“Yes. I hope that’s—”
“Sourdough is my favorite. And what’s this?” Cletus turned to the table and inspected the dessert boxes.
“That one is butternut squash pie.”
He stiffened, his eyes darting between the box and me. “I’ve never heard of that, but it sounds delicious.”
“I don’t actually know. It’s something new I tried, just today, with what I had on hand.”
“What’s in it? Other than butternut squash.”
“Uh, sweet potatoes, eggs, nutmeg—”
“Stop right there. You had me at nutmeg. I accept your pie. And what’s that?” Cletus gathered the pie and indicated with his chin to the largest box.
“Oh that. Well, it’s compassion cake. At least, that’s what I call it.”
Cletus was silent for a beat, his expression inscrutable, his eyes dimming just a touch. “Compassion, huh?” he asked softly, his gaze clouding with grief.
“Uh, I just thought, well, you know. You might be having a hard time of it.”
“You baked me a cake for the anniversary of my mother’s death,” he guessed, his voice so achingly gentle I felt like crying.
“Yes. I did.” I lifted my chin, owning my actions, and resolved not to cry like a crazy person. “It’s a dark chocolate cake with dark chocolate coconut meringue frosting.”
“Dark chocolate with dark chocolate coconut meringue frosting? That sounds very dark.” The side of his mouth hitched, just a little, but his eyes still held sorrow.
“It is. Today is a sad day. Your momma was the sweetest lady and I just wanted to . . .” I shuffled a step forward, overcome by the urge to hug him, hug someone associated with Bethany Winston. But instead I stuffed my hands into my jeans pockets and shrugged. “I just wanted to say I’m—”
“Oh, hey. Jennifer. What are you doing here?” Beau Winston appeared behind Cletus, opening the door wider and giving me a cheerful, welcoming grin.
Now, Beau Winston was a looker. And he knew it. His hair and beard were red, neatly trimmed and expertly styled; his eyes were sky blue and utterly devastating, and his grin was legendary. He was extremely friendly and easy-going. Half the ladies within five years of my age were in love with him. The other half just wanted to do naughty things to him.
I never made the blunder of mistaking his friendliness for interest. But many women did, and were subsequently forced to nurse dashed hopes and broken hearts.
Cletus answered for me. “Bringing us sad cake, apparently.”
“It won’t make you sad,” I explained, “it’ll make you nostalgic. That’s how I made it. It’s a nostalgia cake.”
“Nostalgia sounds nice.” Beau’s eyes twinkled; the effect paired with his tender smile made me a little fuzzy headed. But then a hint of devilry entered his gaze as he glanced between Cletus and me. “Anyway, you want to come inside? Cletus made dinner tonight. I’m sure he’d love to slide you his sausage.”
“I made sausage.” Cletus stepped in front of Beau. “That’s what Beau means. My sausage was for dinner and people ate it.”
“Yes.” Beau stepped forward again, bumping Cletus with his shoulder, adding with a smirk, “Cletus’s famous sausage is famous.”
Cletus’s eyes cut to the side and he glared at his younger brother. “You are exceedingly irksome.”
I shook my head, taking a step back and tossing my thumb over my shoulder. “No thanks. I don’t want to impose. My car is still running.”
“I turned it off.” This statement came from behind me.
I twisted at the waist and found Billy Winston walking up the porch steps. My heart jumped to my throat and I stumbled back a step.
Oh no!
I pressed my lips together and stared at him, because that’s all I could do without making an idiot of myself.
Don’t say anything. Don’t speak. Don’t even breathe.
He held out my keys and his handsome mouth curved in a slight, quizzical smile. “You left your driver’s side door open.”
“Planning to make a quick getaway?” Beau asked with a laugh.
I glanced dumbly between Billy and my keys. I stared for so long Billy’s smile morphed into a confused frown.
“Take your keys,” Cletus said sharply.
So I did. I snatched my keys from Billy’s hand and lowered my eyes to the porch. Good Lord, this was the worst.
A moment of excruciatingly uncomfortable silence passed, during which I stared at my tennis shoes. I felt Cletus’s eyes on me, burning into the side of my face.
“Well,” I croaked, “enjoy your sad cake.” I grimaced, shaking my head and covering my eyes with a hand. “I mean, don’t enjoy it. Just, eat it. Or don’t eat it. It goes well with milk.”
Another suffocating moment passed and I wanted to die. Instead, I turned awkwardly toward the steps and muttered, “I’ll just be going now.”
“No, wait,” Cletus said.