The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (carter reed TXT) 📗

shaking it out and starting over several times. I couldn't get it right but that was due to the fact I was busy studying the knickknacks and photos on Linden's bookshelves. And the books, of course. Allllll the books.

I couldn't get the twist right but I knew Linden's family was adorable, his beautiful sister was recently married, and he was a massive Lord of the Rings fan. Massive didn't even cut it.

I'd lost track of all the different editions he had of the same books. Hardcover, paperback, movie tie-in covers, specialty covers, illustrated, annotated, translated.

When I refocused on the wall beside the bookshelves, I realized the quartet of framed watercolors weren't random landscapes but scenes from the books. This guy adored Lord of the Rings and it was a revelation because he seemed like the type of person who made a point of not going hog wild over anything. He had interests, sure, but nothing bordering on fanaticism.

I tore off his note and grabbed the pen he'd left nearby.

Linden,

Nothing about you is small but yet you choose to live in this cozy bungalow. Are you secretly living out a Hobbit fantasy? Is this your Shire, Bilbo Baggins?

As for your commentary on my pies, I'm concerned you don't know much about baked goods. The cupcakes in your fridge will change your mind.

How's your sister?

Thanks for the water.

~J

Jasper.

Those were not cupcakes. They weren't cake of any kind. Are you using some kind of WWII-era cookbook where the ordinary ingredients are replaced with the things they didn't need to ration? Or is it a dietary thing? Is this stuff gluten-free? Or vegan? That frosting had the disappointing flavor of carob.

Not sure if I've mentioned this enough but you don't have to bake anything. I would appreciate fewer treats to choke down.

It should come as no surprise I enjoy putting big things in small, tight places. If I wanted a Hobbit fantasy, I would've installed a round door. Good catch though.

My sister is pregnant with twins and happily miserable about it. Apparently she misses beer, not that I remember her drinking much of it before the pregnancy.

I have residential appointments in town all day. I'll head out around nine or nine thirty at the latest, and be back around five.

–L

Linden,

Pregnant with twins allows her to be happily miserable. Is this your first time around as an uncle?

Is it possible you don't have a taste for sweets? Could that be it? Because everything I bake cannot be dreadful. While you have said the baked goods aren't strictly necessary, I am honor bound to recognize your hospitality. You'll have to put up with the molasses cookies I've made for you today.

Also, please don't feel obligated to give me your hours. If I don't see your truck in the drive during the workday, I'll assume you're out for a bit.

I am curious, however, about your thinly veiled commentary about big things in small places. Seems like an intentional choice, no? Is there something specific you're getting at?

~ J

Jasper.

Did I hear you running a saw this morning? What are you building now?

The cookies had no sugar in them. Not a single grain. Can you tell me if this is an alternative lifestyle thing? Are you still cooking everything in a crockpot? Because that's not helping matters.

Is there a way for you to work out your honor without leaving "treats" in my refrigerator every day? It's really starting to remind me of the birds and mice Sinatra leaves at the door whenever he's around. Thank you but please make it stop.

I'm going to keep telling you my schedule because it forces me to figure out where I'm going before I hit the road in the morning. You shouldn't have to keep watch. I'll be out from ten to six tomorrow.

Last thing—you know what I'm getting at. You know you're living rent-free in my head too. Enjoy that shower. –L

Linden,

Yep, that was a saw! I'm tackling the porch now. It was getting on my nerves and I needed a break from painting.

Here's the thing: you don't like the birds I murder for you—or treats, as I call them—but I'm using your shower and laundry and I need to drag something dead to your door as a show of my appreciation.

Should I chop your wood instead?

While you mull that over, enjoy some authentic homemade southern biscuits.

Also, the crockpot is not up for conversation. Please accept that it's an important part of my life.

Why do I get the impression you'd wander in the woods all day if you didn't check that schedule in the morning?

~J

Jasper.

Three things.

1. Don't even think about chopping wood. I've seen the way you wield a crowbar. An axe is out of the question.

2. The biscuits weren't terrible. They were burnt on the bottom and undercooked in the middle but they weren't terrible. I'm not sure if I've grown accustomed to your baking and anything edible seems like a blue-ribbon biscuit or these are somewhat good.

3. Why isn't your husband rebuilding that deck for you?

–L

Linden,

Because he lives in Northern Ireland with his fiancée.

~J

Jasper.

Why the hell is he in Northern Ireland?

–L

Linden,

My husband moved because his boss was appointed Special Envoy to Northern Ireland. It's a plum gig and being asked to join a new envoy as chief of staff is an offer you don't refuse.

I stayed because my work is here. More than that, there was no reason for me to join him. There's nothing for me there.

~J

Jasper.

None of this makes sense. I'll be home around three or four today. You can explain it to me then. Stay away from that axe.

–L

9

Linden

"You're emotionally constipated."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, my fingers pressing hard against my skin as I traced the notches and grooves of my brow. My eyes squeezed shut, I heaved out the kind of thorny, painful breath one could only gather when your mother made bananapants comments