The Belle and the Beard by Kate Canterbary (good book club books .txt) 📕

"It's called a traffic circle. That's the name."

I shook my head. I wasn't arguing the New England dialect with a southerner this morning. "It took you an hour to exit?"

She lifted a shoulder. "Maybe not a full hour."

"But close enough?" When her only response was a blink, I continued, "And then what happened, Jasper?"

With a defiant shake of her head that was practiced only in its purity, she said, "I mean, I think I got the right ingredients. I haven't actually visited a grocery store in years. It's just so overwhelming without the list of items you usually buy right there in the app. Do I use bread flour or cake flour? I don't know. How am I supposed to know that? And all the different types of sugars, my word. How am I supposed to know the correct one for baking? Aren't most of them interchangeable? They didn't even have the brand of bread I prefer which was truly disappointing. All I can say is I really miss the stores where I used to shop."

"And where were those?"

Jasper turned a piercing glare toward me. "Mid-Atlantic."

"Right. The mid-Atlantic." I motioned for her to continue. "Then what happened? How did you commit this crime against bananas?"

"I had to bake it in the crockpot because the oven wasn't heating up but—"

"Let me stop you right there." I shook my head. "You baked it in a crockpot?"

"That's what I said."

"Crockpots aren't for baking."

"Crockpots are for everything," she replied. "Crockpots can cook anything and you're light on the imagination if you think otherwise."

I motioned to the loaf again. "That's a real nice argument but this begs to differ. You're sure about the flour? And the sugar? You're sure it wasn't spackle? I'm positive I tasted some spackle."

If my brother was here, he'd tell me I was being an ass.

He wouldn't be wrong.

She fisted her hands. "I was trying to thank you. It's a kind gesture, you know."

"Yeah, I caught that part. Just not sure if you're trying to kill me with your kindness."

Her cheeks were red now, almost comically so, and I swore I could hear her molars grinding together. I was really, really sick because I was enjoying the hell out of this.

"If I wanted to kill you, I wouldn't do it with kindness."

I leaned a hip against the counter. When I crossed my arms over my chest, my knuckles brushed the front of her jacket. "How would you do it, then?"

She glanced down at where the back of my hand lingered against the denim. "That shouldn't concern you."

"Why not?"

She dropped a hand on my chest, saying, "Because I've thanked you for your help and fulfilled all expectations of courtesy, and now I'll live happily knowing I've done my part. I'll also live happily if our paths never cross again. Help me out with that, would you?"

After another pat to my chest, Jasper spun away from me and marched straight out of my house, the front door banging shut behind her.

Jasper spent the next seven days making it impossible to ignore her.

I tried. I tried like hell, but the woman was everywhere. Pacing the yard and taking measurements of god only knew what. Leaving all the windows and curtains open, all the time, and the lights on too. Emptying the garage out onto the driveway and then, apparently, shoving it all back in there.

There was no avoiding Jasper.

Even when I tried my damnedest to pretend there wasn't a flamethrower of a woman next door, I couldn't ignore the hammering.

Hammering fucking everything. Everything. And I had no clue what she was pounding but she did it day and night for three days straight.

The real kicker was the curb. Without fail, every time I left in the morning or returned in the evening, Jasper was dragging something out to the curb. Trash bags—so many trash bags—boxes, wrecked furniture, rolled-up carpet, all kinds of shit.

I couldn't look away from it if I tried. I couldn't close my eyes and pray I managed to steer my truck into the driveway without incident. I had to go in with eyes wide-open and force myself to stare through Jasper.

As if that was even possible.

As if I hadn't formed a mental catalog of her dresses and high heels and the coordinating cardigans she wore as summer gave way to the crisp bite of autumn. As if I didn't growl at the sight of her, waves hanging loose over her shoulders. As if I didn't lie awake at night, wondering whether it was time to take this situation in hand.

Every time I spotted her in the yard or at the curb, there was a split second where I was finished playing by her rules. Just fucking finished.

That split second hit me as I drove down the street this afternoon and found Jasper lugging a huge, water-stained box out from the house. It was so big she disappeared behind it, leaving only her arms and legs visible.

The closer I came, the longer that second stretched. It continued on like a long thrum of hunger deep in my belly and it didn't stop when I pulled into my driveway.

I watched as she followed the comma curve of the walkway, moving with more grace than anyone who couldn't see ahead of them had any business. She almost made it too but that box was doomed. The bottom fell out in a sodden rush, leaving a heap of wet, damp-browned papers at her feet.

She kept her hands fixed on the sides of the box as she lowered it, her lips folded in a line that spoke of her intense displeasure. As if a box had any business failing her. Then she closed her eyes, turned her face to the sky, and let her shoulders drop. I was certain I could hear her sigh all the way over here.

Before I could stop myself, I was out of my truck and crossing into her yard.

Before I could stop myself, I was shouting, "Mind telling me