I wasn’t a fake. I was just selective about the truth. Totally different.
Not wanting the magic between us to end, I hedged, “I’m a writer.” Then I turned to my car under the premise of grabbing my bag so he wouldn’t see me cringe.
The irony was not lost on me; I’d just proven his instinct to be suspicious right. However, what I’d said was also true. I was a writer. I was a screenwriter.
“A writer? Really?” Jethro had already opened the passenger door for me by the time I straightened from my vehicle. He looked at me with renewed interest bordering on fascination. “Did you write this movie? The one they’re filming here?”
“Uh, yes. I did. I wrote this movie.” Truth.
As I climbed into his truck I realized he hadn’t offered his hand like last time. I don’t know why I noticed, but I did and I wondered why—both why he didn’t offer and why I noticed.
“How’d you get into writing movies?” he asked as soon as he opened the driver’s side door. I saw he’d also grabbed my coffee mug from the roof of my car and placed it in the cup holder closest to me, whereas I’d totally forgotten about the mug.
“In college. I won a contest.” Technically true.
“What kind of contest? A screenwriting contest?” Jethro turned the key to the ignition, placing his phone on a dashboard stand, presumably so he could see any messages as they came in.
“No. I won a stand-up contest my freshman year.”
“You’re a comedian.” His smile returned. I really liked how easily he smiled. Given his past, especially the shady criminal parts, I was amazed at how genuinely friendly and upbeat he seemed to be.
I braced myself, wanting to be honest, but hoping if I told the entire story he wouldn’t put two and two together. “Well, the contest was stand-up comedy, improv, that kind of stuff. An agent—Hollywood talent agent, big deal—had been in the audience; her nephew was a contestant. After the show, she approached me. I’d always loved to write, so I showed her some of my work. She helped put me in contact with the right people to clean up my first script for submission.” All true . . . except I left out the part about the bidding war between studios. I also left out that my agent wanted me to play the lead in the movie and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
Though, I didn’t put up much of a fight because, really? I’m going to turn down the possibility of becoming a movie star at twenty? Yeaaaaah, no.
Jethro was turning back onto the main road, which I noted was named Moth Run Road, and I saw another question was on the tip of his tongue.
Wanting to head off pointed questions, I hastened to volunteer, “Six years later, here I am. Getting lost in Tennessee while trying to work on my next film script.”
“There are worse places you could get lost.” He paired this statement with a sly grin in my direction.
“Too true. Like Russia. I don’t think I’d like to be lost in Russia. Putin might think I’m a tiger and try to ride me around a mountain.”
“Or North Korea. That guy might mistake you for a doughnut.”
I wrinkled my nose at him. “You think I look like a doughnut?”
“No, but I do find myself wondering what you’d taste like.”
I gaped at Jethro—who was giving me another sly grin—before I threw my head back and laughed. “You are THE BEST. Gah!” I smacked his arm lightly, sneakily squeezing his bicep, while he chuckled along with me.
FYI, he had a really nice bicep. Really. Nice.
But rather than give in to my instinct to feel him up while he drove me to work, I reached for my coffee mug and held it on my lap, needing to employ my hands. “That was a great clandestine flirt attack. I feel like you could teach me so much.”
“About flirting?” He sounded doubtful. “I don’t think so.”
“Yes. Absolutely. You would make such a great character in a movie. You’re smooth and witty and gorgeous. In books everyone wants the hero to be broody. But in my movies—the kind of movies I write, romantic comedy stuff—they want the guy to be clever and charming. The ladies love watching that guy on screen. Think a bearded Ryan Reynolds.”
Jethro shook his head. “I don’t know who Ryan Reynolds is.”
I turned in the seat, again gaping, and sputtered at him. “What? How-what-who-what? How can you not know who Ryan Reynolds is?”
Rather than answering my very valid question, Jethro hit me with another sneak attack. “We can talk about this Ryan guy later. Instead, let’s get back to how I’m witty and gorgeous. Tell me about that.”
Laughing once more, because I couldn’t help it, I rested the side of my forehead on the headrest and stared at him again. “Oh, I think you know enough about that already.”