“I’m not the law, Miss. I’m a National Park Ranger.”
I took in his uniform again, seeing it was green and not blue, and shrugged. I didn’t care what kind of official he was just as long as he helped me get out of this Twilight Zone episode before the banjo music started to play and the flannel-wearing bloodhounds arrived.
“Oh. Okay. Then, what should I call you? Mr. Ranger?”
He bit his lip, again fighting laughter, and squeezed my hand. “You can call me Jethro, Miss. You say you’re out of gas?”
“Your name is Jethro?”
“That’s right.”
I stared at him, feeling like his name wasn’t quite right, didn’t match his hot guy status. If he were in the movie business he’d have to pick a new name. Something like Cain, or Dean, or Cain Dean. Four letters each, easy to remember, monosyllabic to ensure he didn’t forget how to spell or pronounce them.
Because, in my experience, this kind of hot guy didn’t usually know how to spell. . . or pronounce.
“How much gas did you say?” he asked again.
“The red light is flashing. I think I’m running on fumes.”
“That’s alright.” A warm, interested smile remained behind his eyes. “I can drive you up to the lake and we’ll get this car filled up and towed.”
“As in Jethro Tull?”
“Pardon me?”
“Your name? Jethro as in Jethro Tull?”
His friendly gaze traveled over my face as he grinned. Again. Wider. “As in Jethro, father-in-law of Moses in the Old Testament. Do you have any bags, Miss?” He gave my hand one more reassuring squeeze then released me, moving to the driver’s side door—which was still open—and plucking the keys from the ignition.
“Bags?”
“Yes. Luggage.”
I snorted, saying, “Yes. Lots. But don’t worry, I’m in therapy,” and chuckled at my own joke.
Meanwhile, cutie-pie Jethro straightened from the car and lifted his eyebrows at me in expectation.
“Pardon?”
My chuckling tapered and I cleared my throat, seeing that he hadn’t heard my attempt at humor.
When I’m nervous I make jokes. It’s my thing. It’s what I do. Some might even call it a compulsion. It’s like, Hey! Look at the funny! Focus on that, not on my pit stains or the disturbing way my nostrils are flaring. . .
Which was how I realized that Ranger Jethro was making me nervous. Which was completely bizarre because I was pretty sure I’d been inoculated against hot guys after my last boyfriend.
So. Weird.
I blamed the cardio.
Being funny is entirely dependent on timing. I’d learned early in my career to move on instead of repeating a joke, though I mourned those unheard jokes. They were the comedy equivalent of throwing seeds on rocks.
Stupid rocks.
“Sorry. Yes. Bags. In the trunk.” I tossed my thumb over my shoulder and tucked my hair behind my ears, resolving to speak as little as possible.
His eyes lingered on my face, still warm and interested. We stared at each other. And then we stared some more. So I waited.
A bird chirped.
The wind rustled the trees.
And still he stared.
The way he was looking at me, all dreamy-eyed and flirty, I wondered if I had a super-fan on my hands. Or maybe he’d never met anyone famous before. Whatever it was, I needed him to get a move on, because I had to use the bathroom. I refused to pee behind the big tree at the end of the gravel patch because I’d already peed behind that tree over an hour ago, the first time I pulled onto this overlook.
I was just about make another joke when he blinked and the moment was broken. He nodded once, bent at the waist, and popped the trunk. I turned and moved to the back of the car to retrieve my bags.
But he was right next to me, reaching into the trunk before I had it all the way open, grabbing my suitcase and overnight bag.
“Allow me,” he said, shooting me another of his wide grins.
“Really, Ranger Jethro, I can carry my own bags.”
“This is a full service rescue, Miss.” He stood straight, placing my eighty pound oversized suitcase on the gravel, then slung my overnight bag on his shoulder. Instead of rolling the suitcase, he lifted it by the handle and carried it to the bed of his truck.
I frowned at his retreating form. “It has wheels, Ranger.”
“Don’t want to ruin them. This gravel’ll tear them up,” he explained on a grunt.
I lifted an eyebrow at his retreating back, completely caught off guard by his thoughtful observation and helpfulness. Actually, I was astonished by how capable he seemed to be. I was not used to hot guys being capable. . .
Narrowing my eyes in suspicion, I moved to the backseat to grab my backpack. This really was a Twilight Zone episode. A hot guy who is also capable?
Does not compute.
Unless he’s gay. . . yeah, he’s probably gay.