“I am. I’m the funniest,” I quickly agreed.
“You are.” He nodded, looking at me like I’d hung the moon and stars, and then added on a whisper, “But it’s not my house, love. It’s our house. And I can’t wait for you to tell our kids all the jokes.”
I laughed, but then gasped, because Jethro Winston—my soon to be husband—was being very, very bad.
And, as usual, it felt very, very good.
Extra Scene – Sometime Later . . .
“What’s that?” I gestured to the notebook in Jethro’s hands while I dished myself a piece of pie.
We were on a picnic. The leaves were changing and the wedding was just one week away. Thus, we were also sort of hiding from our families.
Cletus and I had been doing yoga every morning since Jethro and I’d returned from wrapping Strange Birdfellows in Washington state. The yoga helped, and Cletus was great. But time alone with Jethro someplace outside, away from the constant swarm of reporters that had followed us everywhere since outing our relationship, was what I’d been craving.
“Poetry,” he said, opening his arms and patting his lap. “Put your head here.”
I lifted an eyebrow at his instruction. “You always want me to put my head there.”
“Ha ha.” He rolled his eyes, but he smiled. He always smiled. “Come on, gorgeous. You need a break from the wedding stuff, and I’ve been working on this notebook for months.”
I eyed Jethro speculatively. “Is that really poetry?”
“Yes. You said you wanted me to read you poetry. So I copied some down in this book.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Is it your poetry?”
“No. I transcribed them. I asked Ashley for some suggestions, she’s a poetry nut, and a few are favorites of mine.”
“You have favorite poetry?”
“Yes,” he said on an exasperated exhale, patting his lap again.
“Are you telling me the truth?”
“My momma loved poetry. It’s how she met Drew. She ran a poetry meeting at the library and he, being new to town, showed up. He writes it, though. I do not. But I have one of his in here. Ashley emailed it to me yesterday when I told her I was taking you out today. I haven’t read it yet, just printed out the attachment about an hour ago.”
“Holy cow. Drew writes poetry?”
Drew, or what little I knew about him, seemed to be a man of few words. He looked like a Viking but struck me as a gentle giant. The fact he wrote poetry left me stunned.
“Drew writes poetry. You want me to read that one first?” Jethro flipped through the pages of his notebook and withdrew a folded piece of paper, poised to start reading.
“Wait! Before you start.” I set my plate to one side then crossed to him on my hands and knees. Once I was next to him I lay down, resting my head on his lap and folding my hands over my stomach. “Okay, now start.”
He grinned at me like I was a goof. “You finally agree? This is the poetry-reading pose.”
“Yes. I agree.”
“Then I’m reading you poetry every day.”
I reached above my head and pinched his thigh. “Stop being a dirty mister and read the damn poetry.”
His grin widened, but he acquiesced. Attention back on the journal, he cleared his throat, and then he began.
“I see you.
A weapon to wield.
Tightrope above, No net below,
Start.
Need water, Need air, Need forgiveness,
Acceptance a mantle, hopelessness a shield,
Apart.
I see you.
Rejection causes blindness,
Reset, renew,
Restart.
Forgiveness on your mind, Love in your heart.
I see you.
Son to one.
Brother to many.
Friend to me.
Now husband.
Soon father.
I see you.”
As Jethro read, the steadiness of his voice diminished as it slowed. He swallowed thickly between the lines beginning with Brother and Friend and finished the last I see you in a hauntingly roughened tone.
When he finished he continued to stare at the words, his throat working, his eyes darting over the page. I frowned my concern, reaching a hand above my head once more. But this time I squeezed his thigh, wanting to offer reassurance.
“Hey,” I said, drawing his eyes to mine. “Are you okay?”
He nodded though he looked lost.
I sat up, twisting at the waist. I’d planned to hold his hand, but Jethro set aside his notebook and reached for me, turning my body and bringing me to his lap. I straddled him and wrapped my arms around his neck, giving him a soft kiss.
“Thank you.” His words escaped on an exhale.
“For what?”
“For giving me a chance. For wanting to know me.”
I gave him a disbelieving smile, tilting my head back so I could see him. Without thinking, I said, “Of course I gave you a chance. Do you know how hot you are? You are seriously hot.”