“It’s called ‘verbing.’” Cletus turned his head a touch to the side and narrowed his eyes. “What are some of your favorites?”
“Um, let’s see . . .” I moved my attention to the darkness over his shoulder, thinking about the last letter I wrote. “‘Truthing’ is a good one. I define it as trying to make something true, even when it’s not, or when it’s only true to you. Or ‘capering’ as an alternative to adventuring. It’s a subtle difference, but I like the feel of it.”
I brought my smile back to Cletus and found him watching me with a peculiar look. My grin waned as we studied each other and I braced myself for whatever that peculiar look meant.
Unable to withstand his inscrutable expression, I pressed, “What? What’s wrong?”
“I'm not going to harm you,” he said matter-of-factly, as though harming me had been on the table, but now not harming me was something he'd just decided.
I felt my eyebrows lift high on my forehead.
“Oh?” I croaked, a shiver of fear racing down my spine. "Well, that's nice of you."
Cletus's slight smile was warm, truly disarming, and didn't look practiced or measured. It ignited a blossoming warmth in my chest despite his most recent statement, and that confused the ever-living heck out of me.
“You mistake my meaning. I’ll acknowledge, harm wasn’t the best word choice. I would never do you physical harm, and I’m saddened that we live in a society where I have to explicitly state that. You must know, my father . . .” His words trailed off and he blinked, his eyebrows pulling together.
Meanwhile, I held my breath. I was shocked Cletus brought up his father. Everyone in town knew Darrell Winston—ne'er–do–well and father of the Winston brood—used to beat his wife and kids. My momma gossiped about it to her friends in hushed tones. Growing up, I’d eavesdropped on more than one conversation about the topic.
“Well, anyway.” He shook his head as though to derail his current train of thought, grimaced, then continued. “All I’m saying is, I won’t harm you, physical or otherwise. But as you observed last Sunday, I’m the vengeful sort. Any person endeavoring to blackmail me typically wouldn’t emerge from the attempt unscathed.”
He paused, his eyes no longer sharp as they moved over my face, yet his gaze felt no less unsettling.
“But, you will. You will emerge unscathed.” Cletus’s voice was quietly contemplative as he finally finished his thought. “You surprise me, and I am not accustomed to being surprised.”
I held very still beneath his steady perusal, though my pulse raced tellingly between my ears. I understood that he’d meant the words to be calming, but they had the opposite effect.
Cletus Winston didn’t bluff. He didn’t exaggerate. He was quietly methodical, with stony focus and drive. He was dangerous. And, apparently, by some random unknown magic, I’d just managed to escape a future reckoning.
Thank. God.
“But back to the task at hand,” he said suddenly, making me jump, now all business. If he noticed my reaction, he made no sign, instead plowing ahead with his thoughts. “You want me to help you find a husband. I maintain helping you with this endeavor is impossible unless you become your true self, and that means something other than the Banana Cake Queen, and all the yellow that entails. Consequently, here is your first homework assignment: make a list of things you like to do."
“Homework?” I repeated dumbly.
Cletus nodded once and then turned.
Unthinkingly, I grabbed hold of his arm and held him in place. “Wait, what? Make a list of things I like to do?”
“That's right. And we'll have to schedule a time to meet once a week for lessons.”
“Lessons?” I reared back.
“Yes. Lessons. You need lessons.”
“What kind of lessons?”
“How to be Jennifer Sylvester lessons.”
What?
I lifted my chin. “I know how to be myself.”
“No, you don't.” He covered my hand with his and pried it from his arm, letting it drop.
“That’s ridicu—”
“Fridays are obviously out of the question, and I'd prefer a weeknight over a weekend. In a pinch we could meet during the day on Sunday. What days do you have off from the bakery?”
I gaped, blindsided by the direction of this conversation, and therefore could only answer his question with plain honestly. “I don't have a day off.”
“What? What do you mean you don't have a day off?”
“Just that. I start baking at three AM most mornings, and then if I don't have any special orders, I go home and sleep for a while. But I usually have special orders. And then we have parties most Fridays and Saturdays in the city.”
“You mean Knoxville?”
“Yes, or Nashville.”
“Why do you have to be there? Doesn't your momma have staff who can help?”
“Well, yes. But she likes me to—”
“Never mind. Don’t answer that.” He waved away my response, frowning again, looking and sounding dreadfully grumpy. “If you don’t have a day off, which day is slowest? When do you usually have a little free time?”