Beard Science (Winston Brothers, #3)

by Penny Reid

I preferred to focus on one cake. Each and every cake had its own personality. If you ignored a cake’s personality the cake would ignore you. It’ll be a rude, boring cake.

Regardless, maniacal intelligence and scruffy misdirection notwithstanding, Cletus Winston was remarkably attractive.

No one person should be allowed to be that pathologically intelligent and oppressively handsome.

“The transmission is only part of the bill. We’ll give you a deal on the transmission, Mr. Stokes. See here? Your muffler needs new bearings. And your tread fluid is running dangerously low, not to mention the undercarriage spark plugs and crank chortle.”

I don’t like to judge people. I love it.

My first impressions were always correct. This was because I employed a very scientific approach to forming impressions and was born with infallible logic. I allot ten minutes. If I didn’t have ten minutes, I’d put off forming an impression until such a window of time was available. I never deviated from the ten-minute rule. I once put off forming an opinion about our new pastor for six months because I hadn’t found the ten minutes required.

“You’ll know one day, Cletus. You’ll discover what it’s like to find the other part of yourself. You’ll know it’s her, only her, always her. Maybe not right away, but eventually you’ll know. She’ll be your beginning, middle, and end. And your intentions won’t matter. Love brings its own intentions, and all other plans, hopes, and dreams fade to insignificance in the face of love.”

For marriageable men who like women, this means you'll immediately fall into one of three categories: marriage potential, one-time amorous congress, or forgettable."

“Bandicooting? Isn’t bandicoot a type of potato?” “Yes. But as a verb, it’s also a euphemism for sexual congress.”

Clearly she was waving her obloquious flag.” “What does obloquious mean?” “It means she’s a hateful bitch.”

He also smelled like a profligate, cologne, and unrequited infatuation.

You know what momma used to say: if you don't want someone to get your goat, don't let them know where it's tied.”

Bullshit was the adult version of Santa Claus. For reasons I’ll never comprehend, the general population seemed to enjoy wallowing, spouting, and believing in bullshit.

“So Jennifer is going to let you put your sausage in her pie.”

Despite all the eyes leveled on my person, I managed to sound completely reasonable and calm as I said, “It’s the banana. The banana in my cake makes it wet.”