Grin and Beard It(96)

Dating a guy who wasn’t trying to get in my pants every ten minutes was a new experience for me. It was . . . unnerving.

Good. But unnerving nonetheless.

Thus, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say that wasn’t a joke, so I just stared at his dashboard.

Jethro parked and grabbed the pie he’d made from the back seat. I took the opportunity of him walking around the truck to take a deep breath, giving myself a mental pep talk: You’ve got this. You go in there and be charming. You charm the freckles off her face! Do it!

He opened my door and helped me down, tangling our fingers together as we walked to her front door.

“Don’t be nervous,” he whispered, squeezing my hand.

“I’m not nervous. I’m Sienna. How many times do I have to tell you my name?” The terrible joke slipped from my mouth before I could catch it.

He cocked an eyebrow at me, his lips twisting then flattening, but said nothing.

I was nervous.

Maybe Jethro, Claire, and I can live together in harmony. Maybe she can be my sister wife. Yes. That was the answer. She could have her pretty farmhouse and custody of Jethro on Sundays. I could have him the rest of the week. And if she touched him, I would claw her eyes out.

Perfect. Solution.

Jethro knocked on the door, then slid his eyes to mine. “You look like you’re anticipating eating a bug.”

I didn’t get a chance to respond because Claire immediately opened the door, almost like she’d been lying in wait.

And fuckingly hell, Claire was even more gorgeous in person.

“Hi!” she shouted at me, her very pretty eyes big and excited.

“Uh . . .” I glanced at Jethro—he was no help as his features were carefully expressionless, and he was looking above her head at the door jamb—and managed to say, “Hi—”

She stepped forward and pulled me into a hug. “I am so excited to meet you!” She was still shouting.

Jethro saved the dip, taking it from my hands so Claire could squeeze me tight. Our eyes met over her shoulder. He was trying not to laugh. Trying and failing.

She pulled away, holding me by the shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m being weird. I’m just—I love you so much.”

My eyes widened at her confession, and she covered her mouth with her hands.

“Oh my God. I’m sorry. I’m just nervous. Look at me, I’m a terrible hostess. Please, come inside.” She stepped back, stumbling over her own feet. She was clearly flustered, her cheeks burning red. “I promised myself I wasn’t going to be a creeper. And here I am, being a creeper.” This last part she seemed to say to herself.

And it was the best thing she could have said because now I was completely at ease.

She was a fan.

Claire McClure is a fan of Sienna Diaz.

It never occurred to me that she would be a fan. Honestly, it didn’t. Maybe I’d been spoiled by my time with Jethro and his family. They’d all been so cool about it, almost disinterested. Whereas Claire was not disinterested.

“I promised myself I wasn’t going to be weird, either.” I smiled at her, and she blinked at me like I was dazzling.

“You could never be weird,” she said, her voice full of adoration, her eyes dazed and dreamy.

“All right, all right.” Jethro grabbed my hand and pulled me inside, through a living room to the dining room. “Stop being a wackadoodle, Claire. Pull yourself together. And shut the door. We have dip. What’s for dinner?”



Claire wasn’t quite an ethereal goddess of perfection, but she was pretty darn close. And she was an excellent cook. Everything was comfort food but with a twist. Homemade crusty Italian bread, with red pepper-cherry preserves and goat cheese as a delicious variation on bruschetta. Oh yeah, she made the goat cheese herself. From goats. Her neighbor’s Nigerian pygmy goats.

She also made the preserves. She canned her own jams and jellies.

For the main course, she’d made macaroni and cheese, but with spinach ziti and an asiago Alfredo lobster sauce. She made her own pasta. The salad was made with romaine lettuce, peppers, chives, and tomatoes from her summer garden. It tasted like fresh heaven.

Bickering with Jethro, talking about cooking, and my compliments about her food seemed to pull her out of the star-struck trance. Jethro knew just what buttons to push, and I followed his lead, when she stared at me or vocalized (ad nauseam) how much she loved my movies, and how she admired me, and that I smelled really, really good. But by the end of dinner, thanks in large part to Jethro, she’d relaxed.

We’d both relaxed.

And I discovered I had a little bit of a crush on Claire McClure.

“Yes, yes! Buster Keaton was brilliant.” I pointed at Claire, nodding enthusiastically. We were discussing silent film movie greats and, as it turns out, we had the same opinions about everything.