In my experience, most hot guys who were both friendly and capable were gay. These were my favorite kind of hot guys. I decided I hoped Ranger Jethro was gay.
When I straightened, I found him standing at the passenger side of his truck watching me. He’d opened the door and was waiting, his flirty smile still in place. His smile now smaller, and his eyes just visible beneath the rim of his hat. His gaze moved up then down my body.
Yeah. . . no. Ranger Jethro isn’t gay.
I faltered, my steps slowing, because I felt a little flutter of something unusual just under my ribcage, a quick intake of breath. It might have been attraction. . .
More likely, it was hunger and the fear of being murdered.
I wished my cell phone had reception. Though he was official, I’d feel a lot better about getting into a stranger’s car if I had the ability to tell someone else about it. Or at least tweet the details in one hundred and forty characters or less: If I’m found dead, it was the cute park ranger named after Moses’ father-in-law.”
I drew even with him and the open door to the truck. Glancing inside, I asked, “So, Moses’s father-in-law was named Jethro?”
“That’s right.” He tilted his head to the side and took my backpack from my shoulder.
My stomach fluttered again. I swallowed to combat the sensation. “How come I didn’t know this?”
His eyes followed the line of my hair past my shoulders. “You must’ve missed the memo when it was sent out.”
Taking a deep breath for bravery, I climbed into the truck. “Next thing you’re going to tell me that Moses’ uncle was named Darnel or Cletus.”
“Nope. His uncles’ names were Izhar, Hebron, and Uzziel.” And with that, he placed my backpack at my feet and shut the door.
I watched him walk around the front of the truck, his steps unhurried, his hands resting on the tool belt around his narrow waist. I liked his tool belt; it made him look even more capable. Plus he had a nice walk. Not at all the sort of walk a murderer would employ.
As soon as he opened the driver’s side door, he said, “But Moses’ mother was also his father’s aunt. Seatbelt.”
I stared at his profile as he shut his door. “Moses’ mother’s name was Seatbelt?”
“No.” He flirty chuckled, his hazel eyes all twinkly as they moved over me, like he thought I was adorable. “Put on your seatbelt, miss.”
I did as instructed while I sorted through his earlier statement rather than allow myself to be flustered by his capable and reassuring attention. “So, Moses’ mother was also his father’s aunt?”
“That’s right.” He nodded once, starting the ignition and checking his mirrors. “Moses’ mother was named Jochebed, and her nephew Amram was Moses’ father.”
My mouth opened, then closed, then opened. At length I was able to manage, “So that would make his mother his great aunt?”
“And his grandfather was also his uncle, and his father was his cousin.”
The Ranger made a U-turn, heading in the opposite direction I’d been going, and we were off.
“Huh. . ." I thought about this fact and not necessarily my words as I mumbled, "Well, you know what they say.”
“What’s that?”
“If you can’t keep it in your pants, keep it in the family.”
His eyes bulged and he choked on his astonishment, throwing me a shocked glance.
Poor adorable Ranger Jethro. He looked like he didn’t know whether to laugh or shriek in horror. I’d shocked his delicate man-sensibilities.
He coughed out a strangled response, “I’ve never heard that before.”
“Really? I would have thought—well, you know. Being up here, in the backwoods of Appalachia. . .”
Oh. Shit.
“Did I just say that out loud?” I groaned and shut my eyes.
“Yes. You certainly did.” Now he was laughing full stop, a robust belly laugh. It sounded nice.
“Well, I thought, you know, I thought you people, um. . .” Now my face was red again, and this time it wasn’t due to my cardio-map-assault workout. But the fact that he was laughing actually helped ease my mortification.
As a comedian, I honestly didn’t care if people laughed with or at me. It was the laughter I was after, by any means necessary.
“You people what?” He pushed, his tapering chuckle a deep, wonderful rumble.
Still, I was embarrassed, because the words betrayed the narrow-minded direction of my thoughts. “Wow. That really came out wrong, garbled.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re an eloquent speaker and it sounded very clear to me,” he teased.
Did he just say ‘eloquent’?
Rather than respond, That’s an awfully big word for a hot guy, I said, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying. Please accept my apology. I’ve been driving around for hours and I haven’t eaten since. . . I don’t know when. In fact, what is my name? Where am I? I have no idea.”
“You haven’t told me your name, so I can’t help you there. But you’re in Green Valley, Tennessee on Moth Run Road.”
Wait. . . what?