by Penny Reid
Wanting to head off pointed questions, I hastened to volunteer, “Six years later, here I am. Getting lost in Tennessee while trying to work on my next film script.”
“There are worse places you could get lost.” He paired this statement with a sly grin in my direction.
“Too true. Like Russia. I don’t think I’d like to be lost in Russia. Putin might think I’m a tiger and try to ride me around a mountain.”
“Or North Korea. That guy might mistake you for a doughnut.”
I wrinkled my nose at him. “You think I look like a doughnut?”
“No, but I do find myself wondering what you’d taste like.”
I gaped at Jethro—who was giving me another sly grin—before I threw my head back and laughed. “You are THE BEST. Gah!” I smacked his arm lightly, sneakily squeezing his bicep, while he chuckled along with me.
FYI, he had a really nice bicep. Really. Nice.
But rather than give in to my instinct to feel him up while he drove me to work, I reached for my coffee mug and held it on my lap, needing to employ my hands. “That was a great clandestine flirt attack. I feel like you could teach me so much.”
“About flirting?” He sounded doubtful. “I don’t think so.”
“Yes. Absolutely. You would make such a great character in a movie. You’re smooth and witty and gorgeous. In books everyone wants the hero to be broody. But in my movies—the kind of movies I write, romantic comedy stuff—they want the guy to be clever and charming. The ladies love watching that guy on screen. Think a bearded Ryan Reynolds.”
Jethro shook his head. “I don’t know who Ryan Reynolds is.”
I turned in the seat, again gaping, and sputtered at him. “What? How-what-who-what? How can you not know who Ryan Reynolds is?”
Rather than answering my very valid question, Jethro hit me with another sneak attack. “We can talk about this Ryan guy later. Instead, let’s get back to how I’m witty and gorgeous. Tell me about that.”
Laughing once more, because I couldn’t help it, I rested the side of my forehead on the headrest and stared at him again. “Oh, I think you know enough about that already.”
“I don’t. Really.” He was excellent at sounding innocent and coaxing, though he grinned like a devil.
“Do you own a mirror? Maybe start there.”
Now he laughed. He had a great laugh, rumbly and carefree. Contagious.
I loved this. Loved. This.
I’d forgotten what it was like to talk to a guy who had no idea who I was. Usually, if the guy wasn’t famous, he wanted to use me to get famous. I’d learned that lesson more than once.
And if the guy was already a celebrity, then everything became a competition. I had to deal with his FOMO (fear of missing out); missing out on someone more famous, more important, more relevant.
Even before my career success, I’d never hit it off so quickly with someone. I’d never met a guy and felt entirely at ease, like I didn’t have to carry the conversation, fill the silence with jokes, and constantly entertain. This was easy and fun.
He was easy and fun.
So, of course, I awkwardly thought and blurted at the same time, “I just love you so much.”
Not missing a beat, Jethro responded, “The feeling is mutual,” before I could feel too weird about my crazy admission.
But, despite his immediate assurance, I did feel weird about it. How could I not?
I turned away and faced the windshield, holding my coffee cup with a tight grip, my heart reaching a crescendo between my ears.
This was weird and I was weird. I wasn’t used to being weird. I was used to making other people feel comfortable and important. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out how to unweird myself.
Turns out, I didn’t need to.
“What did you decide?” Jethro asked, pulling to a stop at a flashing red light.
“What? What do you mean?” My eyes widened as I looked between him and our surroundings, worried he’d been speaking and I’d missed his original question.
He faced me, looking at me like I wasn’t at all weird, like he still wanted to taste me. “You’re sitting over there, having a conversation with yourself. I just wanted to know what you decided.”
I studied—i.e. stared—at him again, thinking this is a man who deserves to be stared at.
“I guess . . .” I debated how to respond, then settled on the truth. “I guess I decided I’m weird. I’ve spent maybe a half hour in your company and just told you I love you. That’s weird.”
He shrugged, again not missing a beat. “It’s not weird. I’m extremely loveable. Doughnut?”
I blinked. “Doughnut?”
He lifted his chin toward the road. “If we go right, we can grab a doughnut from Daisy’s place. They’re amazing. It’s about a half mile that way. But Cades Cove is to the left, so doughnuts would be a detour. Do you have time for a detour?”
“Oh, um . . .” I frowned, surprised by his rapid subject change and seriously considered grabbing a doughnut. “I’m already late,” I said, debating with myself out loud.
He flipped his blinker to the left, even though we were alone on the road, and took the turn for Cades Cove.
“Maybe another time.”
I nodded, my mind caught somewhere between a doughnut and my earlier declaration of love. “Yes. Another time.”
“How about tonight?” he asked, his tone conversational.
“Tonight? You want to get doughnuts tonight?”
“Yeah. I could pick you up from your film set and take you back to the lake house. Both are on my way.”
“Both Cades Cove and Hank’s cabin are on your way home?”
“Actually, no. Not really,” he admitted, a soft smile on his lips. “But it would save both of us some time if you’d just let me drive you, both at night and in the mornings. Then you wouldn’t get lost and be late. And I wouldn’t have to search all the roads and trails looking for you.”
I scoffed, noting self-deprecatingly, “Uh, no. I’m sure you have better things to do with your time than chauffeur me around.”
“I can’t think of a single thing more important than driving around a woman who loves me.”
I hid my face in my hands and shook my head harder. “Oh God. You’re not going to let that go, are you?”
He chuckled, clearly enjoying my embarrassment. “I’ll make you a deal. You let me drive you home tonight and pick you up tomorrow. If it’s troublesome for me or unpleasant for you, then we’ll call it off, no big deal. But if the arrangement suits us both, then . . .” he trailed off, allowing me to fill in the blanks.
I peeked at him through my fingers. “But what are you getting out of this arrangement? I mean,” I let my hands drop, “the benefit to me is obvious. But do you really want to saddle yourself with a directionally challenged, prematurely love-declaring weirdo for the next twelve weeks?”
He glanced at me, the same soft smile on his lips. But his eyes heated as they moved over my form, making my mouth dry. The earlier tummy flips now seemed like nothing in comparison to these more mature twistings and aches low in my belly.
Goodness, I adored how he looked at me.
Eventually, Jethro pulled his eyes back to the road and shrugged. When he spoke his voice was rougher than it had been the moment before. “I can’t think of anything I want to do more than take you for a ride twice a day.”
He glanced at me, making sure I caught his meaning.
I caught it. In fact, it hit me squarely between my legs.
And for once in my life I was too flustered and surprised and pleased to offer a retort. Because now I was thinking of going on Ranger Rides, and that thought made me hot all over.
I held his gaze, saying nothing, because there was nothing left to say, and we passed the rest of the short drive in tense silence. The good kind. The exciting kind. The I can’t wait for this day to be over so I can see you again kind.
Well played, Ranger Jethro.
<
br /> Well played.
CHAPTER 6
“If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard. Because if it isn't there, I never really lost it to begin with.”
― L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz
~Jethro~
I may have been grinning like a fool.
I may also have watched Sarah in my rearview mirror as I drove away. She’d stood still as though a statue, staring after me, one side of her mouth kicked up in an alluring, small smile.
When we’d first met, I’d been rusty as hell. But sweet-dirty talking to a woman was like riding a bike. Mind you, it was a bike I hadn’t even looked at in over five years. Of course, it helped that I’d been thinking about her all week. I’d carried on conversations in my head just in case I was lucky enough to see her again.
I wasn’t going out to Hank’s cabin, not after he’d been so cagey about her identity last week, so I’d been forced to bide my time. Praise the Lord for her crap sense of direction. I would see her this evening around 7:00 p.m., and tomorrow morning at 5:00 a.m. I figured that’d be plenty of time to work in an invitation to dinner.
I was still smiling as I pulled back into Cooper Road Trail and parked my truck down the slope from the ranger cabin. Gathering my things, I noticed Sarah had left her coffee mug in the cup holder. I tucked it in the mesh side pocket of my pack, so I could wash it before I picked her up this evening, then hiked up the side of the hill to the station.
Drew was already inside when I entered, sitting on the red and gold checked couch. He’d started a fire, as was his habit on chilly mornings, and didn’t look up as I entered. But he did ask, “What’s that you’re whistling?”
I stopped—stopped moving and stopped whistling—because I hadn’t realized I’d been whistling. I tried to think of the tune and came up empty on the song title. “I don’t know.”
Cletus appeared from someplace at my left and offered, “Sounds like that French song by that French lady. Something like Pilaf.”
“No, dummy. It’s Edith Piaf, not pilaf. Pilaf is rice.” Roscoe, my youngest brother, was sitting at the square table in the corner. He’d also escaped my notice at first. Clearly my head had been in the clouds. “And the song is ‘La Vie en rose.’” This last part Roscoe said like he knew how to speak French.
“Since when do you speak French?” Cletus narrowed his eyes on our youngest brother and sipped what smelled like both coffee and molasses from a blue and white enamel mug.
“What the hell are you drinking, Cletus?” He was close enough that I could lean forward and sniff the air around his cup.
“It’s coffee with blackstrap molasses and apple cider vinegar. You should try it. It’s good for your digestion.” Cletus lifted his cup toward me.
Behind him Roscoe cringed, cradling his coffee cup close to his chest as though protecting it.
“Cletus, you’re twenty-seven. I seriously doubt you’re having digestion problems.” I crossed to the basin sink toward the back and retrieved Sarah’s mug from my pack to rinse it.
“I’m not. My plumbing works just fine, thanks for asking. But one day I will. And on that day I’ll be prepared. Additionally, drinking this gives me something to discuss with senior citizens. They’re always talking about their digestion.”
“I have never heard any seniors talk about their digestion.” I didn’t roll my eyes, but I wanted to.
“That’s because you don’t play shuffleboard on Sundays. If you played shuffleboard on Sundays, you’d talk about your digestion and know all about everything going on in town and elsewhere.”
“I have no desire to know about everything going on in town and elsewhere.”
“One thing I don’t know is why you’re drinking coffee from a Hello Kitty thermos.” Cletus sounded both interested and irked. “And why haven’t you bought one for me? You know I like that Hello Kitty.”
“It’s not mine.” His comment had me studying the pink and more pink travel mug in my hands. He was right. It was a Hello Kitty mug. And I didn’t much want to explain whose it was, so I quickly changed the subject. “What’re you two doing here anyway?”
“Before we get into that, don’t forget our switched schedule starts this week. I’m cooking on Thursday, and you’re cooking on Friday.” Cletus was referring to our dinner rotation.
Each of us five men—six now Roscoe was back for summer break—cooked dinner once a week. We had an assigned night. Mine was usually Thursday, but I’d switched with Cletus because he had to get to the community center early on Fridays for the Jam Session now that it was summer.
Drew unfolded from the couch, drawing my attention to his towering form. “Regarding your question, Roscoe is with me for the next three months.”
I vaguely remembered Drew telling me something about this last month. It made sense, given Roscoe had been accepted to veterinary school, for my youngest brother to shadow Drew. As the game warden for these parts, Drew was federal law enforcement. All animals—human and non-human—within the national park were within his purview.
“And Cletus is here to help you.” Drew indicated to Cletus with his hat. “He volunteered.”
“Volunteered? What’s he helping with? Daniels and I can handle the soil science folks.” I glanced over my shoulder, my attention split between Drew and my brother. Daniels was another of the wildlife rangers, and we were scheduled to meet with the MLRA soil survey leader all this week to go over topography data.
“I’m having Daniels handle that. Something else has come up.” Drew frowned at me, then at his hat. “We’ve had, uh, a request. And I think you’re best suited to the job. But you’ll need Cletus, too.”
Turning off the water, I set the rinsed mug to the side of the sink and wiped my hands on my pants. We were out of paper towels. “What’s the job?”
Drew hemmed and hawed, saying nothing, which was unlike him. Usually he was one to talk straight.
Meanwhile, Cletus slurped his offensive brew. Loudly. His eyes darted back and forth between Drew and me.
Wanting to ease my boss’s mind, I gave the room my easy grin and shrugged. “I’ll do it, whatever it is. Don’t worry about me.”
“It’s those movie people,” Drew bit out, his nose wrinkling in mild disgust.
“They want a liaison, and you’re it.” Cletus lifted his cup toward me then took another loud slurp, wagging his eyebrows.
“A liaison? But I thought someone from the Department of Agriculture had been appointed, someone from the federal office.”
At our team meeting last week, the day after my surprise birthday party, Drew had brought the rangers into the loop regarding the movie. As Sheriff James had noted at Jeanie’s Bar, the movie was being filmed at Cades Cove, within the boundaries of the national park. We’d been told the Department of Agriculture was sending down some Hollywood specialist to interact with the movie folks.
We were warned that some of us might be asked to handle crowd control on days when extras were being used. But other than that, we’d been assured it wouldn’t interfere with our regular schedule of duties.
“Yeah, well, the guy they sent doesn’t know how to handle black bears.” Drew’s tone was flat and irritated.
“Why did they send someone who doesn’t know how to handle black bears?” Roscoe asked the obvious question, still clutching his coffee. “Seems like a rookie mistake.”
“I’m guessing the USDA was more concerned about wrangling the Hollywood animals, not the park animals,” Cletus quipped.
“I got a call before sunrise about a momma bear and her two cubs. They were eating berries outside John Oliver’s cabin while the production team was trying to set up. That means it’s either you or me making sure these people don’t ruin the ecosystem in the prairie. And it isn’t going to be me.” Drew was fairly notorious for being reclusive, preferring the company of no one to the company of anyone new.
“Okay.” I nodded, mentally reor
ganizing my day and week. At the same time I realized there was a pretty good chance I’d be seeing Sarah before this evening. In fact, there was a pretty good chance I’d be catching glimpses of her all day, every day for the next few weeks.
“Why are you smiling so big?” Cletus’s tone told me he was suspicious. But then Cletus was always suspicious.
Ignoring my brother, I asked Drew, “So what’s Cletus going to be doing while I’m managing the bears?”
“They have a couple of old tractors, real primitive stuff, and they need help keeping the machines working. I guess their supplier didn’t know they wanted the things to actually run, not just sit pretty in the background,” Cletus answered for Drew.
“Fine. That’s fine.” I was only half listening; Cletus and his machine tinkering weren’t of much interest to me. If encouraged, he would talk about it for hours. “So, when do we start?”
“Today, more or less.” Drew set his hat on his head. “You’re meeting with the director next Monday at noon, a week from today. Her name is Tabitha Johnson. ’Til then, you’ll be scouting the perimeter, keeping bears out of the prairie. Take the traps and use The Beast to move them.”
The traps were the custom-welded bear traps of Drew’s design; they caged the bears without harming them. The Beast was a Ford F-350 Super Duty truck.
“Also, you might want to load up on ketamine,” Drew added, motioning for Roscoe to join him.
“Sure, but I think the traps should work.” I set my hands on my hips, not wanting to tranquilize the bears unless absolutely necessary.
“The ketamine isn’t just for the bears.” Drew gave me a sympathetic look, then promptly turned and left, Roscoe on his heels.
“I think he expects me to use the ketamine on the film folks.” I chuckled, knowing Drew wasn’t serious. It was pretty darn close to a joke though. I was proud of my boss, he rarely made jokes.
“Or use it on each other.” Cletus gulped the rest of his coffee, smacking his lips before adding. “If these movie people are as crazy as Drew thinks they are, we can self-medicate until we pass out. It’s always good sense to have an escape plan.”
