Chapter 2 #3
“You training for a 5K or something?”
“Nah,” he said, then quickly corrected, “I don’t know, maybe? Y’all have a Turkey Trot? I could probably give that a try in a couple of weeks.”
Kirby Falls did indeed have a Thanksgiving Day 5K. I didn’t think you could claim small-town Hallmark status without one.
“You want me to train you for the Turkey Trot?” I sought to clarify.
“Yes, that would be great.” Christ, he was still smiling. Did his cheek muscles ache? Mine did, just from looking at him.
Would he keep showing up to pester me if I didn’t agree to this? I didn’t have a problem telling someone to fuck off. But this guy seemed so earnest and friendly. It was a little like kicking a puppy, and I’d been pretty rude to him already.
I thought briefly about my vow to be more welcoming to Candace—to be better, in general.
I didn’t hate that this guy had a goal he was striving for.
And as I listened to him wheeze and struggle, I realized I could actually help him.
Running was something I enjoyed. I’d been doing it regularly since high school.
I sighed. “Fine. Two days a week.”
“How about three? I’m in terrible shape.”
My eyes dipped to his muscular chest, then down to where his black pullover hid a flat stomach that I’d bet my favorite forklift contained six-pack abs. When I wrangled control of my wayward gaze, I found Ian wearing an annoyingly pleased expression.
I rolled my eyes and faced forward once more. My parents’ house was just coming into view. The white, two-story farmhouse emerged from the fog slowly, so familiar that my feet could find their way with my eyes closed.
“Fine,” I repeated. “I’ll meet you at the gate to the orchard in the morning. Six a.m. Don’t be late.”
“Bright and early. I can’t wait.”
I could see the light on in the kitchen and a dark shape moving in the window. I hoped it was my dad making coffee and not my mother being nosy.
“I’m going in to have some coffee. I’ll see you tomorrow morning,” I told him, still unsure why I’d agreed to run with him.
“Coffee?” he asked, completely out of breath now. “I happen to love coffee.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He brightened.
I almost felt sorry for him. Almost. “Well, Cubhouse Coffee on Main Street makes a mean latte. They probably even have matcha or oat milk—whatever you city folks are into. You should try it.”
Then I accelerated to my normal speed and took off toward the back porch.
“I’ll do that!” he called happily, just as the screen door snapped closed behind me.
I made sure to wipe the smile off my face before I entered the kitchen.
Ian was waiting for me the following morning just off the highway, next to the chain strung across the tourist entrance to the orchard.
I’d half expected him not to show, and felt slightly annoyed that I’d been proven wrong.
He was still sporting his sunglasses, even in the near darkness at 6:00 a.m. With the toboggan missing, his dark hair was on display, the glossy strands swooping back dramatically in an obviously expensive cut. Despite the threat to grow a beard, his jaw appeared freshly shaved.
I caught a whiff of something clean smelling as I approached, like expensive bodywash that reminded me of warm spice and spruce boughs at Christmastime.
“Good morning.” He smiled in greeting.
“Mornin’,” I offered warily.
All day yesterday, I’d wondered why I’d agreed to this and regretted my decision.
In fact, I’d had half a mind to just not show up this morning.
But that wasn’t who I was. I couldn’t purposely break my word and leave someone waiting.
I didn’t particularly care what this outsider thought of me, but I didn’t want anyone thinking Joan Judd was unreliable.
Apparently, being a pampered Californian didn’t exclude him from that.
“We’ll do a two-mile loop today. Nice and easy. Practice keeping your pace even with your breaths. You ready?”
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
True to his word, Ian kept his yapping to a minimum. It was only after we’d warmed up for about a quarter of a mile that I told him to stop swinging his arms so much and conserve his energy. He listened, and on we went.
I kept our pace slow. He could work on getting faster later, if he wanted. Our current goals were distance and improving his stamina.
Twenty-six minutes later, we returned to where we’d started. I planned on getting in another four miles after I got rid of my giant pine-scented burden.
“Now that you’re warmed up,” I told him, “sprint the length of the Clarks’ driveway up to the General Store. Then take tomorrow off. I’ll see you back here on Thursday. Same time.”
“Sure. I can do that,” he replied, but I’d already turned back down the path toward the orchard.
“Do I get to know your name yet?” he hollered. “What do I even call you?”
“‘Hey, you’ works just fine.” Then I threw my hand up in farewell and used the next forty minutes to review my upcoming tasks for the day.
More movie equipment had arrived in the south field, and I had pruning to do on the rows of Honeycrisps nearby.
We’d be wrapping up the last of the pressing this season and freezing the remaining apples we’d managed to pick before the first frost.
Thursday morning’s run with Ian went much the same.
He didn’t talk a lot, and for that I was grateful.
He even managed to shave two minutes off his time.
It wasn’t uncomfortable to run with him, exactly, but I was aware of his big body next to mine.
That evergreen scent lingered, and his steady footfalls didn’t ever let me forget he was there.
But I still had that nagging feeling that I couldn’t figure out his angle. The reason why he’d wanted to run with me hadn’t revealed itself yet, so I was distrustful. I continued withholding my name, which at this point, was more of a game than a battle of wills.
Candace, Mercer, Brady, and I got the Christmas tree lot set up on Friday in time to welcome orchard visitors for the weekend.
I briefly helped out in the refreshment stand selling hot chocolate and homemade marshmallows with my mother, but mostly, Mercer and I handled wrapping and hauling trees for locals and leafers to take home.
On Sunday, I ate dinner with my family, as usual.
Brady’s girlfriend and my friend, MacKenzie Clark, joined us, and Candace gave her the update on the movie.
Filming was set to begin on Wednesday. I had the schedule and reminder in my email, and I knew which areas of the farm to avoid.
There was plenty to keep me busy without running into the camera crew.
Everyone in town seemed pretty excited about the prospect of seeing a movie star. I’d heard reports in the Kirby Falls Facebook group about a few sightings. I’d helped some clueless assistant with his flat tire the other day on my way into town. He’d been nice enough, I supposed.
But I just didn’t see why all this mattered.
I didn’t have Mac’s curiosity or wonder over the whole thing.
Nor did I have Candace’s optimistic certainty that a film set at our orchard would mean more tourists and increased sales in the coming months and years.
My brother, Brady, was chomping at the bit to watch them film and meet the actors.
I did not share his enthusiasm. I hadn’t even asked Candace who was starring in the movie.
I’d met the writer/director months ago when she’d set up a meeting to propose this whole ridiculous thing, but that was it.
I mostly felt out of sorts at how disordered everything was. I hated knowing there were places we couldn’t tread on our own property. I’d never been very good at sharing. This was just one more example.
I kept my opinions to myself, however. There was no point in raining on anyone’s parade or dimming local excitement. This was all temporary, and that was the comfort I would cling to.
Ian and I ran again on Monday morning. We made it three miles that day, and I’d rewarded him by answering his questions about some of my favorite restaurants in town.
There was no way I was telling him about Mattie B’s—our local watering hole.
He and the rest of the production crew could keep visiting the leafer bar on Main Street called Magnolia.
But I did clue him in to Apollo’s and the best pizza in the county.
“Does your name start with a C?” he’d asked after we’d finished up, sweat still glistening on his muscular neck.
I’d blinked and cleared my throat, tugging my foot up into a standing quad stretch. “Nope, not a C.”
“What about an L? Are you a Laura?”
I’d straightened and shook my head, amusement tugging at the corners of my lips. “Sorry, not a Laura. That’s enough guesses for today.”
His grin had said he didn’t mind too much.
My amusement had faded by degrees. It had been over a week of this.
Ian was still friendly and unfazed by my standoffishness.
He listened when I offered advice about his form and technique.
Occasionally, he asked questions, but he didn’t press.
I could feel his charm hovering beneath the surface, waiting to pounce, determined to win me over. But he kept it in check.
I hated that, for the most part, I was wondering why he was buttering me up, why he was trying so hard.
Surely there were easier, friendlier marks out there.
My theories ranged from him trying to get access to more land than what the film had negotiated to thinking I would be an easy lay for the duration of his time here.
I’d mostly crossed that last one off the list. The guy was a looker—even with his ever-present sunglasses and unrelenting smile. He could go down to Magnolia any night of the week and pick up a willing bedmate.
I, on the other hand, was more trouble than I was worth. Plus, I was pretty sure he was much younger than me. His hot body and youthful, action-hero profile suggested someone in their early to mid-twenties. I was thirty-six. Not dead yet, but not really someone he might go for.
My short brown hair was liberally shot through with gray, something I’d made my peace with a decade ago.
And while I was in good shape, strong and healthy, my body was lean with few curves to speak of.
I wasn’t the sort of woman men went out of their way to land.
I was too honest, too rough around the edges.
This guy would get his feelings hurt without me even trying.
Maybe it was shitty to make so many assumptions about someone I barely knew. Something in my gut told me that this man was not trying to get into my pants.
But that didn’t mean I wasn’t suspicious. He definitely had to want something to keep coming out here in the cold, at the ass crack of dawn, while I tortured him with cardio and refused to tell him my name.
I felt like I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Or maybe, all of my wonderings wouldn’t matter in the end.
Because a big part of me thought all of this would be over just as suddenly as it had started.
People weren’t typically very dependable.
Perhaps Ian would simply stop showing up.
Maybe the mornings would get too cold and his bed a bit too warm.
It wasn’t uncommon for folks to slack off on their goals.
There was every chance that this man would turn out to be exactly what I thought he was . . . a disappointment waiting to happen.
I could admit, at least to myself, that it might be nice to be proven wrong for once.