Page 34 of Famous for a Living

His hair is military styled, short, black as the stripe on the snake’s back. He’s twice the size of his shorter, redheaded companion, but the color of their brown eyes and the hook of their noses are too similar to be coincidence.

Brothers. No question.

And I’ve got at least a decade on them both.

“Ranger Jax,” he says, putting out a hand.

“Assistant,” his brother mutters behind him.

A vein in Jax’s neck pulses as he hears the word over his shoulder, but he ignores Kevin. “So. Have you by chance ever held one of the most beautiful, docile creatures of our national park? This is our milk snake, Daisy.” He holds the small, coiled snake out to me. “Ah,” he says, as the snake stretches out toward me. “She’s taken a liking to you.”

Apparently, he uses the snake for pickup lines as well.

“Mmm. Tempting,” I say, making no movement.

“Isn’t she?” And while his words mean the snake, his mischievous tone and eyes say otherwise.

I take a rather large step backward to make my position clear on using snakes to flirt or, you know, just flirting with this guy in general.

A door swings open.

“Catherine.” Uncle Terry steps out from an office doorway. He’s wearing the same olive-green uniform he always does. His bushy brows and mustache have somehow, beyond what would have seemed possible, gotten bushier over the last few months. And he’s got a wipe in one hand and a rifle in the other.

So in Montana we clean guns at work.

Sure. Sure.

“I trust you had a good night’s sleep.”

“Terrific,” I lie, walking past Jax (whose expression has coiled up like the snake in his hand) and going for Uncle Terry’s free side for a hug.

Just then, Zaiah steps out of the door behind him.

“And Zaiah took good care of you.” It’s not quite a question, not quite a statement.

My smile remains plastered on my face as I release myself from his squeeze and look resolutely anywhere but at Zaiah. There’s very little I’d prefer to remember about the chaotic day yesterday, particularly every embarrassing incident involving him. Even my own edgy tone at the end of the night I regret. “Yes. Yes, he did.”

“Excellent.” He nods.

Uncle Terry passes off the rifle to Zaiah and swivels me around to face the group. “Everyone, this is my niece, Catherine. She’ll be doing the social media for Kannery National Park for the foreseeable future.”

Except for Mina, who all but applauds, there’s a mildly welcoming round of pleasantries.

I peek from the corner of my eye and notice Zaiah’s stoic face.

“Peggy, did her name badge come in yet?”

Peggy sets down the cane she’d been using to nudge the curious snake’s face in her direction. Pushes her glasses up her nose. Opens a drawer.

As she fishes around, I take her in.

She’s an interesting combination of grandmother and fifteen-year-old-wrapped-in-a-vintage-coating. For one thing, she’s wearing a graphic T-shirt of some sort beneath a red cardigan covered in beady-eyed cardinals. Her wispy white hair is drawn up in a clip, but her ears are adorned with beaded black, red, and orange hoop earrings so large they clatter on her shoulders. Her cane is an iridescent purple.

After some fishing, she sets a metal badge on the desk. “Came in on Tuesday.”

Uncle Terry hands it to me.

I take it, seeing my full name (of course, because Uncle Terry seems to be allergic to my nickname) and the words beneath: Senior Media Strategist and Social Coordinator.