Grin and Beard It (Winston Brothers #2) Read online

  Grin and Beard It

  (Winston Brothers, #2)

  by Penny Reid

  http://pennyreid.ninja

  Mailing list signup: http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.

  Copyright © 2016 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, Instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.

  Caped Publishing

  Made in the United States of America

  eBook Edition: May 2016

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-942874-19-5

  DEDICATION

  To the very capable engineers responsible for Microsoft Windows 10.

  Bless your hearts.

  Bless. Your. Hearts.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 34

  CHAPTER 35

  Extra Scene – Sometime Later . . .

  Other books by Penny Reid

  CHAPTER 1

  “Not all those who wander are lost.”

  ― J.R.R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring

  ~Sienna~

  I was lost.

  I was lost lost. My throat was tight with how lost I was. A desperate lost, half wondering if I’d crossed over into a new dimension and would never be found lost. I hadn’t seen another car, let alone a pedestrian, in over an hour.

  Perhaps I was now the last person left on the face of the earth. Perhaps everyone else had been abducted by aliens. I was so lost not even aliens could find me.

  Whatever. Alternate reality, body-snatching aliens or not, I was now beyond frustrated. And when I’m extremely frustrated, I cry.

  At present, I was very close to crying. I hate this about myself.

  Which is why I pulled my tiny rental car off the side of the mountain road as soon as I spotted an overlook. Driving while crying is like eating while crying, or having sex while crying: weird, wet (not in a good way), and dangerous.

  I tried to ignore that this overlook felt suspiciously familiar. I was fairly certain I’d pulled off at this exact spot an hour ago in a futile attempt to consult the paper map now crumpled on my passenger seat. This was the same paper map I would again have to consult, and likely with the same outcome—another two hours spent driving up and down this godforsaken mountain road.

  Calming breaths were coming out as slightly hysterical huffs as I snatched the map from the passenger’s seat. I shook out the map. I enjoyed the violent sound of the paper rumpling in my hands. I cleared my throat. I glared at the map. I continued glaring at the map.

  I decided the map was clearly written by masochistic-doodling ancient Egyptians because everything was hieroglyphics and unreadable doodads.

  I cursed the map.

  “BY MOTHRA’S NIPPLES! I FUCKING HATE THIS MAP!”

  Irrational anger bubbled to the surface and all I could think about was murdering the map. I would show the map who was boss.

  I was boss.

  Not some evil, wrong map from hell. I had no choice but to hit the map against the steering wheel several times, grunting and releasing a string of curses that would have made my sailor father proud. And maybe blush.

  Then I opened my driver’s side door, still grunting and raging, and slammed the map against the car, threw it on the ground, stomped on it, kicked it, and just generally assaulted it in every way I could think of. I’m a little embarrassed to admit, in my mindlessness I was also taunting the map, questioning its virility, flipping it the bird, and cursing now in Spanish as well as English.

  It was the most cardio I’d done in over twelve months.

  Stupid map, making me do cardio. I’ll kill you!

  Awareness I was no longer alone didn’t occur all at once. I kind of realized a truck had driven past my map-assault-breakdance but had ignored it. If it had been twenty minutes ago I would have flagged down the truck or followed it. But I was now red-faced, snot-nosed, and sweaty. The last thing I needed were red-faced, snot-nosed, sweaty pictures of me all over the Internet . . . again.

  But then the truck returned. The sound of tires crunching over gravel pulled me out of my fit of violence.

  “Oh, crap.”

  I inhaled a large, steadying breath, leaned against my car, and closed my eyes. I needed to piece together my wherewithal as soon as possible, prepare to flash my dimples, unleash the charm.

  It was at this point I almost wished I’d agreed to let my sister—who was also my extremely capable manager—accompany me. But, no. I’d wanted some time away. Some quiet and peace. The world had grown too loud, the studios too demanding, the paparazzi cameras too suffocating.

  My house in LA had been broken into four times in the last month; three had been over-exuberant fans. But one of the break-ins had been a reporter. She’d gone through my stuff, digging for dirt. I had no dirt. I didn’t even have sand or dust. My life was an open book.

  So, no. I hadn’t wanted my sister to come. And I’d left my security team in Knoxville. And now I was lost. I’d wanted a break from being Sienna Diaz. Maybe if I’d had a proper map—or any innate sense of direction—then a break might have been possible, but now . . .

  Sliding my eyes to the side and glaring through the curtain my dark brown hair provided, I tried to sneak a peek at the newcomer through the truck’s windshield—specifically, I wanted to determine whether I was being filmed—and that’s when I spied the lights on the roof and the emblem on the hood and side of the car.

  This car was official. And the man in it—now getting out of it and removing his sunglasses—was also official, wearing a uniform complete with a hat and a tool belt. A public servant.

  THANK YOU, UNIVERSE.

  I flipped my hair away from my face, wiped the backs of my hands across my slick cheeks and forehead, relieved I didn’t need to gather my charm or wherewithal. Law enforcement didn’t typically use phones to shoot amateur videos. If they did they were usually fired for misconduct. I could leave all my figurative masks on the ground, along with Satan’s torn and tattered map to hell.

  As I straightened from the car and faced him I saw his steps falter. He was clearly surprised and I was pretty sure he recognized me because abrupt interest tempered his surprise. I pressed my lips together and gave him a quick smile, allowing him time for the shock to pass. But he didn’t need the time; he quickly covered his surprise with a swaggery brand of attentive amusement. His left eyebrow cocked just a hint as his eyes swept
over my body, and his mouth a suspicious looking line, like he was fighting a smile.

  Eventually he abandoned the fight and grinned. “Evening, ma’am,” he said, his accent just as sweet and thick as his voice was low. The man even tipped his hat.

  And that’s when I noticed Officer Grins-a-lot was adorable.

  Six foot something; smiling eyes framed by thick lashes; brown beard covering a strong, angular jaw. Maybe most people wouldn’t describe him as adorable. In fact, I’m pretty sure most women would call him a hot piece of ass. But after working for the last five years in Hollywood, all good-looking men were regulated to benignly adorable in my headspace.

  In my early acting days, I’d dated a lot of hot guys—short hot guys, tall hot guys, muscular hot guys, thin hot guys, voluptuous hot guys—I’d tapped all manner of hot guys. But over the years I’d found the hotter the guy, the more the guy behaved like an entitled and incapable child.

  Plus, I just couldn’t afford to date. My career had to come first. As my sister Marta frequently reminded me, if I wanted success, I didn’t have much time for hot guys. Orr any guys.

  I nodded once at this hot guy’s polite greeting, as a new gust of wind meant I was again forced to push my long hair away from my face. “Howdy, partner.”

  I cringed, because that wasn’t at all charming. That was unintentionally awkward. But I really needed any help he was capable of providing, and based on his hotness, my expectations were low. I sent up a prayer that he wasn’t my least favorite kind of hot guy: the hot guy asshole.

  In my defense, at least I didn’t follow up my earlier statement with, “Someone has poisoned the waterhole.”

  His lips compressed like he was wrestling laughter.

  I braced. I never knew what or how people would react. Sometimes they’d ask me to quote one of my more famous movie lines. And that was usually fine. But right now I was lost and I was hungry and I desperately needed a shower and he was too freaking cute for me to repeat one of my most popular catchphrases—which included:

  “I’ll make you a sandwich if you make me a woman,” and “Fat chicks love fat dicks.”

  But instead of asking me for my autograph or telling me how much he enjoyed my latest film role as Frankenstein’s accident-prone, chubby younger sister, he surprised me by clearing his throat, tipping his cowboy hat back, and asking, “Ma’am, do you require assistance?”

  “Yes.” I reached out automatically, rushing forward and grabbing his arm. Hot guy or not, he was a life preserver in this sea of mountain road sameness. His eyes followed my movements and focused on my hand where I gripped his sleeve. I was also perfectly fine that my voice betrayed my level of desperation. “Please. Yes. I am totally lost. The GPS failed me three hours ago. I’ve been up and down this road a few dozen times. My phone has no reception. I have hardly any gas. I am so fucking lost. You are my hero.”

  At that he stood a little straighter. When he spoke his voice was calm and soothing, and he covered my hand with his, patted it; the warmth, size, roughness, and solid weight of him felt wonderfully reassuring.

  I’d never been successfully reassured by a hot guy before.

  It was actually really nice.

  And weird.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked gently.

  “I’m trying to get to a place called Bandit Lake, and if you can get me there I will give you anything you want, including but not limited to a map written in hieroglyphics.”

  I noticed his eyes narrow when I mentioned my destination. “Bandit Lake?”

  I nodded. “That’s right.”

  “You have a place up there?”

  “No, it’s not my place. It belongs to a friend, Hank Weller. I’m just borrowing it for a few weeks.”

  “Hank? You know Hank?”

  I nodded again. “Yes, officer. We went to college together.”

  “I’m not the law, miss. I’m a national park ranger.”

  I took in his uniform again. It was green and not blue. I shrugged, not caring what kind of official he was just as long as he helped me get out of this Twilight Zone episode before the banjo music started to play and the flannel-wearing bloodhounds arrived.

  “Oh. Okay. Then, what should I call you? Mr. Ranger?”

  He bit his lip, again fighting laughter, and squeezed my hand. “You can call me Jethro, miss. You say you’re out of gas?”

  “Your name is Jethro?”

  “That’s right.”

  I stared at him, feeling like his name wasn’t quite right, didn’t match his hot-guy status. If he were in the movie business he’d have to pick a new name. Something like Cain, or a Dean, or a Cain Dean. Four letters each, easy to remember, monosyllabic to ensure he didn’t forget how to spell or pronounce them.

  Because, in my experience, that kind of hot guy didn’t usually know how to spell . . . or pronounce.

  “How much gas did you say?” he asked again.

  “The red light is flashing. I think I’m running on fumes.”

  “That’s all right.” A warm, interested smile remained behind his eyes. “I can drive you up to the lake, and we’ll get this car filled up and towed.”

  “As in Jethro Tull?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “Your name? Jethro as in Jethro Tull?”

  His friendly gaze traveled over my face as he grinned. Again. Wider. “As in Jethro, father-in-law of Moses in the Old Testament. Do you have any bags, miss?” He gave my hand one more reassuring squeeze then released me, moving to the driver’s side door—which was still open—and plucked the keys from the ignition.

  “Bags?”

  “Yes. Luggage.”

  I snorted, saying, “Yes. Lots. But don’t worry, I’m in therapy,” and then chuckled at my own joke.

  Meanwhile, cutie-pie Jethro straightened from the car and lifted his eyebrows at me in expectation.

  “Pardon?”

  Seeing he hadn’t heard—or possibly hadn’t understood—my attempt at humor, my chuckling tapered, and I cleared my throat.

  When I’m nervous, or uncomfortable, or faced with heavy feelings, I make jokes. It’s my thing. It’s what I do. Some might even call it a compulsion. It’s like, Hey! Look at the funny! Focus on that, not on my pit stains or the disturbing way my nostrils are flaring . . .

  Which was how I realized Ranger Jethro was making me nervous. Which was completely bizarre because I was pretty sure I’d been inoculated against hot guys after my last boyfriend.

  So. Weird.

  I blamed the cardio.

  Being funny is entirely dependent on timing. I’d learned early in my career to move on instead of repeating a joke, though I mourned those unheard jokes. They were the comedy equivalent of throwing seeds on rocks.

  Stupid rocks.

  “Sorry. Yes. Bags. In the trunk.” I tossed my thumb over my shoulder and tucked my hair behind my ears, resolving to speak as little as possible.

  His eyes lingered on my face, still warm and interested. We stared at each other. And then we stared some more. So I waited.

  A bird chirped.

  The wind rustled the trees.

  And still he stared.

  The way he was looking at me, all dreamy-eyed and flirty, I wondered if I had a super-fan on my hands. Or maybe he’d never met anyone famous before. Whatever it was, I needed him to get a move on, because I had to use the bathroom. I refused to pee behind the big tree at the end of the gravel patch because I’d already peed behind that tree over an hour ago, the first time I pulled onto this overlook.

  I was just about to make another joke when he blinked and the moment was broken. He nodded once, bent at the waist, and popped the trunk. I turned and moved to the back of the car to retrieve my bags.

  But he was right next to me, reaching into the trunk before I had it all the way open, grabbing my suitcase and overnight bag.

  “Allow me,” he said, shooting me another of his wide grins.

  “Really, Ranger Jethro, I can carry m
y own bags.”

  “This is a full-service rescue, miss.” He stood straight, placing my eighty-pound oversized suitcase on the gravel, then slung my overnight bag on his shoulder. Instead of rolling the suitcase, he lifted it by the handle and carried it to the bed of his truck.

  I frowned at his retreating form. “It has wheels, Ranger.”

  “Don’t want to ruin them. This gravel’ll tear them up,” he explained on a grunt.

  I lifted an eyebrow at his retreating back, completely caught off guard by his thoughtful observation and helpfulness.

  Narrowing my eyes in suspicion, I moved to the back seat to grab my backpack. This really was a Twilight Zone episode. A hot guy who was also capable?

  Does not compute.

  Unless he’s gay. Yeah, he’s probably gay.

  In my experience, most hot guys who were both friendly and capable were gay. These were my favorite kind of hot guys. I hoped Ranger Jethro was gay.

  When I straightened I saw him standing at the passenger side of his truck, watching me. He’d opened the door and was waiting, his flirty smile still in place. Now it was smaller and his eyes were just visible beneath the rim of his hat. His gaze moved up then down my body.

  Yeah . . . no. Ranger Jethro isn’t gay.

  I faltered, my steps slowing, because I felt a little flutter of something unusual just under my ribcage, a quick intake of breath. It might have been attraction . . .

  More likely, it was hunger and the fear of being murdered.

  I wished my cell phone had reception. Though he was official, I’d feel a lot better about getting into a stranger’s car if I had the ability to tell someone else about it. Or at least tweet the details in one hundred forty characters or less: If I’m found dead, it was the cute park ranger named after Moses’s father-in-law.

  I drew even with him and the open door to the truck. Glancing inside, I asked, “So, Moses’s father-in-law was named Jethro?”

  “That’s right.” He tilted his head to the side and took my backpack from my shoulder.

  My stomach fluttered again. I swallowed to combat the sensation. “How come I didn’t know this?”