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

But then I went ahead and made it so much worse by saying, "I don't hate you either."

Linden stared at me, blinking hard. His hand tightened around the belt he'd used to lever himself up the tree. His other hand opened, closed in a fist, and then opened and closed again. "Now that we've cleared that up, maybe you could put some real energy into deciding what you want to do next. Not just work but what comes next in your life. And, I don't know, you might want to explore things that don't make you sound like you'd rather be stabbed by a hundred rusty steak knives."

"When did I sound like that?"

"When you were talking about the commentating gig. And again with the pharmaceutical sales."

I stared at the leaves on the ground around me. "I'd rather not do either of those things, even if I can."

Linden swung an arm over my shoulders and steered me down another nonexistent path. "Then don't, Jas. Sell the house if you have to, stay with me as long as you need, but don't keep doing things you hate."

I nodded, agreeing although I couldn't really agree to moving in with him. Even if I was sorta-kinda-maybe already there.

We were quiet as we walked, the weight of not hating each other lifting and falling down around us. Saying those words snapped the cord of tension we'd been twisting and winding for weeks—but it also broke all the vows of only temporary, just for now, just a fling.

Not hating a fling was serious business, or so I assumed, seeing as I didn't have many flings to my name and none in recent memory. But I knew I wasn't supposed to have not-hating feelings. Not when this place was only a detour for me.

This was a detour, right? This wasn't my destination.

I stopped, looked up at the bare branches, blinked hard at the sun. This wasn't where I was meant to be. It just wasn't.

"Okay there?" Linden asked.

"Yeah. Fine. Just thought I saw an owl."

"Not in the middle of the afternoon but maybe a hawk. A lot of those guys around here."

"Wait." I pressed a hand to his chest. "You never finished telling me why you're single, or why you've been single, and how that has anything to do with being a triplet."

He covered my hand with his. "I thought we'd moved on to more important topics."

"Like I said earlier, I spend enough time fixated on my problems. Let's talk about yours instead."

He laughed. "I don't have any problems."

"You're a thirty-six-year-old bachelor. Society would beg to differ." We started walking again, our hands clasped. "At least tell me about the triplet thing. I want to hear more about that."

"We grew up together, as you know, and we did everything together. We really did have our own tiny world—but then we finished high school and split up. It was a huge shock to the system. For the first time ever, I wasn't within an arm's reach of Ash and Magnolia."

"That must've been tough."

"It was weird," he replied. "It made me realize how much I prefer being alone and having things that belong only to me. They were still my best friends and I'd spend more time with them than anyone else, but not sharing everything with my siblings turned out to be very good for me. I don't mean that in a secretive way. It's like I learned to hear myself think for the first time and I couldn't go back to the way things used to be. Also, I think that split was good for them too. Ash stopped trying to herd us like cats, Magnolia stopped inventing things for us to do. We found things that interested us separately instead of everything being collaborative."

Out of absolutely nowhere, I said, "I don't have any siblings. A lot of cousins, but I wouldn't call any of them friends."

"Why not?"

"Lots of reasons." I didn't want to add to that. "You're all about solitude but you still dragged yourself next door and introduced yourself the minute I pulled into the driveway. Explain that."

"We've been over this."

"The attempted burglary, yes, but why did you keep inviting yourself over to the hot-mess house?"

"First of all, you invited yourself to my house after we met," he said. "But after that, I knew I'd be a suspect if you turned up dead. I had to keep tabs on you unless I wanted to be hauled in for questioning."

"Seriously," I chided.

"Seriously?" He scratched the back of his neck. "I couldn't sleep. Knowing you were all alone over there."

"But you like being alone. It's your thing."

He jerked his chin up as a deer, about twenty feet ahead, crossed our path. "This was different."

Since I couldn't cope with any more not-hating sentiments but I still wanted to press this bruise, I said, "Okay, you like being alone. How far does that reach? Have you sworn off relationships too?"

"It's been a couple of years since I've thought much about relationships. The casual thing works well enough for me."

"What happened a couple of years ago?"

"Nothing," he replied with too much conviction to ignore.

"Something."

He blew out an irritable breath. "I don't usually talk about this."

"I don't usually walk through the woods and I never wear pants and sneakers. Do you understand that? I'm a dress girl but I'm wearing leggings and ugly flat shoes because you told me to, and that requires you to return the favor by telling me all your gross, mushy secrets."

"I don't have gross or mushy secrets," he replied with a laugh.

"Then tell me about the thing you don't usually talk about."

Linden shot me a sidelong glance. "You talk so much. Do you know that? Like, nonstop."

"I do know that. Along with being exceptionally distracting when I want to be, I can talk the proverbial dog off the meat wagon. I can talk to walls and get them to respond to me. It's one