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

"I'll survive."

Because his presence, even as he gazed out the window with his back mostly turned away from me, was more reassuring than it was awkward, I replied, "Then I can survive too."

11

Linden

I couldn't explain why I took Jasper into the woods with me again.

I couldn't explain why I rearranged my plans for the day to escort her to the attorney's office either but I'd made up my mind last night.

All I knew was I couldn't drive her home after watching her sign those papers and leave her there. I couldn't let her retreat into that hard shell constructed of I can do it myself and contempt. It wasn't like I could go inside with her. I'd have her freshly freed ass bent over the nearest surface, those prim trousers around her knees, and my cock laying claim to her before the door closed behind us.

All that sounded outstanding but Jasper still looked like a deer in the headlights. I didn't know much about divorce or the realization your job was eating your soul, but I knew none of that was the right starting point for what I wanted with her. It wasn't tender or polite, or even considerate. I wanted to fuck her so thoroughly she forgot how to argue and then curled up beside me, sweet and sated.

Aside from the vibe being off, it didn't seem right. I knew Jasper could make decisions for herself but there was something wrong about making advances on a woman when she was climbing out of quicksand. Even if she said yes—and her body seemed to say yes—I didn't want it to be that way between us.

I could wait until the shadows were out of her eyes, until she slowed down long enough to catch her breath. Until she stopped running on adrenaline and crockpot biscuits. Until the forest air filled her lungs and the worst of this trouble was behind her. I could wait.

When Jasper emerged from the house in athletic gear, I motioned to a narrow split in the woods at the far edge of my property, saying, "There's a small trail. We'll start there."

She slipped her hands into the pockets of her zip-up jacket, and I was once again an idiot for putting her in such form-fitting clothing. Anything—even if it held me on the razor's edge of arousal all day—improved on the pantsuit that seemed to swallow her up and spit her out in some robotic, empty-eyed version of herself.

"This makes for a quick commute." She glanced up at the shock of orange, red, and yellow leaves on the maple branches. "I always liked this time of year. So pretty."

I slapped a hand to the trunk of the old tree. "It's good to see these maples holding on to their leaves this long. Too many of them are turning in early September and are fully bare by now."

"That's not how it should be?"

Her hair was looped in some kind of bun and her eyes seemed big and owlish today, as if she'd never really stopped to look at autumn leaves and couldn't believe what she was seeing. Perhaps she hadn't stopped to look in a terribly long time.

"No. Early aging and death in leaves is a product of tree stress. Drought, disease, extreme weather—those are the big factors."

"Okay but we still like it when the leaves change colors, right? Just not at the wrong times?"

"Yes. Fall foliage is the result of chlorophyll—the compound that makes plant life green—breaking down when the summer growing season slows and the sun is positioned farther away from the earth. Less daylight and cooler air temperature signal the start of autumn which then kicks off a chemical response and, in some trees, pigments are released which drive the changes in colors."

She regarded me with an odd smile. "That was such a scientific answer."

"Were you expecting something else?"

Jasper continued down the trail without responding which was fine since it gave me time to study her without her watching while I did it.

I wanted to solve all of her problems for her. More than once, I'd picked up the phone to call the plumber who'd overhauled my system and get him working on Jasper's house as soon as possible. There was one time when I'd almost called my sister in for backup. As a landscape architect specializing in historic homes, Magnolia worked with contractors and designers accustomed to wonky old houses. She'd have the situation in hand before we hung up. I didn't care if I had to foot the bill, I just wanted this resolved.

I held back every time. It was one thing to insert myself into small, inconsequential matters such as the basement boxes, but hiring a plumber was another. There weren't enough crockpot biscuits in the world and Jasper would probably launch them at my head for interfering in such an unwelcome manner.

I couldn't take the reins and do it for her any more than I could solve her career crises. She had to do this for herself, and as much as it pained me to sit by and watch, I knew she'd freeze me out if I took a few problems off her plate.

I didn't want her to freeze me out—though I could explain that no better than I could explain the inner workings of Jasper-Anne Cleary. That was to say I had some loose ideas but I was no authority on anything save for the trees around us.

"So, what's this?" she asked, pointing at an old cedar.

"That's a White American cedar. Between a hundred and twenty to a hundred and forty years old, if I had to guess."

She turned in the opposite direction, pointing blindly. "And that?"

"Shag bark hickory." I gestured to a great tree in the clearing ahead. "Chestnut oak. The species diversity is one of my favorite things about this area."

"What about all this stuff?" She motioned toward the forest floor. "What's this?"

I crossed toward her, taking her hand in mine and leading her