And then, just like that, it was awkward again. Yet not like before. This awkward was less friendly and innocently disoriented. It was a frustrated awkward, a reproachful awkward, and I could see Jethro was just as irritated as I was.
And then we did it again, but this time we were joined by a third voice.
“Jethro—” I started.
“Look—” he ground out.
“Sienna, did you put that Vicks shit on my face?” Dave asked, startling us. We both turned our attention to the big, sleepy bodyguard as he stumbled out of the bunk room.
I placed a hand on my hip, annoyed by the complaint in my guard’s tone and his interruption. Or maybe I was annoyed with Jethro.
Whatever.
Regardless, I regretted nothing. “Yes, Dave. You were snoring and waking me up. And you wouldn’t listen to reason. My mother always—”
“Yes, yes, I know. She’s a doctor, and she uses it for everything. I heard it all before.”
“You’re just lucky I didn’t put it on your feet.” I gave him a challenging eyebrow lift, daring him to tell me that the Vicks hadn’t helped.
He grumbled something inaudible, then to Jethro—as though he weren’t at all surprised to find him inside the trailer—he asked, “Are you around today, Jethro? I should be able to get a few hours off to help with the traps, if you need the help. We all slept here last night instead of going back to the cabin. By the way,” Dave turned his thoughtful frown on me, “what time is it? I can’t find my phone. And will Susie be here soon? What time does filming start? I had the schedule on my phone, but I can’t find it anywhere . . .”
Dave’s voice faded as he slouched through the door of the back area, leaving us alone again. Of course there was the threat of his reemergence at any moment.
I turned my attention back to Jethro. He was scowling. Again, clearly frustrated. I opened my mouth to speak but he cut me off.
“I should be going,” he grumped, tearing his eyes away. “I have . . . things to do.”
I stopped him with a hand on his forearm, not sure what I was going to say, but pretty certain I was about to make a fool of myself. Especially since my heart took off like racehorse as soon as I touched him.
Oh well, so be it.
Because, you know what? Making a fool of myself was my job. I was literally a professional at it.
“Wait, wait.” I gripped his arm tighter even though he made no further move to withdraw. Instead, he glared at my hand. “Wait a minute. I need to talk to you.”
“What about?” His voice was rough and he refused to meet my gaze. I didn’t recognize this version of Jethro, and it had me feeling off-kilter, nervous.
And when I’m nervous . . .
“About the impossible anatomy of Godzilla, of course.”
Then he did lift his eyes, and his left eyebrow. “Pardon?”
I bit back another joke, forced myself to be serious. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I don’t want to talk to you about Godzilla’s improbable femurs or Mothra’s nipples.”
“Well, that’s a relief.” Jethro gave me a small smile, likely in spite of himself.
“I miss you,” I blurted, then shrugged. But I couldn’t hold his gaze after that, so I focused on some random spot over his shoulder. “I like you. You’re fun. I don’t get to have much fun. And, surprisingly, not many people—in this world—are fun. But you’re fun. And,” doubling down, I took a deep breath and added recklessly, “I’m lonely, and I want you to drive with me in the mornings and evenings, but I’d settle for one or the other if you don’t want to do both.”
I didn’t mention that I hadn’t been lonely until I met him. Somehow that felt like walking out too far on the ledge of vulnerability. I didn’t mind being a fool, but there was no reason for me to be an idiot fool.
He didn’t say anything, not immediately. So I mentally pulled up my big-girl panties and loosened my grip on his arm, preparing to let him go. But then he stepped forward and surprised me by cupping my cheek with his big palm, pushing his long fingers into my hair, and drawing my eyes back to his. His hands were warm and everywhere he touched tingled with frenzied responsiveness. I wanted more.
His gaze was on my mouth and he gazed upon it in every sense of the word. It was a true gazing upon, not a looking upon or a staring upon. Gazing upon implies longing, and his longing was as tangible and hot as the coffee mug still in my hand.
I held my breath, gazing upon him as well.
I know, I know, I’m crazy. But my first thought was Is he going to propose?
Crazy.
Jethro bent his head, brushing his lips softly against mine. I instinctively chased each retreat, craning my neck and holding my breath. Once, twice he pressed a teasing kiss to my mouth. When he returned a third time, the kiss immediately turned hungry. Teeth and tongue encouraged me to open for him and I did, placing my mug on the table beside us with fumbling fingers.