Young Buck: A Slow Burn Small Town Romance (Green Valley Heroes Book 5)

Chapter 11

“Wow. You really spruced up this place.”

I made the observation as I entered the Jenkins’ house for the first time in five months. The removal of all the cat gyms, pet toys, and Titans memorabilia had transformed the place. New accents like a bar cart and a floor plant that looked like a bamboo palm added sophistication. Buck had modernized everything somehow, turned it into a real bachelor pad.

Buck, as I’d tried not to notice, looked quite at home in the space, barefoot and fresh-smelling in a gray-and-white Henley and well-worn jeans. Damp hair seemed like confirmation that he’d just been in the shower. After he closed the front door, his gaze zeroed in on the object of my attention. An abstract painting hung exactly where the oil portrait of Mr. Whiskers had been. Its reds and oranges and yellows reminded me of fire.

“I paid extra for that part of the agreement.” He crossed his arms. “Offered to rent them a storage unit so long as I could get rid of the feline chic.”

When he looked back over to me, his smirk told me the moment he was remembering.

“You’re never gonna let me live that down,” I stated rather than asked.

“It’s not every day someone calls me a cat picture thief.”

He waved me away from the painting in the foyer, past the open living room.

“You had dinner yet?”

We were headed toward the kitchen. I appreciated the motion of his shoulder muscles beneath his shirt and how his jeans sat low on his hips. Guilty already about my thoughts, I forbade myself from looking in the direction of the main bedroom, the focal point of my illicit spying.

“I rarely eat dinner,” I admitted. He cast back a surprised look and I shrugged. “Occupational hazard. Cheaters do their cheating at night.”

“I’m the opposite,” he said as we arrived in the kitchen. “The work I do is so physical, I sometimes have dinner twice. This here is number two.”

The kitchen had a large, flat island in the middle with a prep counter on one side and stools on the other. When he went to look after his stove, I pulled up a chair. Small glass bowls on the counter held scallions and fresh ginger. The aroma from the stove had hints of sesame oil. After admitting that I could stand to eat, Buck went to work.

Not wanting to leer like a creeper, I swiveled in my stool and surveyed his space. Taking him on as a client meant it behooved me to know what I could about him as a man. The blanket over the back of the couch told me he liked TV; a turntable told me he was serious about music; shelves that had previously been used to hold photos—now teeming with books—told me he was a thinking man.

“How long have you lived in Tennessee?” he asked.

“Since I was seventeen. Why?”

“Then you remember when Rex Rogers was governor.”

“He left office, what, six years ago?” I recalled.

“Eight,” Buck corrected. “But he’s still involved in politics. His son, Trevor, is gearing up for a bid in the General Assembly. Trev’s my younger brother, and Rex...I’m his...son.”

Something in Buck’s expression told me it pained him to use the word “son” if he wasn’t sure. Something else told me he didn’t run around telling folks he grew up in the governor’s mansion.

“Except you don’t know if you are his son after the comment he made.”

He wiped his hands, then plucked an iPad off the counter and started tapping. Seconds later, he presented me with images on a screen.

A barrage of thoughts hit me as my gaze swept over a gallery of family photos. Buck only smiled when he was next to his mom. With his father at his side, he seemed tense. Yet, the question of paternity seemed preposterous. Buck bore a striking resemblance to Rex.

“Does your dad have a brother?” I couldn’t contain the most likely theory.

“Uncle Rupert’s gay, and he hasn’t lived in Tennessee for years.”

“How often do you see him?” I pulled out my notebook and pen.

“Once a year. He comes back every Thanksgiving.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“Valentine’s Day.”

The dates didn’t line up and—in any case—there were better ways to figure it all out.

“If paternity is the question, a test will get you the answer,” I said.

His blue gaze set upon me in a manner that carried me away. His brows knit together in deep thought. Fearing hypnosis, some sensible part of my mind commanded me to stay on track.

“Paternity isn’t the only question,” he finally concluded. “He’s coercing my mom into something and I need to know what.”

“Confirming paternity is still a good start,” I reasoned. “It’ll help refine our theories about whatever might be going on.”

“So what do I need? A glass he drank out of? A strand of his hair?” Buck wanted to know.

“That’s only how it works in the movies. Trace saliva is insufficient. Hair tests need the root and at least ten strands. And, if you don’t have permission, it’s illegal.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his head. “My dad can’t know.”

I went in a different direction. “What about your brother? Would Trevor agree to a test?”

Buck’s eyes darkened. “Telling my brother is as good as telling my dad.”

I jotted down that there was trouble between Buck and Trevor.

“It’s my momma I’m worried about.” Buck kept coming back to the same point. “I didn’t like the way my dad threw his weight around, making threats. That’s no way to talk to a woman who’s stood by you for twenty-five years.”

He put a steaming plate of stir-fry in front of me and damn if it didn’t smell good. There was no comparison between frozen hors d’oeuvres and a home-cooked meal. The only thing waiting for me at home were pigs in a blanket.

“My dad made it sound like some big scandal could blow up. But why wouldn’t they just tell me? It’s not like I would find out my dad isn’t my dad and issue a press release.”

“Maybe it’s not you he’s worried about,” I speculated. “What if he’s nervous about your biological father?”

“I thought of that,” Buck said. “But how could my biological father not know? My mother was the First Lady of Nashville, then the First Lady of Tennessee. If someone wanted to turn it into a scandal, they’re about fifteen years too late.”

I softened my tone as I asked something delicate. “Does he have any reason to think you might want to sabotage your brother?”

The look on Buck’s face told me he was vexed by the notion.

“Things between my father and I...they’re complicated, to be sure. But he’s gotta know I would never do anything to hurt Trev.”

“So you and Trevor are close?” I was glad for a chance to ask him directly.

“Also complicated.” Buck answered openly enough, but I could tell—my questions were making him think.“That day, my mom...she said the name of a place she never talks about. Hinckley is the town she’s from.”

“Alright.” I was writing rapidly now. “Tell me what you know about Hinckley.”

“She grew up poor. Her dad was an alcoholic. She got out.”

“Does she still have people there?”

Buck shook his head. “Her father’s been dead and gone and I’ve never heard her talk about going back.”

Buck finally settled down next to me, ready now with his own plate. He’d spent the past minute fixing us up with utensils, and setting two places with glasses of sweet tea that I was pleased to see had fresh mint.

“So where do we start?” He still looked unsettled.

“By setting expectations.” I began my standard speech. “I can catch people at whatever it is they’re doing now. But I can’t promise you answers from the past.”

Buck nodded again, but he also seemed distracted. He motioned for me to eat but didn’t touch his own food. The burst of flavor in my mouth surpassed the sumptuous smells. Lieutenant Buck Rogers could cook.

“What do you need from me?” he finally asked.

I swallowed my second bite. “Your mother’s maiden name and your birth certificate would be a start.”

Buck still hadn’t picked up his own fork. “What else?”

“How much time do you spend at your parents’ house?”

“Not as much time as I should.”

I would jot that down in my notebook later.

“Start dropping in a little more,” I suggested. “You’d be surprised by the kinds of things you might pick up on, now that you know what you’re looking for.”