So when Jethro handed me over I couldn’t help but snuggle against Cletus, tuck my forehead into the curve of his neck and breathe him in. This man belonged to me. He was mine. And I enjoyed every minute of the journey upstairs, especially because what would come after, what I had planned, might lead to less touching. I dreaded the aftermath, but I had to be strong.
Best to make the most of touching now, while I had the chance.
At the top of the stairs, instead of turning toward Ashley’s room, he moved in the opposite direction, swiftly carrying me to and through an alternate door. Cletus’s room. Before I could voice my objection, we were inside and I was distracted by being in his space. Everything was tidy and in its place, but traces of him were everywhere.
My attention caught on a chess board by the closet; it appeared to have been left in the middle of a match.
“I didn’t know you played chess.” I spotted two series of moves the black side could initiate to put white into checkmate.
He nodded absentmindedly, placing me gently on his bed and lifting the pillow against the headboard and encouraging me to rest against it. “Is that okay? Do you need another pillow? Are you thirsty? Do you need water? Or something else? What about tea? I know you like tea.” He turned from the bed and walked to his closet.
“Cletus, I don’t need anything. But I think we should . . .” I didn’t finish my sentence. I couldn’t. Because I was too confused.
Cletus began pulling gifts from the closet. Gift after gift. All wrapped in different wrapping paper with ornate bows. I gaped at him, at the never-ending pile of gifts. When he’d placed at least fifteen on the bed and the floor at my side, I finally came to my senses.
“What is all this? What are you doing?”
“They’re your birthday presents.” He placed two more on my lap.
“What?”
“Your birthday presents. I missed your birthday, so here you go.”
“Cletus, what are you talking about? You didn’t want to know me last year, why would you have bought me a present?”
He paused on his return trip to the closet and faced me, placing his hands on his hips and sounding intensely frustrated. “I should have. I should have wanted to know you, not just last year, but all your life. I’ve missed all your birthdays, and I’m sorry. I was wrong, to miss your birthday twenty-two times, so here are your presents.”
I stared at him. Actually, I gawked at him, dumbfounded. My beautiful man looked so tormented, and I could see he’d spent the last half day beating himself up.
When he’d texted me earlier that he was wrong, he’d meant it. He believed it. And I believed him.
Cletus turned, walked to the closet, and retrieved another three wrapped boxes, his expression drawn with grief and ripe with self-recrimination.
Before he could turn again, I caught his arm. “Wait. Wait a minute. Just, stop. Stop bringing me presents, you sweet, terrible, infuriating, hilarious, clever man.” I was laughing by the time I finished speaking and was pleased to see some of his misery replaced with a weary smile.
“I’m sorry,” he said, gazing at me with his sad gray eyes, his voice a gravelly whisper. “I’m so sorry. You were right. I didn’t trust you.”
I switched my hold on his hand so our fingers were entwined. “Thank you. Thank you for apologizing.”
Cletus released an audible breath and moved to sit next to me, but his way was blocked by the plethora of wrapped boxes. He frowned at them. Using his free hand, he swept them from the bed.
“None of these are breakable,” he mumbled, claiming his spot and pulling me into a tight hug.
We hugged. And it was perfection. His body, his embrace was where I wanted to be always.
I hoped—in the future, whenever we fought—we’d always end our arguments with a hug.
After a time, but only because I was still holding my damn horses and they were growing restless, I pulled away, immediately missing his strong arms. “There are things we need to discuss.”
“I agree.” He shifted on the bed such that his back was also against the pillow and I was tucked under his arm. He kissed my neck, lingering there as though he was reluctant to leave my skin. “I have a lot I need to tell you.”
I paused, frowning, because his tone sounded ominous. “Wait, there’s more?”
He nodded, straightening. “Not about your father. I blackmailed him, this is true. But I didn’t do anything else to him. You already know about the Jackson James leprosy plan—which is on hold, as promised—as well, I have a few other irons in the fire. Let’s see—”
“Wait. Stop. Stop right there.”
“What?”
I twisted so I could look into his clever eyes. “Cletus, you’re an adult. You don’t need to confess a single thing to me unless it’s something done on my behalf, or for my theoretical benefit. I trusted you and I still do. I’m not your confessor. I cannot absolve you. You have to take responsibility for your own actions and their ramifications, just like I do. Just like everybody does.”
He frowned, looking nonplussed, but then eventually nodded.
Quickly, I added, “Now, if you want to talk about your day, or your leprosy plans, or whatever, I’m here for you. Just like I hope you’re here for me when I want to talk about my day.”