Beauty and the Mustache by Penny Reid Read Free Book Online

felt
necessary to my survival. If I wasn’t asleep, knitting, or working,
I was reading. This was for several reasons, all of them focused
around the infinitely superior and enviable lives of fictional
heroines to real-life people.
    Take romance for instance.
Fictional women in romance novels never get their period. They
never have morning breath. They orgasm seventeen times a day. And
they never seem to have jobs with bosses.
    These clean,
well-satisfied, perma-minty-breathed women have fulfilling careers
as florists, bakery owners, hair stylists, or some other kind of
adorable small business where they decorate all day. If they do
have a boss, he’s a cool guy (or gal) who’s invested in the woman’s
love life. Or, he’s a super hot billionaire trying to get in her
pants.
    My boss cares about two
things: Am I on time? Are all my patients alive and well at the end
of my shift?
    And the men in romance
novels are too good to be true; but I love it, and I love them.
Enter stage right the independently wealthy venture capitalist
suffering from the ennui of perfection until a plucky interior
decorator enters stage left and shakes up his life and his heart
with perky catch phrases and a cute nose that wrinkles when she
sneezes.
    I suck at decorating. The
walls of my apartment are bare. I am allergic to most store-bought
flowers. If I owned a bakery, I’d be broke and weigh seven hundred
pounds, because I love cake.
    I thought longingly of my
eReader upstairs in my room. I hadn’t read since the day before
yesterday, and that was on the plane.
    What I needed to do was face my brood of
brothers and figure out next steps.
    What I wanted to do was
hide in my room with my latest novel and escape into a world
without bearded, masturbating hillbillies, and a world where my
beloved mother wasn’t dying.
    In the end, I surrendered
to reality and made my way to the kitchen in search of coffee. I
hoped at least one or two of them would be up. I hoped maybe I
might persuade the others to have a family meeting sometime in the
afternoon.
    However, the scene that
greeted me in the kitchen was surprising. Heck, it was downright
baffling.
    Roscoe, my youngest
brother, was standing at our old gas stove making omelets. He was
showered and dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and tennis shoes, all of
which appeared to be in good order. I hadn’t really noticed much
last night after my fainting spell, but now I saw that Roscoe wore
his brown beard trimmed close to his face, the hair on his head cut
short and stylish. In fact, it looked as if his hair had product in it.
    Bizarre.
    I rubbed my forehead, half
wondering if I was still asleep. The entire picture in the kitchen
was completely bizarre. My brothers were up at 7:30 a.m. They all
appeared to be dressed for work— work! —and were interacting like mild
mannered, well-adjusted, productive members of society. I was so
confused.
    Tangentially I noted that
the roosters were at it again in the backyard, several of them
crowing like the devil. I was beginning to get used to the sound;
it was becoming the background music to the soundtrack of
Tennessee.
    Roscoe glanced over his
shoulder and gave me a tight smile. It looked sad. “Hey, Ash. How
you holding up? Want an omelet?”
    I nodded, staring at him
for another full ten seconds. “Yes. Yes, please. That would be
great.”
    “ You want toast too?”
Cletus asked. “I can make you some toast.” He was dressed in blue
Dickies, which were worn but clean, and had a patch with his name
sewn on the left pocket of his work jumpsuit.
    “ That would be great.
Thanks, Cletus.”
    “ She likes butter and
strawberry jam, right Ash?” Billy, standing next to Cletus—wearing
black suit, white shirt, and black tie—indicated to me with his
coffee cup, his expression detached.
    My eyebrows lifted at
Billy’s remembrance of my toast preferences as well as the fact
that he was wearing a suit. “That’s right.”
    Billy muttered something
under his