Grin and Beard It (Winston Brothers #2)

by Penny Reid

  I loved him for it.

  I love him.

  I blinked. The unbidden thought caught me off guard and was made even scarier because it wasn’t too soon. Since Hawk’s Field and the fun that came after, we’d been considerably more open about our relationship. He stayed with me most nights. We drove to the set together then made out or just shared each other’s company in my trailer. People on the set were talking, but we couldn’t be bothered to care.

  We’d done everything but cross his line, and I believed he enjoyed my tempting him just as much as I did.

  I was mad for him.

  Everything was grand.

  We were perfect together.

  If my life were a movie script, the timing would have been just right. Two months, eight dates, a few ups and downs—actually, a lot of ups and very few downs—and no insurmountable issues.

  I loved him. I trusted him. I wanted to be with him all the time. He treated me like I was precious to him, like I was the most important thing in his life, like I took priority. And I hoped he knew I felt the same way for him. I couldn’t imagine my life without him.

  “You know, I still don’t know much about what you actually do.”

  “What I do?” I squeaked, jumping, trying to keep up with the conversation even as I was endeavoring to not freak out about the fact I loved him.

  I’d never been in love.

  But I loved Jethro.

  I love him.

  “Yeah, your job. We’ve talked about your writing, but you don’t talk much about acting.”

  What a funny comment. Had we really never talked about my job? I was sure I’d rambled incessantly about acting at some point.

  “My job?”

  “Yes.”

  An unbidden smile claimed my mouth and my heart skipped a few beats. “So you haven’t looked me up?”

  “Nope.” He smiled, clearly pleased I was pleased.

  Yep. I love him.

  “Not at all? No googling, or yahooing, or binging?”

  “I don’t know what binging is, but it sounds like something we should try later.”

  “No. We shouldn’t. It’s the shameful receptacle of thwarted hopes, where dreams and searches go to die,” I joked, because I now knew I loved him and thus was nervous.

  “We should definitely steer clear of shameful receptacles of thwarted hopes.” He smiled at me even as he studied me, his voice a rich, velvety baritone. I even loved his voice. Actually, I especially loved his voice.

  Then he asked, “Does talking about your job make you nervous?”

  “No. No, not at all. I guess I can’t believe we haven’t talked about it yet. I mean, it’s usually the only thing people want to talk to me about.”

  He clearly didn’t like my offhanded confession because his resultant frown was severe. It was the truth—people usually only wanted to talk to me about my job, my movies, or what it was like to be an actress—but I hadn’t ever admitted the truth out loud, nor had I ever explicitly realized it as a thought.

  And yet, with Jethro, we’d known each other for months and this was the first time he’d asked me about it. Actually, there had been one other time, when he’d thought my name was Sarah and I told him I was a writer. Other than that one incident, he’d asked me all manner of questions—what I thought, what I wished for—but never about being an actress or a celebrity.

  I rushed to answer his question, not wanting to dwell on the depressing truth of my impromptu confession. “Okay, let’s see. My first film, Taco Tuesday, didn’t have much to do with tacos. It was about a girl who grew tired of the words used to describe women, but hardly ever used to describe men.”

  “Like what? Give me some examples.”

  “Okay, like feisty. Or buxom. Or dainty, perky, prissy, slutty, bitchy, and prude.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, okay. I can see that. I’ve never called a man feisty, or slutty for that matter.”

  “And you wouldn’t. It just isn’t done. A woman is a slut, but a man is a man-slut. Why is the default gender of a slut a woman? Why can’t sluts just be sluts instead of having to differentiate the gender?”

  “Yeah. Let them all be sluts.”

  “That’s what I always say. I’m very careful to refer to my sex-worker friends as escorts, not man-tramps or men-wenches.”

  Jethro laughed, his smile lingering for a long time after his chuckle tapered. I loved the sound of his laugh, and I loved that he laughed so freely, without reservation. I loved how vulnerable he was to happiness, truly open to the possibility of it. His willingness made being around him relaxing, easy. So easy, everyone else’s company felt difficult and challenging in comparison.

  When I realized I was staring at him and his charming face, I shook myself, returned my attention to my food, and gathered my wits. “Anyway, this girl, Kate was her name, she grew irritated with how words were used so she started insulting women with words reserved for men—like dickface—and men with words reserved for women—like prude. But then her rant was picked up by the national news, went viral, and she became a reluctant spokesperson for feminism. It was a satire-comedy, like a buddy movie that made fun of both men and women and our first world struggles, feminists and meninists.”

  “Meninists?”

  “Oh yes. Men’s rights activists.”

  The way Jethro both lifted and furrowed his eyebrows told me this concept perplexed him. “You made that word up.”

  “No. I didn’t. I swear. They exist and they have twitter accounts and all hate me.”

  “What the hell is a men’s rights activist?”

  “Well, if you asked Kate, the main character from Taco Tuesday, it’s a coven of dainty, sassy, wee men, who are quite perky, headstrong, and prudish, and who fret about how society is eroding their privilege. But if you ask me, it’s a bunch of guys who don’t have enough to do, suffer from micro-IQ scores, and can’t get laid, so they hate on women.”

  “Huh.” I could see his expression still held confusion and disbelief. In the end he shrugged. “So, why did you write it? Why’d you write the script?”

  “I love to write. I’ve always loved writing much more than performing, giving voice to the imaginary people in my head. And movies. I love film. But I wrote this particular script because so much about our culture is inadvertently hilarious. I enjoy poking fun at sensitive topics, because you can achieve a lot more with humor and entertainment, reach more hearts and minds, than with the most thoughtful and well-researched letter to the editor. And because most of the words used to describe only women—not all, just most—are really rather negative or condescending. Like the term ‘working-mom.’ No one says ‘working-dad.’ Why do we do that? Don’t mothers have it hard enough?”

  “Buxom isn’t negative.” Referring to my earlier word list, Jethro’s eyes darted to my chest then back up. He didn’t apologize, but he did smile.

  So of course I had to tease him. “Did you just look at my chest when you said ‘buxom?’”

  “Yes.” He nodded once, his eyes warm and playful.

  “And why did you do that?”

  “Because the word describes what you have going on in that area. Just like, the word clever describes what you have going on here,” he motioned to my brain, “and the word beautiful describes what you have going on everywhere.”

  Warmth bloomed in my chest and I couldn’t help my grin. “Oh, you’re good.”

  “Yes. But sometimes . . .” his eyes dropped again, this time conducting a slow perusal from the heels of my shoes to the locket around my neck, heating every inch of my body with his gaze until it collided with mine, “sometimes I’m very, very bad.”

  ***

  We were in his truck driving to his house after dinner, enjoying each other’s company, when Marta called.

  Her name flashing on the screen hit me like a bucket of ice water being thrown on the evening. I stared at my phone and debated what to do.

  “What’s wrong?”

  I
glanced at Jethro. He was obviously concerned about my sudden mood shift.

  “Uh, it’s just my sister.” I rejected the call. “I’ll call her later.”

  “Which one?”

  “Marta.”

  “Your manager.”

  “Yes. That’s the one.” I swallowed stiffly, wondering if the time had come for me to tell him about the argument she and I’d had when I was in L.A. We’d been texting each other and emailing since the fight last month, our discussions limited to business topics only. This was the first time she’d called. Before I could decide what to do, she called again.

  “You should get it.” Jethro lifted his chin toward the phone. “It might be important.”

  “It’s never important,” I grumbled, but I answered the call anyway. “Hello?”

  “Sienna,” Marta said by way of greeting, which would have been fine except she’d said my name like she was trying to talk reason into me, like Now, now, Sienna. Calm down.

  So I mimicked her tone. “Marta.” Now, now, Marta. Calm down.

  Clearly, she hadn’t been expecting that, because it took her several seconds to speak again. Before she did, she cleared her throat, and I heard her chair squeak. She was at work. Even with the time difference it was still late for her to still be at the office.

  “I’m calling about the Smash-Girl script and the London premiere.”

  I grimaced, having forgotten all about the London premiere. Again. When was that again? August?

  “Where are you with the script? Barnaby called again this morning asking for a status.”

  My grimace intensified, because I hadn’t thought much about the script since they’d un-casted me from the role.

  “Sienna?”

  “Yes. I’m here.”

  “Anything more I can share with Barnaby?”

  “Not yet.”

  She sighed, sounding disappointed and irritated, but she said, “Fine.”

  “I’m still thinking things through,” I hedged.

  That wasn’t like me and Marta knew it. I’d allowed it to lapse, which wasn’t professional behavior at all. I needed to work on it or officially step aside. I could blame it on writer’s block, but Marta knew me better than that.

  “And London? Do you want me to reach out to Tom’s people?”

  “Tom’s people?”

  Jethro shifted in his seat, drawing my eyes to him. He wasn’t looking at me, as his attention was on the dark road, but I could see he didn’t like the mention of my co-star.

  “You have to go with someone, he was your most recent—”

  “No,” I interrupted her. “Tom isn’t my most recent anything.” Then, on a whim, I said, “I’ll bring Jethro.”

  His eyes cut to mine, his eyebrows suspended in question. I mouthed, Just a minute.

  Again, silence followed by a chair squeak. I made a mental note to order her some WD-40 for that chair.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?”

  “Yes.”

  She huffed. “Okay, forget our conversation when you were in L.A., forget that I think you’re making a terrible mistake hooking up with this guy. Forget all of that for a minute and just think about this. I can’t believe I have to spell this out, but consider this: if you take the park ranger to this event—”

  “Jethro. His name is Jethro.”

  She ignored me. “Then everyone will know about the two of you. His life will never be the same. People will dig into his past. Celebrity bloggers and websites will pick him apart. He’ll find himself on the cover of magazines, newspapers, photographed at work, wherever he goes. He’ll be the object of much fascination. Is that what you want? Is that what he wants?”

  I held my breath.

  . . . crap.

  She had me there.

  Biting my lip, I attempted to think of a rejoinder. I came up blank.

  “I don’t know,” I finally admitted, my heart sinking. I’d been so busy being with Jethro, living in this perfect bubble we’d created, I hadn’t thought about the ramifications of what being with me publicly would mean for him.

  “The event is in one week.”

  “Okay.” Crap. My pulse doubled.

  “I’m chartering a plane.”

  “Fine. Okay. Fine.”

  “Do you want me to reach out to Tom’s people? He could fly over with you. You could both say you’re going as friends. It would delay having to make a decision about . . . about Jethro, give you some time.”

  “No.” My response was immediate. I’d rather go alone than with Tom. “Let me talk to Jethro.”

  “I need an answer by tomorrow.”

  “Fine.”

  “Good night, Sienna.” Her voice held hesitation, as though she wanted to say more, then with a surprisingly soft and affectionate tone, she said, “Sweet dreams.”

  I smiled at her tone, some of the anger I’d been carrying around since our argument dissipated. Unfortunately, it was quickly being replaced with panic.

  “Good night, Marta.”

  Ending the call, I continued to stare at the screen, unable to meet Jethro’s gaze.

  The heaviness of what I’d been stubbornly ignoring for the last months saddled itself on my shoulders. I felt foolish. I felt idiotic, stranded by my own willful blindness. Marta had just pointed out major, serious issues that should have been obvious to me. Issues Jethro and I should have discussed prior to now.

  Prior to our first date.

  Prior to agreeing to more than temporary.

  And prior to my falling in love with him.

  Now I felt the weight of it, like a slap in the face or a punch in the stomach.

  I felt it all.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, placing his hand on my legs and squeezing. “More bad news? Do we need to go dancing?”

  I managed to crack a smile at that but couldn’t sustain it. My thoughts were turning pragmatic. And with pragmatism came some depressing truths.

  I’d been selfish because I liked him so much. He wanted more than temporary with me, but he couldn’t possibly know what that meant in real-world terms. He may have had an inkling based on our first date and from the looks we’d been getting around the set, but he really had no idea.

  By his own admission during dinner, he hadn’t looked me up yet.

  Resting my elbow on the window sill, I placed my forehead in my hand and closed my eyes, exhaling in an effort to diffuse the foreboding swelling in my chest.

  “So, when I was in L.A., Marta and I had a disagreement. She saw the picture of us on my phone and . . .” I sighed, all my words were irritating, so I rushed to finish. “She didn’t like it. She’s worried about the photo getting out.”

  “I’m not sharing it, if that’s what she’s worried about.”

  I sighed again, trying to ease the tightness in my chest. “It’s not just that. I have to go to a film premiere next week in London.” My voice was strained.

  “Okay. That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  I swallowed, finding my mouth dry and my tongue coated with dread. “It’s complicated. I need to go with someone.”

  “A date.”

  “Yes. I need to go with a date. Someone who will help my image and create the right kind of buzz,” I said flatly, echoing Marta’s words from so many meetings and phone calls and lectures about the capricious nature of success, how it could vanish in the blink of an eye.

  “I’m going to be real honest, Sienna. I’m not going to be happy if you go with someone other than me on a date.” His tone was firm, like he meant business, but also measured and coaxing, like he was trying his hardest not to turn the statement into a mandate.

  “I don’t want to go with anyone other than you, that wouldn’t make me happy either.”

  He paused for a second before asking, “Then what’s the problem?”

  I covered his hand with mine, and he immediately turned his palm upward, tangling our fingers together.

  “If you decide to come with me, to the p
remiere, then everyone will know about us.”

  “So?”

  “So are you ready to lose your privacy? Are you ready for people to dig through your trash, hack into your phone, and take pictures of you at work? While you grocery shop?” I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice and mostly failed.

  He shifted in his seat. I assumed his hesitation meant he was coming to the same realization as me.

  Suddenly, I had a heartbreaking thought: Jethro and I had been doomed from the start. Or at least an open relationship was doomed.

  My mind scrambled to find a solution. Maybe he would consider a relationship in secret, where his privacy could be protected. Maybe if we kept everything between us discreet . . . But we hadn’t been discreet. People on set knew. Strangely enough, it hadn’t hit the gossip mags. Could we contain things? Keep them here?

  “Yes.”

  I frowned, not knowing what question he was answering. “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I’m ready to lose my privacy and have people dig through my trash. I’ll have to warn Cletus, though. He disposes of odd things from time to time. Maybe I should move out of the homestead, get a place in Merryville.”

  I gawked at him. “What? How can you even consider this?”

  He looked at me, his eyebrows arched over hooded eyes; his gaze slid meaningfully up and down my body, like I was the crazy one. “I think I’ll suffer through.”

  I grinned despite myself and despite the situation, but reality soon won out over his charm. “You don’t understand. We’re not just talking about now, Jethro. We’re talking about your past. Everything you’ve ever done would be turned into media fodder. Every embarrassing arrest photo, every painful story. You would be giving up your privacy—both past, present, and future—to be with me.”

  His fingers tightened on mine. Now he was frowning. I tore my eyes from his profile because looking at him was starting to hurt. We drove in silence, and I could almost hear his mind working, going back over my words.

  I wanted to suggest we go the secret relationship route to protect his privacy for as long as possible, and it was on the tip of my tongue, when he said, “You’re afraid my past will hurt your image.”

  I flinched because his tone was heartbreaking, and I immediately contradicted him. “No! God, no. Nothing embarrasses me.”