Given the way his eyes burned with annoyance when I'd interrupted him earlier in the cafeteria, and everything I knew about Cletus as a covert conniver, I figured he didn't much appreciate being at a disadvantage. This was a man who preferred to be in complete control.
For as long as I’d been watching, Cletus controlled how the world perceived him, wearing the mask of a bumbling simpleton at times, or the affable auto mechanic, or the harmless banjo-playing hermit. And he was always in control of himself, never losing his temper, never displaying anything but premeditated emotion.
Control was his comfort zone.
I needed to adapt to his comfort zone, otherwise he wouldn't help me. Sure, he might fake it for a while, but it wouldn’t be real.
I stepped forward, closing the distance between us until I hovered just three feet away. At this distance I had to angle my chin. I was in heels, but he was still tall.
“Cletus.”
I swallowed as the full weight and intensity of his chaotically handsome gaze rested on mine. Gathering my courage close, because—honestly, he still frightened me—I prepared to risk what was left of my pride and hand over control.
"So," I started, licking my lips because they were dry, "so, you will help me, right?"
Cletus frowned, his eyes sharpening, analyzing me. He'd done this in the car, once he realized I could see through the sweet, innocuous routine. He’d been openly examining me since. Perhaps Cletus figured he didn't have to obscure himself behind a mask; there was no point because I saw him clearly, so he held nothing back.
All his brutal cleverness was on display and it made meeting his eyes—then and now—extremely difficult. I felt like I was being dissected.
He inhaled slowly and I got the sense he wanted to say no. In fact, my heart was already on its way to my feet, when he said, "Tell me about yourself."
I blinked. "Pardon?"
"Tell me about yourself. What do you do, other than bake and wear costumes?"
My hands pressed against my stomach self-consciously and I peered down at my dress. "You think I look like I'm in a costume?"
"Aren't you?"
He was right . . . of course. It was a costume. But I had a hard time admitting the truth out loud.
"The makeup, the hair, those fuzzy caterpillars on your eyelids. You dress like a stage performer all the time. Is this something you enjoy?"
"No," I answered immediately. "No. It's not. But I don't see what this has to do with—"
"With finding you a husband who is going to give you babies?"
"Well, yes. What does how I dress—"
"Everything. Because who you represent yourself to be on the outside, what people see, forms their first impression of you. For marriageable men who like women, this means you'll immediately fall into one of three categories: marriage potential, one-time amorous congress, or forgettable."
I grimaced. "So, you're saying I'm forgettable." Of course he would. He’d never noticed me.
He chuckled, and I couldn’t help but enjoy the way it brightened and softened his eyes. "No, Jenn. You're not forgettable. But being a caricature doesn't make you very accessible either. A woman usually needs to be accessible in order to fall into the marriage category."
I tried to hide my delighted surprise at Cletus calling me Jenn instead of Jennifer, and instead attempted to focus on his disconcerting evaluation of my category. "So that just leaves—"
"That's right." He nodded solemnly, reminding me of my grandfather Sylvester, or Judge Payton. "Most men—especially young men—are simple creatures. But the good news is, men can and do change their minds.”
"This is a distressing conversation." I rubbed my forehead, feeling a little nauseous.
"Am I alarming your delicate sensibilities?"
"No. It's not that. I just feel sorry for men now. It must be frustrating to be so feeble and limited."
Cletus's eyes widened dramatically just before he barked a laugh. "Feeble and limited? Is that how you would describe men?"
"No. But apparently that's how you would describe them."
The side of his mouth hitched in what was clearly a distracted and reluctant smile, his gaze losing a bit more of its hard edge. “As I was saying, women move between the three categories all the time. Attiring yourself thus,” he waved his hand over my dress, “may encourage folks to think of you as crazy, and if a woman is crazy, then she might move from bandicooting to the forget category.”
“Bandicooting? Isn’t bandicoot a type of potato?”
“Yes. But as a verb, it’s also a euphemism for sexual congress.”
“I like to do that, where you can just add an I N G to something and decide it’s a verb.” I grinned, clearly forgetting to whom I was speaking. But this was one of my favorite things to do in letters to my pen pals and I’d never discussed it with anyone before.