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“I know I walk a fine line between being a respected actor and being what they call a sex symbol.”
EVA MENDES
“We’re in Mayberry. This is Mayberry. And I think the entire town is at this wedding,” Lina whispered, wearing incredulity and fascination beneath her flawless application of makeup. Whatever Lina thought or felt at any given moment always shone like a marquee on her face. This made her an excellent method actress but also a terrible liar.
I didn’t contradict her even though the name of the place was Green Valley, not Mayberry, and I doubted those assembled for our mutual friend’s wedding reception encompassed an entire town. The white tent was full, but I wouldn’t call it crowded.
Lina had arrived in Green Valley yesterday, whereas I’d flown in just two hours ago and hadn’t seen anything of the town. But if this place was at all similar
to where I grew up, I understood her comparison to the fictional city of Mayberry from The Andy Griffith Show.
“I’m telling you, the downtown is one and a half blocks by six blocks, has two hardware stores and no Sephora. It’s a film set waiting to happen. I can see it now—a new quirky TV dramedy about lumberjacks and the bakers who love them, hokey and/or plucky background music included.”
Grinning at Lina’s description, I took a sip of my water. “Maybe there’s a woodworking culture here. Don’t look down on people for enjoying their wood.”
“Ha ha,” she deadpanned, but then smiled. “You and your innuendos are the highlight of my day.”
“Are there any other kind of innuendos? Speaking of which, want to invest in my new pornographic breakfast cereal venture called In-u-end-O!s?”
She grimaced and laughed at the same time. “Please don’t tell me what the shape of the cereal would be. I think I can guess.”
Chewing on my straw, I winked at her, and she rolled her eyes. I always used a straw whenever possible. Even these so-called stain lipsticks fared better and lasted longer if one drank through a straw.
“Look at all these beards,” Lina muttered, her eyes darting over the wedding guests. Seeming to shake herself, she sent me a look. “Oh, I forgot. You grew up in Ohio.”
“So?”
“So, it’s the cold part of the country. People probably have lots of beards there. It might as well be Michigan.” She shivered, her wince increasing.
“Never say that to someone from Ohio. And never say the reverse to someone from Michigan.” I may have left my hometown the day I turned eighteen, but the Ohioan in me—who still had the odd craving to play euchre around Thanksgiving and missed the changing of seasons—objected.
She scrutinized me. “Is this about sports? Is that why I shouldn’t say the thing about Michigan?"
“It’s always about sports with you midwesterners.” Lina’s gaze moved from me and narrowed at something over my shoulder.
Likewise, I glanced around the white wedding tent without focusing on any details, not wanting to commit eye contact with anyone, instead absorbing the general splendor of our surroundings. I felt a sudden, strange pang of restlessness and anxiety. Sienna Diaz had somehow achieved the impossible in her wedding décor: understated yet opulent. I was not surprised. Sienna Diaz built her brand as Hollywood’s reigning sweetheart on achieving what everyone had believed was impossible.
But I hoped Sienna wasn’t making a mistake. In addition to understated opulence, from the outside looking in, her rushed wedding to a park ranger from small-town Tennessee looked and felt like a big, horrible mistake.
Too late now. It’s done. Poor Sienna.
With that depressing thought, and despite attempts to keep my gaze unfocused, Ana Ortega caught my eye and waved. I gave her a bright smile and waved back, telling myself to avoid that side of the room. She and I were up for the same role—a busty damsel sidekick in a Sclumicker blockbuster—and my callback was next week. I didn’t want her to inadvertently psych me out. Ana was good people, but I wanted that role.
Holding up a glass of champagne from her spot across the room, Ana pointed to it and mouthed, You’re not drinking?
I shook my head, gesturing to my water and mouthing the words, Early flight. My departing flight was early, but that wasn’t the reason why I wasn’t drinking. I never drank at industry events. My first year on the West Coast taught me that lesson quite well. It also taught me that sobriety makes other people uncomfortable, so I learned to fake being buzzed like a pro.
Ana thrust out her bottom lip, in the universal facial expression for That’s too bad.
“So many beards . . .” Next to me, Lina’s muttered lament snagged my attention. It sounded as if she found the sight of so many jawlines adorned with hair
alarming.
I pretended Lina—whose back was to Ana—had said something funny, grateful she’d had the idea of being each other’s plus-one. Lina and I were never considered for the same film roles, mostly because she preferred indie films that made important statements in lieu of money. But then, she descended from Hollywood royalty and could therefore afford to make statements rather than a paycheck. My mom had just recently—and tentatively—started to warm up to my chosen profession, though I think my latest film may have put a damper on her enthusiasm.
It’s true. I’d been topless, full-frontal shot, arms over my head, tits filling the frame. For the record, I was not ashamed of going topless and it absolutely was not a reaction to my messy split from Harrison Kent. First of all, it was for work, and I’d accepted the role before Harrison had cheated on me; secondly, I loved my breasts; and thirdly, there is no thirdly. I was determined not to let anyone make me feel bad about showing off parts of my body I loved, doing a job I loved.
I just wished . . . sigh.
I just wished there were some way to both live my life on my own terms and spare my mom the judgy looks. She’d been through enough.
“Well, we have to do something when it’s cold outside,” I said brightly, turning so that I was no longer in Ana’s line of sight.
Lina moved her narrowed eyes to me. “Wait? What? What are we talking about? You grow beards when it’s cold?”
“Sports, Lina.” I shook my head at her. “I’m still talking about midwesterners and sports.”
“So, when it’s cold, you go outside and watch sports?” Her eyes rounded. “That makes no sense.”
“No. We sit inside and watch sports.”
My friend made an impatient sound, setting her empty champagne glass down on a nearby table. “That reminds me—I’ve been meaning to ask, what is a toboggan?” We were standing near a tray of both water and champagne, making it easy for her to reach behind me and grab another glass
“Really?” I looked between her and the champagne flute. “You’ve been meaning to ask me what a toboggan is?”
“Yes. I keep forgetting to ask. I read the word in that dog sled movie Jorge is making and—anyway, you’re the only person not originally from NYC or SoCal that I know. What is it?”
I had to laugh at her. “You know you can search the internet and find answers to your most pressing questions anytime you like. You don’t need to save them for me.”
“Ugh. I hate the internet. There’re so many people there. Just tell me.”
“It’s a dog breed,” I lied, watching her. She was so gullible.
Lina was Ariel from The Little Mermaid and I was the seagull. Except, unlike the bird in the movie, I purposefully misled her with fictional explanations for the mundane stuff everyone should already know. Lina lived under the sea, in the magical kingdom of beautiful people and champagne problems.
In our odd-couple friendlationship, I was the expert on real-people things, like how to pump gas, drive cars that weren’t Teslas, use physical keys to unlock doors, and how to interact with non-touchscreen tech. She’d once encountered a rotary telephone like the one my great grandma still insisted on using. I’d convinced Lina—for ten minutes before setting the record straight—it was a device for Morse code that sent telegrams.
“A dog breed?” Lina nodded thoughtfully. “I guess that makes sense . . .?”
“No, it doesn’t make sense because it’s not a dog breed, Lina.” Now I was laughing for real. “If you want to know, stop being lazy and get thee to the internet.”
“Just tell me.” She curled her lip, adding on a whisper, “Don’t make me go on there.”
“Excuse me.” A baritone voice paired with a gentle tap on my arm had me automatically turning. Moving my hair behind my shoulder, I tacked on a polite smile, preparing for a fan or—worse—someone coming over to ask me about my callback this week. Instead, I came face-to-face with one of these bearded boys with whom Lina seemed preoccupied.
Inspecting him quickly—flower at his lapel, tux, brown beard, thick, dark lashes framing eyes that weren’t hazel or blue but something in between—I felt my lips curve on their own. I recognized him. He was one of the groomsmen, which meant he might’ve been one of the brothers of the groom. At the church, he’d been sandwiched between a huge, blond-bearded Vikings-esque male and a young Matt Bomer-ish /specimen with neatly trimmed facial hair and blue eyes that glittered like diamonds.
I will admit, the men at this wedding had been quite a sight with their broad shoulders and capable-looking hands, seven of them standing at the altar like a buffet of mouthwatering masculinity. Or maybe a casting-call line for a lumberjack version of James Bond? Point was, even I—determined to be disinterested in men, romantic relationships, or any form of distracting entanglement—was not unaffected.
I’d been affected.
Squirming in the church pew as I’d sinfully devoured the assorted eye candy in the bridal party, I’d sort of started to understand why Sienna had initially decided to stay in this two-hardware-store small town. But . . . to marry it? To be impregnated by it after knowing it for only six months? To trust it? No. No way.
Just the thought of finding myself in a similar predicament made me break out in a cold sweat and gave me itchy palms. I’m positive I’d had nightmares similar to Sienna’s present reality. And so, I worried for her.
But back to the dish of mouthwatering masculinity that had just tapped on my shoulder.
“Yes?” I asked smoothly, stepping closer in bold invitation. Boldness was my default. If I was going to be rejected, I liked to know right away.
Also, I’d decided earlier (after the Magic Mike lineup at the church) that I wasn’t opposed to partaking if an interesting man-snack materialized. Someone outside of industry circles. A local. Beard optional. Someone who was obviously interested in me (since breaking things off with Harrison, I had a strict policy of never chasing my snacks) but who also
wouldn’t make tonight into a whole thing.
That said, I would not be having a one-night stand with a brother of my good friend’s new husband. If this guy was one of Sienna’s brothers-in-law, he was off-limits.
The guy gifted me with a smile that seemed real but also foreign on his face, making me think he wasn’t a person who smiled often. “I’m Cletus Winston, Jethro’s brother. Sienna has spoken of you with great esteem.”
Well, darn. That’s that. No “man-handling” this one. Ha ha! Get it? No manhandling.
And what a shame. Cletus Winston’s formal tone paired with his southern twang reminded me of the accents in Gone with the Wind. Honestly, I’m always looking for an opportunity to be reminded of the love story in Gone with the Wind. I had strong feelings about the dynamic between Rhett, Scarlett, and that tepid vanilla pudding of disappointment, George Ashley Wilkes.
Anyway, I liked how this guy spoke despite his unfortunate hillbilly name. Sienna’s husband’s name was just as cringey. What had their mother been thinking? Cletus? Jethro? Yikes! Especially when there were so many other great, strong southern names, like Mason, or Walker, or Marshall, or Jackson . . . or Rhett.
“Sienna is the best,” I said—because she was the best—and gave this Cletus person a second look. The man wore a tuxedo and wore it well, but he also looked like someone who stepped out of the pages of “Little Red Riding Hood” and yearned to wield an ax instead of a bow tie. He was good-looking enough under all that hair, but definitely not my type.
In case you haven’t guessed, my type was a Rhett Butler—a man who wore a tux the way he did everything else: with ease, charm, and a flavor of self-confidence that trended more witty-sardonic than egotistical.
Cletus Winston, brother of the groom, stepped to the side and twisted slightly at the waist, gesturing over his shoulder, and apropos of nothing said, “My friend over there is a police officer, local law enforcement.”
Bemused, I moved my attention to where he pointed and found another man about the same height as the unfortunately named Cletus. This one was less stocky, with decidedly less mountain-man vibes, and he was not in a tux. The man wore an extremely well-tailored three-piece suit in dark blue that fit his athletic body nicely. Quite, quite nicely.
My eyes lifted to the man’s face, and I studied him. Good forehead; great hair, sunny blond with texturing spikes of brown and gold; straight, strong nose; symmetrical features; angular jaw in an oval face; close-cut beard that showcased the slight cleft in his chin. Extremely attractive, but not in the polished, too-perfect Hollywood, metrosexual way that now super turned me off.
Presently, the officer’s gaze of indeterminable color shifted from me to Sienna’s brother-in-law and then back, his surprise unadorned by artifice. Obviously, the man had not been expecting to be introduced to me. Also obvious, he recognized me, knew who I was, and—based on where his eyes had just landed—he’d likely seen the topless scene in my latest movie.
Interested in me—check.
Not in industry circles—check.
Local—check.
And a police officer, eh?
“Oh? Is he?” I asked.
“He is.” Sienna’s brother-in-law nodded, his tone still formal. “And he’s got handcuffs with him. Just FYI.”
My attention cut back to this Cletus person, and I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. Oh, I see what’s up. “Thanks for the tip.” I made a mental note to give Sienna shit about this.
While filming with Sienna two years ago, I’d joked once—just once—that I would be the first on set for the handcuffing scene near the end of the movie since being cuffed during sex always got me off, and she’d never let me live the stupid words down. I’d said it to shock her and anyone else listening at the time. Bravado always helped me conceal nerves and doubt. You know that old saying? Fake it till you make it.
But Sienna hadn’t been shocked. She’d laughed like she thought I was a weirdo and sent me faux fur-lined handcuffs for my birthday.
“No problem. Have a nice evening,” the brother of the groom said. And with that, he administered a bow of sorts and strolled away.
Well, okay then. That was weird.
Giving my attention back to the officer, I discovered he’d recovered quickly, his earlier surprise now mostly gone. He wore a small, secretive-looking smile, like he had thoughts. Like he found his friend’s antics and the unexpected spotlight of my gaze amusing rather than uncomfortable or flustering.
His abrupt and successful recovery kinda sorta flustered me. I blinked. My boldness offset by confusion, I hesitated.
“Invite him over, or I will,” Lina said after a protracted moment, surprising me as she came to stand at my shoulder.
“He has a beard.” I made sure my tone sounded teasing as I continued to inspect this handsome stranger who didn’t appear at all starstruck. “Are you sure you want to talk to one of these bearded lumberjacks?”
“But it’s a short beard, and look at that chin, and that suit.” She sucked in a breath through her teeth, making a slight hissing sound. “Mr. Police Officer aced the assignment.”
I breathed a laugh and, shaking myself out of the strange self-doubt, crooked a finger toward Mr. Police Officer. He in turn cocked an eyebrow, placing a hand on his chest as though to say, Who? Me? innocence written everywhere except his eyes. Those were nothing but trouble.
A little flutter of excitement squeezed my chest, and I breathed through a sudden, unexpected burst of anxious energy. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the unanticipated crackling and warmth of electricity racing over my skin as our gazes continued to tangle across the room, and I crooked my finger again.
“This one is mine, Lina,” I decided and said at the same time.
“Raquel. You know how I feel about chin clefts. Cary Grant has my heart forever. Rock, Paper, Scissors?” she pleaded.
I watched as Mr. Police
Officer crossed the room toward me, took note of the smoothness of his gait, the graceful confidence of his movements. “Nope.”
“Ugh. Okay, fine.” At the edge of my vision I saw Lina cross her arms. “But if it doesn’t work out with you two, I get dibs next time, if—God forbid—we ever come back here.”
“Totally fine with me,” I said, lowering my voice to add, “You know my rule.”
“Since Harrison, the heart-breaking twatwaffle, never the same guy twice,” she said under her breath just as the handsome man in blue made it to where we stood.
“Hi.” Lifting my chin, I offered my hand to the stranger. “I’m Raquel Ezra.”
“I know.” He didn’t smile, but his eyes, which I could see now were a deep, warm brown, danced. My heart stumbled over itself as he slipped his palm against mine, bringing the back of my hand to his lips. Brushing the barest hint of a kiss there, the texture of his beard teased my knuckles. Both sent lovely, spiky shivers up my arm and to my fingertips. “Jackson James. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Jackson James? Now that was a name I could appreciate. Part of me, the seriously goofy part, wanted to respond with Charmed, I’m sure.
I forced myself to hold his gaze until he released my hand, and only then did I turn to Lina. “This is Lina Lestari.”
He shifted the brunt of his charm to Lina, and I drew in a silent, steadying breath. Okay, settle down Rae. Play it cool. Be cool. Be who he expects you to be.
“I’m a big fan, Ms. Lestari. It’s an honor.”
These statements pulled a smile from Lina—no small accomplishment—and she offered her hand, which he took and shook gently.
Lina squeezed his hand tighter and shuffled a half step closer. “I know who you are.”
“You know who I am?” This seemed to surprise him, but he took her statement in stride, a small, skeptical grin blooming on his lips. He had nice lips, the bottom one much fuller than the top.
“I do,” Lina said.
“Your sister is, uh, Janet. Right?”
“Janet is my mother. My sister is Jessica.”
Lina nodded quickly. “I met them yesterday. Your sister is hilarious. She’s dating one of the Winston brothers? The one with the red beard.”
“Yes. That’s correct.” The officer’s eyes narrowed just a fraction of an inch, his voice a modicum tighter, but still a deep, delicious rumble.
Before I could process the subtle shift in his mood, Lina’s smile grew dazzling. “Tell me something, Mr. Police Officer.”
“Anything, Ms. Lestari,” he responded immediately, using her hold on his hand to maneuver himself between us. “But I feel I must tell you, I’m a deputy sheriff. Though you can call me Mr. Police Officer if it pleases you.”
His voice was nice. And his accent was real nice, very Rhett-like.
“Okay, deputy.” Lina tilted her head to the side. “Can you tell me what a toboggan is?”
“I absolutely can tell you what a toboggan is. Just let me grab a water here . . .” Somehow he managed to free his hand from her grip, and in the next moment he reached behind me. His chest brushed against my shoulder while his proximity offered the faintest tease of his cologne, a warm, toasty blend of citrus, sandalwood, and . . . Is that jasmine?
My lashes fluttered as he withdrew, leaving the faint impression of his scent behind, and my mouth felt dry and useless. God, he smells good. I loved me a good-smelling man. There was nothing on earth like it. Three things in life had no substitutions: a perfectly roasted marshmallow; the first cool, crisp day of fall after a long, hot summer; and the closeness of a warm, good-smelling man.
Don’t mess this up, Rae.
Okay, look. I’d been in a self-imposed dry spell for over two years. Yes, my career came first, and any prolonged involvement with a man right now would only serve to distract me from my goals, ambitions, and meticulously crafted plans, because men could not be trusted. Period. I had to keep my eye on the prize, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thirsty for something delicious.
Don’t you ever get thirsty?
That’s what I thought.
So, assuming I could keep my inner oddball in check, and he continued to press all my buttons without trying, and he was interested—which I was eighty-five percent certain that he was—and he didn’t say or do anything to reveal himself as a tepid vanilla pudding of disappointment, chances were really good.
The sexy officer straightened, his eyes dark and hooded as they met mine, that wonderful spark crackling between us. But then, giving his gaze back to Lina, he said, “A toboggan is a hat.”
I laughed, barely avoiding a snort, but I did wrinkle my nose as I spoke without weighing my words, “No. Don’t listen to him, he’s pulling your leg. It’s not a hat.”
The deputy glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, his gaze striking me as both hot and sharp, though his tone was conversational. “Yes, it is a hat.”
“No.” I faced him fully, my neck heating. “It’s a sled.”
He gave me the entirety of his attention, his forehead lined even as a small smile spread over his features. “A toboggan is a knit hat, Ms. Ezra.”
I shook my head, now grinning uncontrollably for reasons unknown. “You are wrong, deputy. It’s definitely not a hat.”
He pursed his lips, his right eyebrow rising as he watched me with eyes that still felt sharp and hot, but now also assessing. “All right. How much do you want to bet?”
“Bet? You want to bet me that a toboggan is a hat?” Little did he know, I loved to bet. I loved games—chess in particular—but only ever when winning was a sure thing. Everyone but Lina knew a toboggan was a sled. Maybe he wanted to lose a bet with me?
His eyebrow hitched higher, and a faint shadow of challenge squared his jaw. “Yes, ma’am.”
A wonderful little thrill, a spike of something hot and promising ignited low in my stomach at how he’d said the word ma’am.
Still grinning, I crossed my arms beneath my chest, careful not to spill my water. “Fine. What are the terms?”
His cognac eyes brightened and moved over me as he rubbed the close-cropped beard on
his jaw. “How about, if I’m right—if a toboggan is a knit hat—then you let me show you around Green Valley.”
“And if a toboggan isn’t a knit hat?” I lifted my chin, deciding not to mention that my flight tomorrow left first thing in the morning; if he wanted to show me around, it would have to be right now. Regardless, it didn’t matter, because a toboggan was a sled, not a hat.
He shrugged like it didn’t matter, apparently certain he was right, even as his gaze grew in twinkly intensity the longer it held mine. “Name your price.”
“If I’m right, then—” I paused, needing to swallow.
The side of his mouth hitched, such a flirty little curve, and my stomach erupted in butterflies. No lie, I hadn’t felt anything close to this since Bryce Littleton’s soccer ball landed on my lap freshman year of high school. He’d been a senior, experienced, and very, very hot. I’d been . . . none of those things. But the soccer star had winked at me and that simple action had detonated my first lust explosion, just like what I was feeling now.
Bryce Littleton had also turned out to be one hell of a good time. In truth, he’d been the only hell of a good time I’d ever had. No one else had come close.
Decided, I reached up and curled my fingers around the deputy’s tie, slowly tugging it and him toward me as I leaned forward and, hoping my bravado made me sound badass instead of ridiculous, whispered in his ear, “If I’m right, then you—”
Lina thrust her phone at my profile, announcing, “He’s right. A toboggan is a hat.”
I flinched back, turning to face her, but didn’t release his tie. “What?”
“I internet-ed it. It’s a sled and a hat. But the bet was that a toboggan isn’t a hat, so you lose.” She wiggled the phone, a smirk on her purple painted lips. “Guess you’re getting that VIP tour of Mayberry.”
“Between two evils, I always pick the one I haven’t tried before.”
MAE WEST
“Ican’t believe you people call a hat a toboggan,” I muttered dumbly.
His lips curved, but then he quickly suppressed the smile, clearing his throat. “We’re here.”
“Here?” I peered out the windshield, having no idea where here was.
I’d been so confused that people in Tennessee called a hat a toboggan and hadn’t said much after Lina declared him the winner. She’d cheerfully—well, cheerfully for Lina—steered us out of the tent, informing him that I would be leaving first thing in the morning, so the tour would have to start now.
Nor had I said much on the short drive over to wherever we were. My bravado had failed me. In this guy’s quiet, steadily calm presence, I couldn’t think of
anything to say. Other than asking me if I was cold and offering me his jacket, he hadn’t said anything either. I’d accepted the offer, and this might’ve been my fatal mistake because it smelled like him and made my insides warmer than my outside.
Cutting the engine of his truck, he exited the driver’s side. Meanwhile, I unclicked the seatbelt and sighed, telling myself to speak as little as possible. If I didn’t speak, I couldn’t insert my foot. I would be aloof and mysterious. Except he was being quiet and mysterious, and we couldn’t both be the aloof/quiet and mysterious one!
This was why I liked getting down to business without delay or discussion.
I couldn’t tell you what kind of truck he drove. A big white one, and at least forty years old by the looks of it. The interior was clean, but the seat was one long bench instead of two buckets.
Oddly enough—and this might’ve been another reason why I’d remained mostly silent during the drive—the truck reminded me of Bryce Littleton’s truck, the one in which I’d handed over my V-card. Is the universe trying to tell me to call Bryce Littleton?
I didn’t think so.
Last I’d heard, Bryce had taken over his father’s farm and married an office manager from Cleveland. That was four years ago, right after I’d moved to Los Angeles and started dating Harrison. And that would make him, what? Twenty-six now?
My hot deputy tour guide opened the passenger door just as I’d reached for the latch. That secretive little smile hovering behind his eyes and lips, he offered a hand to help me down, which, after a brief hesitation, I accepted.
Instantly, a shock of disorienting heat traveled up my arm, and I blurted, “How old are you?”
“Old enough,” he said easily, his eyes moving over me like my question amused him.
“Seriously. How old?” I found my footing on the sidewalk and withdrew my hand.
“Twenty-six.”
Twenty-six. Same age as Bryce.
“Did you play soccer in high school?” My chest felt tight.
He seemed to debate the question as he shut my door. “I did play soccer in high school, senior year. Why?”
“No reason.” I twisted my fingers.
This was weird, right? Mr. Police Officer and Bryce Littleton didn’t look anything alike, but the similarities were weird. Both from a small town, both drove an old truck with a big bench seat, both played soccer, both were three years older than me, and both were the only two guys who’d ever made me feel tongue-tied by saying nothing at all.
“Were you very popular? In high school?” I fell into step beside him as we strolled down the sidewalk, reprimanding myself for asking so many questions. How could I be perceived as aloof and mysterious if I kept talking?
He slipped his hands in his pants’ pockets. “Not really.”
So, that’s different.
I felt myself relax just a wee bit, enough to curtail the urge to question him about whether his family owned a farm. At this point, I finally took note of our surroundings and realized he’d taken me to a quaint and deserted downtown. “Where are we?”
“Your friend mentioned you only have tonight for a tour, and we left before dinner. I thought you might be hungry.”
“Well, that’s thoughtful of you, deputy,” I said, trying for flirty.
That secretive smile made another appearance. “I aim to please.”
“Do you?” I bumped his bicep with my shoulder, feeling emboldened—finally. “How long is this tour going to take?”
He seemed to study me before answering, “Not too long.”
“Not much to see in Green Valley?”
“Plenty to see, but I can’t give you the full tour and get you home at a decent hour.”
“What about an indecent hour?” AH HA! There she is. I’m back in business, baby!
He chuckled, a rumbly, masculine sound, his deep-set eyes dancing. “What are you hungry for?"
“What are my options?” I surveyed the street. It was just after 4:00 PM, but no one seemed to be out and about. All the shops looked closed.
“Sandwiches, soup, salad.” He halted in front of one of the closed storefronts and withdrew a ring of keys. Words painted on the glass read, The Sandwich, Soup, and Salad Stop.
“But it’s closed.” I pointed to the closed sign hanging on the door.
“I have a key.”
“Officer, do you own The Sandwich, Soup, and Salad Stop?”
“I do not. But I know the owner and she won’t mind if we grab a bite to eat. If none of those appeal, I also know the owner of the Café on the Corner, and they have muffins and such from the Donner Bakery.”
I glanced over my shoulder and then back to him. “You have a key to the café too?”
“I do.”
Turning my head from side to side, I surveyed the shops along the sidewalk and spotted a hanging wooden sign for a place called Utterly Ice Cream Parlor. “What about the ice cream place?”
“You want ice cream?”
“Do you have a key?”
“Yes.”
My lips parted as curiosity momentarily eclipsed my desire to be aloof and mysterious as well as my brash and bold instincts. “Everyone just gives you a key to their shops?”
He seemed to take my questioning in stride. “Not everyone. I don’t have a key to the dulcimer shop, but my father does.”
“Does he own it? The dulcimer shop?” I had no idea what a dulcimer was.
“No.”
A nagging suspicion had my heart beating faster. “What does your father do?”
“He’s the sheriff.”
“And you’re a sheriff’s deputy,” I murmured.
Bryce Littleton was a farmer with a farmer father. What is going on? Was this guy the Bryce Littleton of Green Valley, Tennessee? Did every small town have one?
“It’s not so unusual in these parts for families to all be in the same line of work.” He gave me his closed-mouth smile, one side of his lips pulling higher than the other, his eyes twinkling down at me. “Most of the Leffersbees, for instance, are in banking. The Donners run the lodge and have for generations. The Monroes are in construction—well, most of the brothers.”
I supposed that was also true where I grew up. The people who stayed after high school tended to work with or for their families, in general. Or in the same line of work.
The flutter of disquiet lessened. “And your people enforce the law?”
“That’s right.” He confirmed with a single nod, his voice quiet and steady. “It’s not so strange, if you think it over. Aren’t there dynasties in Hollywood? Barrymores, Fondas, Smiths?”
Well, look at him. Pretty and smart. “Good point,” I conceded, unable to stop my slow-spreading smile. He really was very pretty.
“So where are we going?” he asked, shifting his weight to his left foot and tilting his head, his eyes still on me. “The Stop, Corner Café, or Utterly Ice Cream?”
“I . . .” Reluctantly, I tore my attention from his gorgeous gaze, surveying the small downtown once more. “I guess, uh—”
Quick! What is sexy to eat? Not sandwiches. I didn’t want chipmunk cheeks while chewing. Not soup. What if he slurps? That’d be a dealbreaker. And not salad; dressing is always a hazard. A muffin? No.
Too bad there weren’t any banana stores around here.
“Ice cream,” I said finally. Licking was good. Perfect.
“You want ice cream for dinner? In late November?”
“Whenever possible—” I winked at him “—I like to skip straight to dessert.”
“Ice cream it is." He grinned. Nailed it.
“We’re stopping?”
“Yep.” He nodded.
I frowned, gauging how far we were from the flow of traffic—not that I’d seen any other cars on the twisting, two-lane highway. He’d backed us onto what I assumed was a side shoulder and directly into the tree line. Just the hood of the car was visible from the road, and only if someone was really paying attention. The cab and truck bed were surrounded by brush and trees.
“We can stop here?”
“Yes.”
“Uh, why are we stopping here?”
“We’re just above Milton Overlook,” he said, like all my questions would be answered by these words.
We were the only car pulled off the road, and it didn’t look like much of an overlook. “So people pull off here to see a view?” Redirecting my attention behind us, I winced at the sun, low in the sky, coming in directly through the back window.
“Don’t look back. ...
