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

  His eyes followed the line of my hair past my shoulders. “You must’ve missed the memo when it was sent.”

  Taking a deep breath for bravery, I climbed into the truck. “Next thing you’re going to tell me that Moses’s uncle was named Darnel or Cletus.”

  “Nope. His uncles’ names were Izhar, Hebron, and Uzziel.” And with that, he placed my backpack at my feet and shut the door.

  I watched him walk around the front of the truck, his steps unhurried, his hands resting on the tool belt around his narrow waist. I liked his tool belt; it made him look even more capable. Plus he had a nice walk. Not at all the sort of walk a murderer would employ.

  As soon as he opened the driver’s side door, he said, “But Moses’s mother was also his father’s aunt. Seatbelt.”

  I stared at his profile as he shut his door. “His mother’s name was Seatbelt?”

  “No.” He flirty chuckled, his hazel eyes all twinkly as they moved over me, like he thought I was adorable. “Put on your seatbelt, miss.”

  I did as instructed while I sorted through his earlier statement rather than allow myself to be flustered by his capable and reassuring attention. “So, Moses’s mother was also his father’s aunt?”

  “That’s right.” He nodded once, starting the ignition and checking his mirrors. “Moses’s mother was named Jochebed, and her nephew, Amram, was Moses’s father.”

  My mouth opened, then closed, then opened. I was finally able to manage, “So that would make his mother his great aunt?”

  “And his grandfather was also his uncle, and his father was his cousin.”

  The ranger made a U-turn, heading in the opposite direction I’d been going, and we were off.

  “Huh . . ." I thought about this fact and not necessarily my words as I mumbled, "Well, you know what they say.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you can’t keep it in your pants, keep it in the family.”

  His eyes bulged, and he choked on his astonishment, throwing me a shocked glance.

  Poor adorable Ranger Jethro. He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or shriek in horror. I’d shocked his delicate man-sensibilities.

  He coughed out a strangled response, “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “Really? I would have thought—well, you know. Being up here, in the backwoods of Appalachia . . .”

  Oh. Shit.

  “Did I just say that out loud?” I groaned and shut my eyes.

  “Yes. You certainly did.” Now he was laughing, a robust belly laugh. It sounded nice.

  “Well, I thought, you know, I thought you people, um . . .” Now my face was red again, and this time it wasn’t due to my cardio-map-assault workout. But the fact he was laughing actually helped ease my mortification.

  I honestly didn’t care if people laughed with or at me. It was the laughter I was after, by any means necessary.

  “You people what?” he pushed, his chuckle deep and wonderful.

  Still, I was embarrassed because the words betrayed the narrow-minded direction of my thoughts. “Wow. That really came out wrong, garbled.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re an eloquent speaker, and it sounded very clear to me,” he teased.

  Did he just say eloquent?

  Rather than respond, That’s an awfully big word for a hot guy, I said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying. Please accept my apology. I’ve been driving around for hours and I haven’t eaten since . . . I don’t know when. In fact, what is my name? Where am I? I have no idea.”

  “You haven’t told me your name, so I can’t help you there. But you’re in Green Valley, Tennessee, on Moth Run Road.”

  Wait . . . what?

  I peeked at Ranger Jethro. “You don’t know my name?”

  “I suppose you could always look in your wallet if you’re desperate.” He indicated with his chin toward my backpack, a smile still hovering on his features. “Once you figure it out, and if you’re inclined to share, I’d like to know it as well.”

  I straightened and twisted in my seat, gaping at his profile. “You really don’t know who I am?” I’m sure my tone betrayed my surprise because Ranger Jethro’s smile fell away.

  He stopped at a red light, switching his blinker on even though we were the only vehicle on the road. His gaze flickered over my expression, and his was unmistakably anxious.

  “Should I?” he asked warily.

  I blinked once, downright dumbfounded by his response.

  Slowly, the wheels turned and the curtain was lifted, exposing the truth of my present situation.

  The flirty smiles, the lingering gazes, the gallant rescue—Ranger Jethro fancied me.

  Me.

  He’d been flirting with me.

  Not Sienna Diaz, the movie star, comedian, millionaire, Oscar winner, America’s sweetheart.

  By Rodan’s nostrils, I couldn’t remember the last time I hadn’t been recognized.

  Plus, judging by the way he was looking at me now, I surmised he was worried we’d met before and he’d forgotten my name. Perhaps he even thought we’d slept together and he’d forgotten that, too.

  And I finally realized what kind of hot guy he was. He was the serial-dating hot guy, the most dangerous of all. Because they’re smart, they’re funny, they’re capable, and they’re typically charming.

  Also, they’re easy to fall for, because who doesn’t want a hot, smart, funny, capable guy?

  The problem is, they’re not very nice. They’re dangerous because they only want one thing—hot ladies. Lots of them. All the time.

  And good for Ranger Jethro.

  He should have his hot ladies. A year ago I would have gladly been one of his hot ladies. But just as I had no current interest in dating, I had no interest in losing my heart to a serial dater.

  He swallowed thickly, looking acutely worried and bracing. And I couldn’t help it, I honestly couldn’t.

  I threw my head back and laughed.

  CHAPTER 2

  “I'm not lost for I know where I am. But however, where I am may be lost.”

  ― A.A. Milne, Winnie-the-Pooh

  ~Jethro~

  I’d lost my touch.

  Instead of giving me her number—or even, you know, her name—this pretty lady was laughing at me. It was difficult not taking it to heart. Her loss of composure was clearly at my expense.

  Except her laugh was as artless as it was contagious. So I laughed, too.

  “Oh, Ranger Jethro.” She wiped at her big brown eyes; tears had darkened her lashes. I stared at them. She had the longest lashes I’d ever seen. “You are so adorable. I just want to take you home and put you in my pocket.”

  I’d prefer her pants, but I guess I’d settle for her pocket.

  For now . . .

  I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel, this last thought unsettling. Five years of self-imposed celibacy had me questioning what the hell was happening. What the hell was I doing? Why now and why—apart from the obvious—her?

  Also, “adorable”? I successfully fought to keep a grimace off my face.

  “You have a real nice laugh,” I remarked instead, because she did.

  She gave me the side-eye and a flash of white teeth. My breath caught. Her smile was unreal.

  And those dimples.

  Wow.

  She was speaking again, so I forced myself to look away from the dimples and listen. “Thank you, Ranger. I don’t think anyone has ever complimented my laugh before.”

  I reluctantly put my eyeballs back in my head and made a left onto The Parkway, clearing my throat before remarking, “Then everyone you’ve met prior to me must be deaf.”

  It wasn’t just her laugh, it was her voice. It was melodic. Plus there was something else . . . an intangible, magnetic quality. Natural and unforced.

  She laughed again, not as loud this time. “I’m not usually the one laughing,” she muttered. I glanced at her and saw her eyes were focuse
d on the road beyond the windshield. “I guess I should pay attention to where we’re going if I’m going to be driving around up here and not be abducted by aliens or locals. Or local aliens.”

  She may not have realized, but we were close to the turnoff for Bandit Lake. I debated whether or not to drive around the mountain once, keep her in the truck talking to me, because—though I’d sworn off women, stealing cars, and hurting people half a decade ago—this woman was all kinds of my type.

  Long hair, dark eyes, tall, more curves than straight lines. And she had lips that could only be described as luscious. Yep. I had a physical type, and this woman checked all the boxes. This made her dangerous, a temptation.

  I didn’t miss that she’d yet to tell me her name. Her reluctance, given the way I was instinctively responding to her, might’ve been a good thing.

  I cleared my throat, oddly anxious. I couldn’t remember the last time anyone made me nervous. Maybe the female sheriff two towns away who’d booked me for suspected grand theft auto six years ago. She was real pretty. Strong. But she’d also carried a firearm.

  Despite all the warning bells, the good, excited kind of nerves had me wracking my brain for a way to ask eyelashes and dimples for her name again without coming across as eager.

  “Would you like a tour?” I drawled. “I make an excellent tour guide,” I continued, purposefully layering on the charm. Man, I was rusty.

  She glanced at me, her eyebrows raised in question.

  “Of the mountain?” I clarified, keeping my tone easy, gesturing to the road in front of us. “I could drive you around, show you where everything is so you don’t get lost anymore.” Then I added with a wink. “Though I wouldn’t mind rescuing you again.”

  “What? Now?” She was inspecting me like I was unhinged, apparently immune to the charisma I was throwing her way. Or maybe it was going over her head.

  “Sure.” I shrugged. “The loop isn’t too big.”

  “Um . . .” She squirmed. “See, I would. But right now I have to pee like a hooker with a UTI. So if we could go directly to the lake house, that would be ideal,” she explained, her tone conversational.

  I firmed my mouth, schooling my expression so I wouldn’t smile again. I didn’t think she was trying to be funny. She just said funny things. Funny and charming. Likely, they wouldn’t be so charming if she weren’t so goddamn gorgeous.

  “If there’s no food at Weller’s place, I have a cooler behind your seat with a sandwich.” I slowed and turned on my blinker. We’d arrived at the gravel road circling the lake.

  “No. No, thank you. I can’t take your lunch.”

  “I already had lunch, that sandwich is for emergencies.”

  She turned in her seat, giving me her full attention. “See, now I should carry an emergency sandwich. Good job. What a great idea.”

  I cocked an eyebrow at her tone and set my jaw, my defensive hackles rising unexpectedly. Her voice gave me the impression she was surprised I was capable of good ideas. It was the kind of tone city people used down here when they ordered a large coffee and called it a “Venti Americano.” I milled this over, plus her earlier words about backwoods Appalachia, and came to the conclusion she thought I was a hick.

  Now, I admit, we have our fair share of hicks in Green Valley, Tennessee. We have hicks, hillbillies, rednecks, bumpkins, and the occasional reclusive yokel. But I was none of these things. Usually people making assumptions didn’t bother me. I wasn’t one to get needlessly twisted over the little things.

  But coming from Miss Dimples, the unflattering assumption bothered me plenty. I didn’t much like being dismissed or patronized.

  “Yes, ma’am. Real genius idea. And I thought of it all by myself,” I deadpanned, lowering my eyelids so I could squint at her. “And I dressed myself this morning, too.” I paired my last statement with a smirk so she’d think I wasn’t irritated, though I was irritated.

  She hesitated for a moment, studying me, clearly not sure whether or not I was serious. I saw the wheels turn and her wince when she put two and two together. She heaved a great sigh and buried her face in her hands. “I promise I’m not usually this awful. I’m just tired and hungry and have to pee.”

  I chuckled, rubbing my chin as I pulled into Hank Weller’s drive. “I guess I’ll have to take your word for it, since you won’t even tell me your name.”

  Real smooth. Guilt her into it. Nice. I shook my head at myself. I’d never had such trouble with a woman before, especially not when I was trying. Even nowadays they were offering their number before I’d offered my name.

  “It’s Sarah.” She spoke from behind her fingers, so her words were a little garbled.

  “Sarah? Nice to meet you, Sarah.” I cut the engine.

  “No, it’s—” She lifted her head, her attention snagging on the building in front of us. “Where are we? Why did you stop?”

  “We’re here.”

  “We’re where?”

  “At Hank’s place, at the lake.” I tilted my chin toward the cabin. Well, it used to be a cabin. Hank’s parents made some serious improvements over the years. Now it more closely resembled what my brother Cletus called “a McMansion.”

  Her mouth opened and closed as she sputtered incoherently for a few seconds, finally asking, “You knew how to get here based on a person’s name? You know which cabin belongs to Hank? Does everybody know everybody here? How do you know Hank?”

  I hesitated, her deluge of questions requiring some strategic thought, debating my options regarding how honest I should be.

  She seemed astonished by my familiarity with Hank’s address, not worried by it. I reckoned she wasn’t used to the dynamics of a small town. Everybody knew Hank Weller. Everybody knew he went to Harvard, knew he was a troublemaker, and knew he’d been a source of disappointment to his parents.

  Just like everybody knew me, Jethro Winston, my younger five brothers, my beauty queen sister, my con-artist daddy, and my librarian heart-of-gold mother. There were no secrets in Green Valley.

  Now, to the issue at present, I knew Hank because he and Beau were good friends. Also, Hank, Beau, and I went fishing together. Additionally, I knew him because I’d stolen his daddy’s Mercedes when I was sixteen.

  But mostly, I knew Hank as a business partner. He’d bought The Pink Pony, a local strip club, some years ago. I did the carpentry and general contracting work around the place in return for being a silent partner. I’d built the bar, installed the stage, and—more recently—managed the expansion of the main building. He wanted to add a champagne room, only he’d serve his home brew instead of champagne. Hank was also a microbrewer.

  Hence, I had lots of options regarding how I could answer her questions and still be truthful.

  I turned to face her, bracing my hand on the back of her seat, and addressed her questions at a leisurely pace. “Now, let’s see.” I scratched my chin. “Yes, I knew how to get here based on Hank’s name. There are a few Hanks in this town, but only one Hank with a cabin on Bandit Lake. That’s because there’s only about fifteen lots up here that don’t belong to the government. The land can’t be sold; it can only be inherited.”

  “Really?” She turned to face me again, angling her shoulders this time. Her temple fell to the headrest as her eyes moved over my face, clearly fascinated.

  Now I felt the weight of her full attention, I had to concentrate. “To your other question, most everybody knows most everybody here, except there’s a few reclusive families up in the hills who live off the grid. We’re not quite sure how many or what their first names are, but we see them about town every so often, coming in for supplies or wanting to barter at the Sunday market. They’re called the Hills.”

  “Because they live in the hills?”

  “No. Because that’s their last name. Hill.”

  Her pretty mouth formed a silent Oh, her eyebrows jumping a half-inch. She nodded thoughtfully, absorbing this information.

  “I’ve known Hank for a long tim
e, since he and my brother used to run around naked in the backyard of my momma’s house.”

  She grinned at this, her mahogany eyes warming and dancing. “He used to do the same thing in the dorms, so I’m not terribly surprised.”

  That made me chuckle. “Yeah, well he’s never been a fan of clothes, on himself or others.”

  “He runs a strip club now, right?” she asked, the friendliness and lack of judgment in her tone catching me unawares.

  “That’s right.” I nodded slowly, assessing her with renewed interest. “The Pink Pony.”

  In my experience, there were three kinds of women: those that stripped at strip clubs, those that liked going to strip clubs, and those that disliked strip clubs. I understood all three perspectives and now I wondered which of the three she belonged to.

  Damn if I didn’t hope it was the first one.

  We stared at each other for a protracted moment and I noted her gaze narrow, sharpen as she lifted a single eyebrow and grinned. “Ranger Jethro, are you wondering whether I’m a stripper?”

  I was surprised by the suddenness and bluntness of the question, but recovered quickly. It was the closest she’d come to flirting with me, so I mirrored her sharp look and her grin, and shrugged. “Can’t say it didn’t cross my mind.”

  “Well, I’m not. But I have taken lessons.” Her voice dropped a half octave, the curve of her mouth growing less friendly and more seductive, playful.

  “Oh?” I tried to contain my own smile, adopting a mock serious expression though I couldn’t quite fill my lungs with enough air. Now this was more like it. “Tell me more.”

  “I had to take them last year for research.”

  “Research?” I nodded thoughtfully, encouraging her to continue.

  “That’s right.” Her gaze dropped to my mouth, a subtle shift that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention.

  My pulse quickened. Christ, she was pretty. I admit, now that she was no longer talking to me like I was a simpleton, I was having a lot of trouble focusing on the conversation. Got to love the irony.

  “Really? Care to share what you learned?”

  She shook her head, her long hair bouncing around her shoulders and settling on her chest along the swell of her breasts, her lips saying, “No,” with an enchanting velvet cadence, making it sound like a yes.