of sleep; maybe it was the stress of not knowing what was going on with my mother; maybe it was because this man’s sense of entitlement reminded me of every ivy-league ignoramus medical doctor I’d had to endure at my job in Chicago, but I had no patience for this behemoth at my shoulder despite his colossal handsomeness and the fact that I’d assaulted then molested his man-nipple.

I glared at his unkempt beard and longish blond hair, both of which annoyed me now, then shifted my stare to his silver eyes. “Why is this any of your business? And who the hell are you?”

Mr. Blond Beard considered me with impatience, as if I were gum on his shoe. I returned his malicious glower, as if he were gum in my hair.

I heard Jethro clear his throat, and I saw out of the corner of my eye that he gestured to the stranger with a greasy rag. “Ash, this is Drew Runous. He’s my boss.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Winston,” he drawled, extending his hand in a show of ironic southern politeness, like older church ladies use when they say “bless your heart,” and what they really mean is “you couldn’t find your way out of a small shed with a map, lighted signs, and an escort.”

But his face held no amount of pleasure. In fact, he looked positively aggravated by the audacity of my existence.

“Likewise, I’m sure.” Ignoring his offered hand, I returned his ironic southern politeness with my own vitriol-laced volley.