“Hi,” I said, sounding odd, like I was out of breath. But I sorta was out for breath. And my palms were sweaty. I placed them on my thighs. I also stared at him, soaking in the sight.
Is it strange that I missed him? It’s weird, right? .
“Hi,” Jethro finally said, also sounding out of breath. He stepped fully into the hall, wiping his hands on a towel then tossing it to his shoulder. He was barefoot and that made me think of him naked. Don’t ask me why, that’s just how my mind works. I see bare feet and think full frontal.
Unable to tolerate the delicious vision of a naked Jethro while he stood before me, yet completely beyond my touch, I blurted, “I brought wine, and you have nice feet.”
He blinked, the dazed quality of his gaze dissipating, and a soft smile spread over his features. “That was very kind of you.”
“The wine or complimenting your feet?”
“Both. I’ve never thought much about feet, not when there’re so many other places I could focus my energy.” He held my eyes captive; his soft smile grew playful, causing a spreading heat to radiate outward from my heart to my limbs.
Ah, there it is.
I’d missed this smile. I missed how it made me feel. It was my favorite of his smiles. And that’s when I realized I’d been spending a portion of my time cataloging his smiles.
Wanting to capture and sustain the moment, I teased, “Really? Where? And be specific. Diagrams are also enormously helpful.”
“Why draw when I can demonstrate?”
“On yourself? Or do you require a volunteer?”
Jethro laughed—an uncontainable, sinister sounding snicker, low and rumbly—which made me laugh, too. Not going to lie. I was giddy with how wonderfully easy things were between us, just like they’d been before.
“Depends on the volunteer.” He paired this statement with a lazy perusal of my body, from shoes to nose. When his eyes returned to mine, they were a shade darker and the amusement in his expression had an edge of something new. Something hot, but not warm.
I was just about to raise my hand and volunteer as tribute—Katniss Everdeen style—when a buzzing sounded from the kitchen, breaking our lovely flirty spell. Jethro started, blinking and frowning as though the sound confused him; and then he turned his frown on me, as though my presence also confused him, or frustrated him. One or the other.
“That’d be the crust.” He tossed his thumb over his shoulder then turned, calling back at me. “Uh, come into the kitchen, and I’ll get you something to drink.”
I hesitated, cast adrift by his departure. Cletus’s warning from weeks ago—hope being more dangerous than happiness—chose that moment to resurface. I understood now what he meant. Standing in the hallway of the Winston homestead, the danger of hope felt very real.
The buzzing from the kitchen stopped and still I loitered in the hall.
I was hopeful, and thus caught in a web of fear. The possibility of dashed hopes was scarier than I’d anticipated. As I entered the kitchen I did so cautiously, preparing myself for another rejection, but hoping it wouldn’t come.
Peeking around the corner to the kitchen, I found Jethro sitting at the kitchen table pulling on boots over socks. He glanced at me, raising his eyebrows in question.
“Are you okay?”
I nodded.
He studied me, the side of his mouth hitching the longer he stared. “You can come in. I promise I won’t bite.”
But what if I want you to bite? The question was on the tip of my tongue when a male voice boomed from another room, interrupting me.
“No. No way. No way ever.”
“Please.”
“I said no and I mean no.” The owner of this statement strolled into the kitchen from the far door. He wore a scowl and was tall and lean, but not skinny. Built like a runner. He had a shock of red hair standing in all directions, and a neatly trimmed red beard. His sky-blue eyes swung around the kitchen, searching for something. They landed on me for a beat, he did a double take, then dismissed my presence.
Well, that’s a first. I liked him already.
He was followed closely by a cute blonde woman twisting her hands. “But, Duane, I wouldn’t ask except Jackson needs—”
“Like my momma used to say, keep weasels and appointed sheriffs at a distance.” Duane shook his head stubbornly.
She clicked her teeth. “Duane Faulkner Winston, don’t be rude. You know Jackson would really appreciate your help.”
“He can take his appreciation and shove it up his—”
“Duane Faulkner,” Jethro interrupted sharply, standing from the table. “We’ve got company.”
Duane’s scowl deepened as he looked at Jethro. But he took a deep breath, inhaling patience, and turned a stoic expression on me and offered his hand.