Grin and Beard It(74)

Clearing my throat, I announced, “I want to thank you for inviting me.”

His eyes cut to mine and he lifted an eyebrow. “I didn’t invite you. Cletus did.”

I angled my chin and slipped on one of my more seductive smiles. “I guess I should thank Cletus, then.”

His eyes narrowed. “No need to thank Cletus. I’m the one making dinner. You can thank me.”

“How should I thank you?” I deepened my voice, pretty sure he would catch the general direction of my thoughts.

Jethro’s pace slackened as we entered the forest, the thick undergrowth hiding us from the view of the house.

“A simple thank you should suffice.”

I gathered a breath for courage and made my pitch. “Is that all you want from me? Because I’m prepared to offer more.”

His steps faltered and I glanced tentatively at his profile, trying to read his expression. Before I could, Jethro’s hand fell from my hip. He crossed his arms and walked ten paces away to a tall pine tree, giving me his back.

I watched him for a long moment, disoriented at first. As time wore on, I began to suspect the distance he’d put between us was my answer. Heart plummeting to my feet, I was glad he’d given me his back. I was having trouble assuming a mask of friendly indifference. So much trouble I doubted I’d be able to recite the words necessary for us to transition into the friend-zone.

In fact, I doubted I’d be able to friend-zone Jethro at all. He would exist in a new zone, one entirely of his own, where I would think of him often, and with longing wretchedness. Or was it wretched longing?

His shoulders rose and fell with an audible sigh, and then he turned, again offering just his profile. His smile was pleasant but flat. Jethro uncrossed his arms, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“This is the national park.” He tilted his head, indicating to the forest surrounding us. “This house has been in the family for over one hundred years. We have fifteen acres here. Or rather, I should say, I have fifteen acres. The house and the land belong to me as the oldest. I inherited it last year, along with some other . . . stuff.”

I nodded slowly, still absorbed by my disgruntlement but grateful for the subject change. “It’s a beautiful home.”

“It is.” He faced me, the lines of his features serious, his eyes searching. “I’m hoping to raise a brood of kids in this house, on this land.”

I watched him as he watched me, getting the sense he was trying to impart something important without having to come out and actually say it. I frowned when I couldn’t figure out what he wasn’t saying.

He continued to scrutinize me, like it was my turn to speak, so I said, “You should. This is an ideal environment for raising children. I had a lot of room to run around when I was growing up and loved it.”

His frown mirrored mine, the intensity of which seemed to increase the longer we stared at each other.

At last he said, “I like you . . . a whole lot.” The way he said these last words left me in no doubt of how much he liked me, but then he followed them up with, “But I’m sorry if I misled you, or made you think I was available for a fling during your time here. The fact is, I’m not. I can’t see us being suited.”

“You don’t think we’re suited?” My heart was all over the place. It had made a U-turn on its way to my feet when he said he liked me, bypassed my stomach, and now was lodged in my throat.

“As much as I wish things were different, no. No, I don’t think we’re suited.”

“Is it because I can’t read maps?” I squeaked the joke, because I was a bundle of new nerves.

His lips tugged to the side and something behind his composure wavered. “No. I think I could help you with that, truth be told.”

“Then why?” I tried to swallow but my stubborn heart wouldn’t budge. “Was it because I let you think my name was Sarah? Because—”

“No. Like I said before, I understand why you did that. The main problem is that you’re young and you’re wildly successful.”

“I’m not too young for you,” I contradicted, a little louder than I’d intended, taking a half step forward. “Six years isn’t a big difference.”

“That’s not what I meant. It’s not the number. It’s the difference in life situation.”

“So you think you’re what? Old and a failure?”

He cracked a grin at the unadorned frustration in my rhetorical question, his gaze reminding me of a caress as it moved over my lips and neck.

“No. I’m not old, and I’m not a failure. But you’re not just successful. You’re world famous.”