Grin and Beard It (Winston Brothers #2)

by Penny Reid

  My restlessness eased until it faded away, eclipsed by the stillness, the comfort of being close, yet barely touching. And I took comfort in him.

  CHAPTER 17

  “People take different roads seeking fulfillment and happiness. Just because they’re not on your road doesn’t mean they’ve gotten lost.”

  ― Dalai Lama XIV

  ~Sienna~

  I thought Jethro and I were moving forward, moving toward each other.

  Yet after “sharing comfort on the prairie”—which I realize totally sounds like a sexy euphemism—Jethro started avoiding me again. He, Cletus, and I drove to the set every morning and that was it. He was friendly enough during the chaperoned truck ride, with Cletus in the back seat, then always painfully polite and distant when we arrived on set.

  Which was why, ten days later, when I caught sight of the two of them leaving the dining tent, I moved to block Jethro’s path. I was intent on strongly suggesting he come to my trailer so we could clear the air.

  And by clear the air I meant find out what in Godzilla’s name was going on between us.

  However, before I could speak, Cletus intercepted me and announced loudly, “Ah, Ms. Diaz, I wonder if you’d be interested in coming over to the Winston homestead for dinner tomorrow. It’s Jethro’s turn to cook, and he makes a mean turkey pot pie.”

  “She doesn’t want to come,” Jethro said, his hands stuffed in his pockets, his mouth curved in a wry—albeit small—smile. “She’s busy.”

  “No, I’m not,” I blurted, frowning at Jethro, irritated he would assume I was busy. Or maybe he just didn’t want me there. Either way, seeing him every day without touching him left me raw, but I also recognized it fed some sort of addiction. I wanted more of it, more of his time, more of seeing him.

  He met my frown with one of his own, like my words surprised him. “You’re not? Aren’t you leaving town on Saturday?”

  I clenched my jaw, standing straighter and lifting my chin. Defiance. That’s what I felt. Defiance in the face of him trying to make excuses not to see me outside our structured morning truck ride.

  “I have a trip Saturday, but I’m completely free tomorrow. Completely. No plans at all. I have nothing at all to do.” Then to Cletus I said, “I accept. What can I bring, and when should I be there?”

  Cletus gave me a crooked grin. His round eyes crinkling at the corners. “Just bring yourself. That’ll be more than enough.”

  “Sienna.”

  The three of us turned toward the sound of my name and I struggled to keep a grimace from my face.

  Tom was back. The last week had been so peaceful without him. He was jogging toward me, looking like an advertisement for men’s casual fashion and overpriced body spray. Elon had to speed-walk to keep up.

  “Sí-sí,” he said as he drew closer, giving me his trademark adorable man grin. “There you are.”

  “Yes. I am here. Here I am.” I don’t know why, but I inserted myself between Cletus and Jethro. “Tom, this is Jethro and Cletus Winston. Cletus, Jethro, this is Tom Low.”

  “Mr. Low,” Cletus said, not looking at him. “I enjoyed your film, The Wall Street Connection.”

  “Thank you,” Tom responded, shaking each of their hands in turn. He scrutinized them both. Cletus kept his eyes on the grass, whereas Jethro met Tom’s gaze directly and gave him an easy smile, seemingly unaffected by the movie star’s presence.

  Tom clearly noticed Jethro’s polite indifference to his star status. I watched with mounting trepidation as my co-star affixed his narrowed glare on Jethro.

  “Do you want an autograph?” he asked with forced graciousness. “I’m afraid I don’t have a pen.”

  “That’s not necessary, sir.” Jethro waved off his offer with a friendly smile, but it was still obvious Jethro had no idea who Tom was. Nor did he care.

  Tom studied Jethro for a beat longer, dislike evident in his expression, then turned his attention to me.

  “Sí-sí, I’m so sorry about Smash-Girl.” He clicked his teeth. “Do you know why they changed their minds?”

  “Uh . . .” my eyes flickered to Jethro then back to Tom, “I think they’re looking for someone shorter.”

  Tom’s gaze slid down then up my body and I sensed Jethro stiffen. The ranger took a step closer, shifting his weight to his foot behind me.

  “Have you thought about asking the production staff for the low-carb option? Both Elon and I are having our meals delivered to my trailer, and they’re honestly not bad. Well, not bad considering where we are.”

  I gathered a deep breath for patience just as Jethro’s chest brushed against my back. I don’t know if he meant to do it, but it felt reassuring, as though he were silently communicating I’ve got your back.

  “No,” I said, “I haven’t asked for the low-carb meals.”

  Tom’s attention flickered to my boobs then back to my face. “You should. Just give it a try. Maybe they’ll reconsider you for Smash-Girl.”

  Before I could respond with a subject change or an excuse to leave, Jethro asked with a hint of irritation, “How’s eating low-carb going to make Sienna shorter?”

  Tom blinked once, his glare shifting to Jethro, the muscle at his jaw ticking. “I’ve been thinking of giving that look a try.” He lifted his chin toward Jethro. “Do you have any tips?”

  Jethro’s chest pressed more fully against my back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Where I’m from,” Tom tilted his head to the side, “they call your kind a hipster or a lumbersexual, with the beard and flannel and such.”

  Without missing beat, Jethro responded, “Ah. See, where I’m from, they call my kind a man.” Jethro gently placed his hand on my upper arm. “And this here is a woman, and so is that.” He pointed at Elon.

  “Ha ha, you’re funny.” Tom’s voice lacked humor, and his grin resembled an aggressive baring of teeth. “What do they call my kind? Movie star, right?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well then, what?”

  “I’d tell you, but you wouldn’t like the word.”

  I felt my eyes widen before I could catch my reaction. It didn’t matter, though. Because Jethro was using his hand on my arm to turn me toward him. And then he gathered me in his arms and brushed a tantalizing kiss over my mouth, with just a hint of his delicious tongue, surprising the heck out of me and making my limbs feel immediately heavy and useless.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said in a soft, rumbly whisper. It simultaneously gave me the warm fuzzies and made my knees weak. He nuzzled my jaw, tickling me with his beard, and placed a kiss there as well.

  Then he released me, tipped his hat to Elon with a, “Ma’am,” and strolled off.

  Tom was momentarily stunned, as was I. But I recovered first, mostly because Cletus nudged my shoulder as he walked past, leveling me with an intense but small smile. He mouthed what looked like, How badass was that? and stepped quickly to catch up with Jethro’s departing form.

  I quickly shook myself and made an excuse, citing a meeting with our director, and walked in the opposite direction. When I was several feet away, because I couldn’t help myself, I glanced over my shoulder—not at Tom, but at Jethro and his unhurried stride. I noticed again that he had a really nice walk—easy, sexy, unaffected.

  Yet, until that moment, I’d never truly appreciated how audaciously he carried himself, as though assured of his place as master of the universe, presiding over the kingdom of I-don’t-give-a-fuck.

  I mentally added his dauntless self-confidence to the list of his irresistible qualities.

  CHAPTER 18

  “I may have lost my heart, but not my self-control.”

  ― Jane Austen, Emma

  ~Jethro~

  I awoke and glared at the clock. It was just past 2:30 a.m. I hadn’t been sleeping well. I’d passed out around 9:00 p.m., but once again I’d had an irritating dream. The particulars weren’t important, something about an elevator and it always s
topping on the wrong floor.

  The problem was, I’d been having dreams of this ilk for weeks, ever since my date with Sienna Diaz. I was frustrated, short-tempered, and it was getting worse. The only other dreams I’d been having involved us having hot sex. Sometimes it was wild; sometimes it was rough; sometimes it was slow and sweet. But it was always hot.

  In summary, one way or the other, I was waking up every morning frustrated and hard.

  Rubbing my eyes, I rolled out of bed, debating whether or not to pour myself a few shots of whiskey. I liked the idea in theory, but in practice I knew it was a slippery slope. No good could come from replacing one addiction with another.

  That’s what my present trouble reminded me of. I’d witnessed a few of my biker brothers back in the day go through withdrawals, wanting to curb their dependence on drugs or sex or booze. Some were successful, most weren’t. They’d fall back into their old habits as soon as temptation presented itself.

  I’d never been addicted to any vices. I didn’t believe I had an addictive personality.

  But that was before.

  Before a few weeks ago.

  Before I couldn’t stop thinking about a certain gold-skinned woman with dark eyes, dimples, long lashes, and a body that inspired inconvenient—and frequently dirty—daydreams.

  I stood and moved quietly, not wanting to wake Roscoe. He and I currently shared a room. The house was still undergoing renovations after years of neglect. It wasn’t my momma’s fault. She’d been too busy bringing up hell-raisers and trying to make us respectable to notice the encroachment of termites, the leaky roof, the wood rot, or the mold.

  Walking down the hall, I surveyed the new wainscoting I’d installed last month. Most of the demolition work was done, but half the bedrooms still lacked floors. Some were missing drywall. Hence, we’d been doubling up since last November. I also planned to add two more bathrooms on the top floor. One bathroom for six men just didn’t cut it.

  Naturally, Duane and Beau shared a room. Duane and Jess were leaving for Italy soon, so Beau would be on his own by the end of the summer.

  Billy hated my guts, so he roomed with Cletus.

  I usually had my own room, but Roscoe was home for the summer.

  Ashley lived in sin with Drew in his cabin on Bandit Lake, and we couldn’t be happier for her. Though, I suspected he’d already proposed marriage, perhaps multiple times, and she hadn’t seen fit to give an answer. Not yet anyway. She could be odd as Cletus sometimes.

  I didn’t bother to shut the bathroom door behind me. I was just after a glass of water. But then my attention snagged on a dirty magazine someone—probably Roscoe—had left on the counter. I say probably Roscoe because he hadn’t quite acclimated back into the groove yet.

  See, we had a schedule. The schedule was sacred. If we didn’t adhere to the schedule, people were grumpy and chaos reigned. In truth, we only had three firm rules in the all-male Winston household:

  One: Don’t eat someone else’s leftovers.

  Two: Do your chores.

  Three: Stick to the schedule.

  Roscoe, being twenty-one and without a girl to call his own, had been messing up the schedule since his return. Duane didn’t care for obvious reasons. Billy hadn’t said a word, at least not to me. But Beau and Cletus were acting like Roscoe’s midnight masturbating was the end of days, like we were teetering on the collapse of polite society.

  “He’s used all the tissues. Again,” Beau had accused in a harsh whisper last night after dinner, cornering me by the outside freezer. “And there I was, all finished, like an asshole with no means to clean up. You need to do something about it, Jethro.”

  I’d rolled my eyes at their complaints, suggested they wash up instead of wipe up, and assured them they needed to exercise patience and restraint, but I knew I’d have to step in sooner or later and have a talk with my youngest brother. God forbid someone might have to walk downstairs to take a piss in the middle of the night. What was the world coming to?

  But back to the dirty magazine on the counter.

  The cover caught my attention. More precisely, the woman caught my attention. She was dark-haired, voluptuous, and something about her reminded me of Sienna at first glance.

  Taking a second look, I realized any resemblance had been a trick of my imagination. This woman had big tits, but they were just big, not generous. And the proportion of her waist to her hips was all wrong. Her legs were too skinny. Her mouth wasn’t the right shape, not to mention her eyes being the wrong color, holding none of Sienna’s charm.

  Realizing what I was doing, comparing some dirty magazine cover model to Sienna Diaz, I tucked the magazine under the counter with the others, where it belonged, and washed my hands.

  Unfortunately, and not for the first time in recent weeks, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. I couldn’t stop comparing the two women, with Sienna coming out vastly superior in every way.

  Her legs were things of beauty. And her skin glowed gold and bronze, out of the sunlight and even in the dark. And her body was hot and soft and made my mouth water. Just thinking about her had my pulse beating double.

  I held the physical memory of all the times she’d pressed against me, brought the sensation out and turned it around. I’d planned to inspect the recollections as an impartial observer, but I couldn’t. Soon I was pulled back in time.

  Maybe it was the memory of her touch and the feel of her silky skin. Maybe it was middle-of-the-night wood. Maybe it was the way she’d looked at me, how she’d smiled, how remarkable she was. Or maybe it was merely frustrated need, but I was quite suddenly and epically hard, hot, and bothered.

  Fucking hell, you’d think I was a teenager. I prided myself on self-control, five-plus years of it. I debated taking a cold shower.

  Unbidden, a dream I’d had earlier in the week flashed like a dirty slide show in my mind. In the fantasy, Sienna had found me in the shower and alleviated my frustrations with her hands and mouth. But just as I was lifting her up against the tile wall and wrapping her legs around my waist, Cletus shoved a rooster in my face, waking me up and complaining, “The cock ain’t crowing!”

  In a way I’d been grateful. Against my will, my body was acting like I was sixteen again, waking up to damp shorts and horny fictions.

  But now, standing in the bathroom, gritting my teeth at my reflection, images of fantasy Sienna taking me in her mouth . . . the ache was real and inescapable.

  Cursing under my breath, I closed the door, violently flicked off the light, and leaned against the countertop. I reached into my boxers and grabbed myself, hissing, keeping my grip tight and my strokes smooth.

  Given my dry spell, I was a pro at this. Usually it took less than three minutes: all business, no fuss.

  But not tonight. Tonight I had an acute desire to draw out the act, to immerse myself in the fantasy, because nothing else was helping.

  My chaotic mind sorted through all the ways I wanted to claim her, all the ways I’d bring her satisfaction. I wanted her naked and pleading, pressing her backside to my front, standing before a mirror so she could watch me touch and stroke and pet her body. Our eyes would meet over her shoulder and she’d arch her back, begging me to bend her over and fill her up.

  In the next second I wanted her delighted and laughing, because her laugh was the closest I’d come to believing in magic. I wanted her on top, chasing her pleasure as I rolled my hips beneath, gripping her ass, watching her tits sway and bounce, watching her gorgeous face above me.

  I cursed, my muscles rigid, and I came. The image of her flirty smile and seductive looks played through my mind, the only sound my heavy breathing as I tried to calm my pulse. The fantasies had been too vivid in the dark bathroom. I’d come too quickly, my mind still a tangle.

  Spent, unsatisfied, and exhausted, I flicked on the light and saw to the mess. I was no closer to contentment than I’d been moments ago, and the question remained, other than the obvious, why her?

  Our fi
rst kiss had set the tone for everything that had come after: frustration, desperation, passion.

  It had been weeks since she told me I was fun. Fun to be with, fun to be around. And it was painful to hear those words from her mouth. I was spitting mad. So what did I do? Walked away like I should’ve? Like a sane person?

  Hell, no. I kissed her, because—even though she was pissing me off—I missed her and I wanted to.

  So I did.

  And did I turn down her request to drive in together? No. I gave in, even though spending time in her company as a friendly acquaintance was like lying in a bed made of fiberglass.

  And when Cletus told me she was dealing with bad news, I didn’t think twice about dropping everything to make sure she was okay. And again when her asshole coworker showed up outside the dining tent and implied she should try a low-carb diet.

  I wanted to say, You know what else is low-carb? Shutting the fuck up.

  I wasn’t thinking clearly. I kissed her again, in full view of everyone, and spent the rest of the day tortured, tasting her on my lips and cursing myself.

  And now she was coming to dinner.

  She’d be in my house, and yet still completely out of my reach.

  CHAPTER 19

  “For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.”

  ― Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene

  ~Sienna~

  I spent entirely too much time trying to decide what to wear to dinner. At first I settled on dark blue jeans and a caramel-colored, off-the-shoulder shirt with a white lace camisole beneath. Dave told me it looked good.

  “But do I look sexy?”

  He grimaced in horror. Apparently my question panicked his delicate sensibilities.

  “I need to look sexy, because I’m trying to get Ranger Jethro to kiss me and think about me naked.”