Beauty and the Mustache

I released a huff, pushing him away so I could see his eyes, but also gripping his arms so he couldn’t go too far.

“Drew….” I made sure my voice was soft and calm as our eyes met; he gazed at me with wary watchfulness. “On your dresser, is that picture of me?”

He didn’t respond. But after a beat, he tried to extract himself from my hold. I wouldn’t let him go; my grip tightened. When he felt the force of my fingers, his mouth tugged to the side.

“Ash, I’m not leaving you. I’m just getting the pictures.”

“Pictures?”

“Yeah. Pictures.”

I released him and he gave me a quick kiss before sauntering over to his dresser and grabbing three picture frames. He returned, sat on the edge of the bed, and patted the space next to him.

I scootched closer to him, tucked my hair behind my ears, and peered at the pictures on his lap. I was right. The first picture was of me. It was of me and Momma in Hawaii. I’d taken her there three years ago on vacation. We both looked happy and tan.

“Bethany gave these to me.”

“When?”

“When she figured out that I was in love with you.”

My heart flip-flopped in my chest and I looked at him. He was watching me, his features open but hesitant. I didn’t like the hesitance, so I leaned forward and kissed him, needing to remove the uncertainty from his expression.

A thought occurred to me, so I broke the kiss and rested my forehead against his, my hand on his jaw and neck to keep him close. “Drew, that day I left, when I knocked on your door and I heard the drawers open and shut, were you hiding these?”

“Yes.”

I tsked. “Oh, Drew….” I kissed him. “Is this part of the not wanting to hold me back thing?”

He threaded the fingers of one hand through my hair and tugged until our eyes met. “Ashley, I need you. I need you like lungs need air. But I need your happiness, not your obligation.”

“Well, this explains why you like Nietzsche, bless your heart….”

Drew’s gaze immediately turned into a glare, the hesitation giving way to reluctant amusement. “Did you just bless your heart me—again?”

“Bless your sexy, sexy Viking heart,” I said, my eyes moving back to the pictures.

He rubbed his jaw, handing me the frames. “If you’re going to insult me, then I’m going to go get those letters.”

My body stiffened and a jolt of anxiety shot down my spine, radiating outward to my nerve endings. I’d already forgotten about the letters. I was about to tell him to stop, and beg him to give them back to me. The thought of watching Drew reading my words and declarations of love was thrilling, but mostly terrifying.

And yet….

He was studying me, his mouth twisted to the side, his eyes still narrowed.

I cleared my throat then swallowed, inhaled slowly, and said, “Yeah. You should. You should read them. You should know what’s in my heart, because if you think having pictures of me on your dresser is going to freak me out, then you are in for a big surprise. ’Cause those letters…those will freak you out.”

Drew rolled his lips between his teeth, fighting a smile. Abruptly he leaned forward and kissed me, his mouth moving against mine, demanding entrance, tasting me like I was cake with frosting and he’d decided to lick first then take a bite.

Just as abruptly, to my infinite frustration, he pulled away. Drew was halfway down the hall when I realized that he really was going to get the letters. I braced myself even as a small, nervous laugh passed my lips.

“Fear don’t count if you really want something….” I muttered under my breath, Momma’s words again calming my thundering heart, and I glanced at the pictures on my lap.

I set the one from Hawaii to the side. The next picture was of me graduating from nursing school. I was in my cap and gown, and I was holding my diploma. Momma had been so proud, and I’d desperately wanted to make her proud.

The last picture was of me when I was eighteen, a few days before I’d left for college. I was surrounded by all my brothers. We were standing at the edge of the woods against a backdrop of spring flowers. The scene was beautiful. We were laughing. I remembered the moment; I think Beau had just done something crazy.

I stared at that one the longest. I was surprised by what I saw. Eighteen-year-old Ashley was a beautiful young woman, a smart girl, a girl with hopes and dreams who maybe still believed in fairies and unicorns—not much, just a very little bit. Yes, I looked like my father, but so what? Looking like Darrell didn’t make me Darrell any more than Cletus’s banjo playing made Cletus like Darrell.

It would be a shame if Cletus didn’t love music. It would be a shame if Roscoe weren’t charming. It would be a shame if Billy weren’t so smart.

This Ashley also loved her brothers despite their torment, and I could see on their faces that they loved her too.

When I thought about myself at that age, all I remembered was wanting to leave, wanting to escape, wanting to be different. But now I didn’t want to be different. I wanted to be her. But I wanted to be more, just like a building wants to be more than its foundation. Being more didn’t mean I needed to abolish who I’d been.

And being with Drew wouldn’t be a step back; it would be coming home.

***

“Do you want another pancake?”

I tossed this question over my shoulder without looking up from the skillet. I wasn’t used to Drew’s fancy pots and pans or his fancy gas stove. Therefore, I was watching the pancakes like I’d watch a hawk. I was a pancake falconer.

“No, thank you,” Drew responded from someplace near my shoulder just before his hands lifted the hem of my nightshirt. It was another of his T-shirts. At some point, I would have to wash it.

Drew caressed a path from my thighs to my hips to my lower back then stomach. His hands were hot. I shivered, instinctively arching, pressing my bottom against his front.

When I spoke next, I sounded a little winded to my ears. “Shouldn’t we call the boys and get your car back?”

Roscoe, it seemed, had dropped Drew off just hours before I arrived. Drew’s truck was at the Winston Bros. Auto Shop and, despite having been there for six weeks, hadn’t yet received its tune up. Imagine that.

As well, my brothers weren’t answering their phones when we called. Neither were any of my friends. I had no idea whether they’d already left for Chicago, but I guessed that they had. We were stuck. Cut off from the world. We had no way of coming down the mountain. It was glorious.

Drew’s fingers slipped lower, dipping into the waist of my panties. I gasped. He didn’t respond to my question. Instead, he reached around me with his other hand and turned off the stove.

Drew melted my butter.

He melted it standing, sitting, crouching, leaning, reading, smiling, hugging, laughing, frowning, writing, changing a light bulb, milking a cow—basically, if it was a verb and he was doing it, my butter was melting.

I rediscovered this fact over the thirty-six hours after our big talk, while we were stuck in his house on the top of the mountain, not that he milked any cows. Yet.

I also rediscovered that he was a man of his word. When he’d told me on the porch that he wasn’t going to let me go, he’d meant those words quite literally. I don’t think he’d gone five minutes without grabbing, fondling, cuddling, kissing—basically, if it was a verb that involved touching, he was doing it.

I was still holding the spatula when, after several minutes of his clever attentions, I lost my mind. I lost it standing in front of his combination range and oven. Unthinkingly, as I came apart in his hands, I reached behind my head to grab on to him and nearly fly-swatted his face with the spatula. He deftly ducked my inadvertent attack, and I felt his chest rumble with a laugh.

My head fell back against his shoulder and I loitered in this position as I tried to normalize my breathing. He removed his fingers from my panties and rubbed his big palms from my thighs to my waist and back again in a soothing, sensual ellipse.

“You can do that anytime,” I said on a faltering exhale, staring at his ceiling.

“I will.” Drew paired this evocative, growly declaration with an earlobe bite.

I’d never looked at his ceiling before. It was covered in decorative copper tiles, at least they looked like copper. In that post-orgasm mind-randomness, I found myself fixating on the ceiling.

“Drew, can I ask you a weird question?”

He nodded, turned his lips to my temple, and gave me a kiss.

“How did you manage to buy this house? Or, I guess, how did it come into your possession? Aren’t all these places deeded such that you have to sell to the US government?”

His hands ceased their rhythmic assault and I felt him smile against my cheek. “This place belonged to my mother. It’s been in her family for generations. My sister lived here for a time, but it was pretty well neglected when I took it off my father’s hands.”

I nodded, still looking at the ceiling. Many of the tiles were beginning to oxidize from orange to turquoise; the effect was stunning.

“And it’s yours now?”

He nodded. “Yes. It’s mine now.”

I smiled. I liked that this was his mother’s house and now he was living in it, that he’d restored it. I took a deep breath, straightened from his shoulder, and turned to face him.