As I straightened from the car and faced him I saw his steps falter. He was clearly surprised and I was pretty sure he recognized me because abrupt interest tempered his surprise. I pressed my lips together and gave him a quick smile, allowing him time for the shock to pass. But he didn’t need the time; he quickly covered his surprise with a swaggery brand of attentive amusement. His left eyebrow cocked just a hint as his eyes swept over my body, and his mouth a suspicious looking line, like he was fighting a smile.
Eventually he abandoned the fight and grinned. “Evening, ma’am,” he said, his accent just as sweet and thick as his voice was low. The man even tipped his hat.
And that’s when I noticed Officer Grins-a-lot was adorable.
Six foot something; smiling eyes framed by thick lashes; brown beard covering a strong, angular jaw. Maybe most people wouldn’t describe him as adorable. In fact, I’m pretty sure most women would call him a hot piece of ass. But after working for the last five years in Hollywood, all good-looking men were regulated to benignly adorable in my headspace.
In my early acting days, I’d dated a lot of hot guys—short hot guys, tall hot guys, muscular hot guys, thin hot guys, voluptuous hot guys—I’d tapped all manner of hot guys. But over the years I’d found the hotter the guy, the more the guy behaved like an entitled and incapable child.
Plus, I just couldn’t afford to date. My career had to come first. As my sister Marta frequently reminded me, if I wanted success, I didn’t have much time for hot guys. Orr any guys.
I nodded once at this hot guy’s polite greeting, as a new gust of wind meant I was again forced to push my long hair away from my face. “Howdy, partner.”
I cringed, because that wasn’t at all charming. That was unintentionally awkward. But I really needed any help he was capable of providing, and based on his hotness, my expectations were low. I sent up a prayer that he wasn’t my least favorite kind of hot guy: the hot guy asshole.
In my defense, at least I didn’t follow up my earlier statement with, “Someone has poisoned the waterhole.”
His lips compressed like he was wrestling laughter.
I braced. I never knew what or how people would react. Sometimes they’d ask me to quote one of my more famous movie lines. And that was usually fine. But right now I was lost and I was hungry and I desperately needed a shower and he was too freaking cute for me to repeat one of my most popular catchphrases—which included:
“I’ll make you a sandwich if you make me a woman,” and “Fat chicks love fat dicks.”
But instead of asking me for my autograph or telling me how much he enjoyed my latest film role as Frankenstein’s accident-prone, chubby younger sister, he surprised me by clearing his throat, tipping his cowboy hat back, and asking, “Ma’am, do you require assistance?”
“Yes.” I reached out automatically, rushing forward and grabbing his arm. Hot guy or not, he was a life preserver in this sea of mountain road sameness. His eyes followed my movements and focused on my hand where I gripped his sleeve. I was also perfectly fine that my voice betrayed my level of desperation. “Please. Yes. I am totally lost. The GPS failed me three hours ago. I’ve been up and down this road a few dozen times. My phone has no reception. I have hardly any gas. I am so fucking lost. You are my hero.”
At that he stood a little straighter. When he spoke his voice was calm and soothing, and he covered my hand with his, patted it; the warmth, size, roughness, and solid weight of him felt wonderfully reassuring.
I’d never been successfully reassured by a hot guy before.
It was actually really nice.
And weird.
“Where are you headed?” he asked gently.
“I’m trying to get to a place called Bandit Lake, and if you can get me there I will give you anything you want, including but not limited to a map written in hieroglyphics.”
I noticed his eyes narrow when I mentioned my destination. “Bandit Lake?”
I nodded. “That’s right.”
“You have a place up there?”
“No, it’s not my place. It belongs to a friend, Hank Weller. I’m just borrowing it for a few weeks.”
“Hank? You know Hank?”
I nodded again. “Yes, officer. We went to college together.”
“I’m not the law, miss. I’m a national park ranger.”
I took in his uniform again. It was green and not blue. I shrugged, not caring what kind of official he was just as long as he helped me get out of this Twilight Zone episode before the banjo music started to play and the flannel-wearing bloodhounds arrived.
“Oh. Okay. Then, what should I call you? Mr. Ranger?”