“Ugh. I hate the internet. There’re so many people there. Just tell me.”
“It’s a dog breed,” I lied, watching her. She was so gullible.
Lina was Ariel from The Little Mermaid and I was the seagull. Except, unlike the bird in the movie, I purposefully misled her with fictional explanations for the mundane stuff everyone should already know. Lina lived under the sea, in the magical kingdom of beautiful people and champagne problems.
In our odd-couple friendlationship, I was the expert on real-people things, like how to pump gas, drive cars that weren’t Teslas, use physical keys to unlock doors, and how to interact with non-touchscreen tech. She’d once encountered a rotary telephone like the one my great grandma still insisted on using. I’d convinced Lina—for ten minutes before setting the record straight—it was a device for Morse code that sent telegrams.
“A dog breed?” Lina nodded thoughtfully. “I guess that makes sense . . .?”
“No, it doesn’t make sense because it’s not a dog breed, Lina.” Now I was laughing for real. “If you want to know, stop being lazy and get thee to the internet.”
“Just tell me.” She curled her lip, adding on a whisper, “Don’t make me go on there.”
“Excuse me.” A baritone voice paired with a gentle tap on my arm had me automatically turning. Moving my hair behind my shoulder, I tacked on a polite smile, preparing for a fan or—worse—someone coming over to ask me about my callback this week. Instead, I came face-to-face with one of these bearded boys with whom Lina seemed preoccupied.
Inspecting him quickly—flower at his lapel, tux, brown beard, thick, dark lashes framing eyes that weren’t hazel or blue but something in between—I felt my lips curve on their own. I recognized him. He was one of the groomsmen, which meant he might’ve been one of the brothers of the groom. At the church, he’d been sandwiched between a huge, blond-bearded Vikings-esque male and a young Matt Bomer-ish /specimen with neatly trimmed facial hair and blue eyes that glittered like diamonds.
I will admit, the men at this wedding had been quite a sight with their broad shoulders and capable-looking hands, seven of them standing at the altar like a buffet of mouthwatering masculinity. Or maybe a casting-call line for a lumberjack version of James Bond? Point was, even I—determined to be disinterested in men, romantic relationships, or any form of distracting entanglement—was not unaffected.
I’d been affected.
Squirming in the church pew as I’d sinfully devoured the assorted eye candy in the bridal party, I’d sort of started to understand why Sienna had initially decided to stay in this two-hardware-store small town. But . . . to marry it? To be impregnated by it after knowing it for only six months? To trust it? No. No way.
Just the thought of finding myself in a similar predicament made me break out in a cold sweat and gave me itchy palms. I’m positive I’d had nightmares similar to Sienna’s present reality. And so, I worried for her.
But back to the dish of mouthwatering masculinity that had just tapped on my shoulder.
“Yes?” I asked smoothly, stepping closer in bold invitation. Boldness was my default. If I was going to be rejected, I liked to know right away.
Also, I’d decided earlier (after the Magic Mike lineup at the church) that I wasn’t opposed to partaking if an interesting man-snack materialized. Someone outside of industry circles. A local. Beard optional. Someone who was obviously interested in me (since breaking things off with Harrison, I had a strict policy of never chasing my snacks) but who also wouldn’t make tonight into a whole thing.
That said, I would not be having a one-night stand with a brother of my good friend’s new husband. If this guy was one of Sienna’s brothers-in-law, he was off-limits.
The guy gifted me with a smile that seemed real but also foreign on his face, making me think he wasn’t a person who smiled often. “I’m Cletus Winston, Jethro’s brother. Sienna has spoken of you with great esteem.”
Well, darn. That’s that. No “man-handling” this one. Ha ha! Get it? No manhandling.
And what a shame. Cletus Winston’s formal tone paired with his southern twang reminded me of the accents in Gone with the Wind. Honestly, I’m always looking for an opportunity to be reminded of the love story in Gone with the Wind. I had strong feelings about the dynamic between Rhett, Scarlett, and that tepid vanilla pudding of disappointment, George Ashley Wilkes.
Anyway, I liked how this guy spoke despite his unfortunate hillbilly name. Sienna’s husband’s name was just as cringey. What had their mother been thinking? Cletus? Jethro? Yikes! Especially when there were so many other great, strong southern names, like Mason, or Walker, or Marshall, or Jackson . . . or Rhett.
“Sienna is the best,” I said—because she was the best—and gave this Cletus person a second look. The man wore a tuxedo and wore it well, but he also looked like someone who stepped out of the pages of “Little Red Riding Hood” and yearned to wield an ax instead of a bow tie. He was good-looking enough under all that hair, but definitely not my type.
In case you haven’t guessed, my type was a Rhett Butler—a man who wore a tux the way he did everything else: with ease, charm, and a flavor of self-confidence that trended more witty-sardonic than egotistical.
Cletus Winston, brother of the groom, stepped to the side and twisted slightly at the waist, gesturing over his shoulder, and apropos of nothing said, “My friend over there is a police officer, local law enforcement.”
Bemused, I moved my attention to where he pointed and found another man about the same height as the unfortunately named Cletus. This one was less stocky, with decidedly less mountain-man vibes, and he was not in a tux. The man wore an extremely well-tailored three-piece suit in dark blue that fit his athletic body nicely. Quite, quite nicely.
My eyes lifted to the man’s face, and I studied him. Good forehead; great hair, sunny blond with texturing spikes of brown and gold; straight, strong nose; symmetrical features; angular jaw in an oval face; close-cut beard that showcased the slight cleft in his chin. Extremely attractive, but not in the polished, too-perfect Hollywood, metrosexual way that now super turned me off.
Presently, the officer’s gaze of indeterminable color shifted from me to Sienna’s brother-in-law and then back, his surprise unadorned by artifice. Obviously, the man had not been expecting to be introduced to me. Also obvious, he recognized me, knew who I was, and—based on where his eyes had just landed—he’d likely seen the topless scene in my latest movie.
Interested in me—check.
Not in industry circles—check.
Local—check.
And a police officer, eh?
“Oh? Is he?” I asked.
“He is.” Sienna’s brother-in-law nodded, his tone still formal. “And he’s got handcuffs with him. Just FYI.”
My attention cut back to this Cletus person, and I pressed my lips together to keep from laughing. Oh, I see what’s up. “Thanks for the tip.” I made a mental note to give Sienna shit about this.
While filming with Sienna two years ago, I’d joked once—just once—that I would be the first on set for the handcuffing scene near the end of the movie since being cuffed during sex always got me off, and she’d never let me live the stupid words down. I’d said it to shock her and anyone else listening at the time. Bravado always helped me conceal nerves and doubt. You know that old saying? Fake it till you make it.