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

I couldn't stop the smile from tugging at the corners of my lips. "Perhaps it would serve you well to discard this nonsense topic in favor of one more mutually agreeable."

"You're so fucking cute."

I replied with a playful shrug and took a sip of the coffee he'd fixed for me.

"You're cute but I'm not letting you shrug your way out of this," he said. "I don't want to see you leaving the last of anything for me, you understand?"

I studied him for a second. His beard looked thicker than usual today, as if he'd let days pass between trims. I liked it. I liked him slightly overgrown, slightly wild. It suited him.

As uncomfortable as I found this conversation, a small, fragile piece of me also liked when he took charge. When he insisted. I didn't want to like it, I didn't want to feel seen and protected because he noticed me leaving the coffee—and the hot water—for him. I didn't want to be needy in this way. And that was why I pressed my hands to my eyes and let my shoulders fall, saying, "But I can't. Okay? I can't."

"That's tough shit, Jas, because you're going to have to. I'm not putting up with these pointless restrictions of yours anymore."

"You're letting me stay here. The least I can do is make sure you have a hot shower in the morning."

He reached across the table, pulled one hand away from my face. "Why do you think I can't handle a lukewarm shower? Or a cold one, for that matter."

"I know you can handle it," I replied. "But you'd be in there, grumbling and growling about how you could've had hot water if I hadn't used it all."

"Ignoring for a moment that I have a tankless water heater that can accommodate two long, hot showers without a problem, I don't give a single fuck if you use all the water. If you drink all the coffee, eat all the marmalade. I don't give an actual fuck. But I do give a fuck about you forbidding yourself from living here the way you should."

"But I don't want to be a problem or take up too much of your space. I know how protective you are and how you don't like anyone encroaching on you and—"

"Yeah, you're right. I have to be pretty damn sure about letting anyone in."

I couldn't determine whether we were having a small conversation about coffee and showers or a big conversation about the relationship that had sprouted in the space between my personal disasters and his preference for all things casual and detached. I didn't know what this was so I nodded like I understood and hoped that was the right answer.

"I don't hate you, you know," he continued. "I don't hate you one bit and I don't want you limiting your marmalade intake because of me. You're going to eat all the marmalade you want and you're not going to apologize for it, you hear me?"

"But it's the last jar of the clementine! And you like the clementine more than any of the others!"

"The only time I want you saving marmalade for me is when you want me licking it off your tits. Got it?" he asked, his voice raised.

"I will never ask you to do that because I hate my skin feeling sticky," I shouted back.

"That's good to know because I don't like mixing food and sex, and your tits don't need anything to make them more appealing to me."

"Okay, then why are we yelling?"

Linden rolled his eyes. "Because you think it's a crime to take up space even though I want you to take it. I want you to take as much of me as you want."

There were so many layers of discomfort for me in this conversation. I never wanted to admit to keeping myself small or tiptoeing around people. I never wanted to acknowledge that the confidence that entered a room ahead of me was paper thin and dependent upon situations where my role and power were clear. I never wanted to be weak, helpless, voiceless.

I took a sip of the coffee at the center of this debate. "Can we discuss my apple problems now?"

Linden stared at me with a broad grin that seemed slightly manic. "You're impossible."

"I've heard that a few times."

"Yeah? Ever in the context of someone trying to give you everything while you refuse to take hardly anything?"

"Perhaps not," I mused, taking on a lighter, more playful tone than this moment required. When Linden rolled his eyes again, I added, "I heard what you said. I understand. I appreciate it all—"

"Oh, Jesus, Jasper. Don't start appreciating me again. I know what follows your appreciation and it was hard enough the first time. I don't think I can handle another round of your baking."

"I won't bake ever again if we can drop this and talk about my apples."

Linden laced his fingers in mine. "Just as soon as you say you don't hate me."

A heavy moment passed as we stared at each other. Then, when the pressure of keeping those words inside—the ones that weren't the ones but just about close enough for it to matter—was too great to bear, I said, "I don't hate you. Not even a little."

"I know, Peach. I just like hearing you say it." He squeezed my hand, nodded, and continued, "You don't need to worry about the apples. I'll take care of them."

I didn't like the sound of that. "What does that involve? I'm sure I can handle it."

"As with most things, I have no doubt you can handle it. I'm saying you don't have to."

He smirked at me over the rim of his mug and I was absolutely certain I did not hate this man. Oh, I really, really did not hate him.

"Where do you get this coffee from? I've looked up the shop but every time I try to go there,