Chapter 7
seven
JOAN
It was Saturday, and we were nearly done with our run.
Ian was breathing hard, cheeks flushed, his forehead and neck dotted with perspiration.
He’d seemed excited to get back to our workouts, or, at least, it had appeared that way the other night at Mattie B’s. But looking at him now, I thought he might be regretting his decision to join me this morning.
I wasn’t sure how to feel about seeing Dorian Masters at my local watering hole, playing pool with the regulars, and buying a round for the bar. He’d fit right in with my family and friends. Even grumpy Tucker Caswell had been high-fiving the movie star after a game of eight ball.
I’d expected him to turn on that celebrity charm, but nothing about him had seemed faked or rehearsed on Wednesday night.
In fact, there were a couple of moments when Ian had looked a little nervous and unsure of himself.
I didn’t know what to think about that or the fact that I’d overheard him asking Mercer wedding questions that seemed genuine.
And he’d soothed Mac’s nervousness and helped put her at ease by letting her win at darts.
Then the leafer discussion had caused him such distress that I’d had to laugh.
Of course, he was just a visitor here—a long-term leafer but temporary just the same.
My brother may have let Ian in on our town secret, but that didn’t change anything.
Not really. The man was playing pretend, and he didn’t need to get those lines crossed.
His part in the film might be that of a Western North Carolina native, but all he was doing was getting experience for his role.
“How much farther?” Ian wheezed.
I checked my watch. “Quarter of a mile. Let’s finish strong. You’ve got this.”
He groaned but stayed in step beside me. I was almost up to my usual pace, and he was hanging in there. I was proud of him. We had some time before the Turkey Trot, and Mr. Muscles over there might just make it.
George had asked me about the 5K road race when he’d visited on Thursday afternoon. But he’d been immediately disappointed when he found out that Ian and I would not, in fact, be running alongside actual turkeys. That had made me laugh.
I’d laughed a lot during George’s visit. He’s stayed for a couple of hours and kept me company.
I’d also met Sophia, his very young, very pretty live-in nanny/tutor/babysitter person. She’d shown up with George in tow and passed me a Tupperware container full of Rice Krispie Treats that they’d made for me to say thank you.
Then the young woman had stayed the whole time, and that made me like her even more. It was good to be a little wary of strangers. George didn’t know me very well. Neither did Ian, for that matter. The fact that she was protective when she didn’t have to be provided a solid reference, in my book.
She was good with the kid, and he obviously adored her. They had an ease between them, inside jokes, and a back-and-forth that was familiar. And I noticed a few friendship bracelets under Sophia’s sleeve, too. Something that had been missing from Ian’s.
But that wasn’t really any of my business.
Checking the distance again, I slowed our pace before saying, “Alright. Good job. Walk around for a minute to cool down before—”
“Thank God.” Ian collapsed on his back and spread his arms out wide, breathing hard. “That was awful.”
Frowning, I came to stand over him. “You do know how far a 5K is, right?”
“I can’t do math right now,” he huffed, wide chest rising and falling.
“Why didn’t you ask me to slow down or take a break or something?”
He shot me a disbelieving look. “Would you have actually stopped?”
“Well, sure. If you were this miserable.”
Ian croaked out a laugh. “You used to take great pleasure in making me miserable.”
“That was before,” I argued. “We’re training now. I’m trying to get you ready. But you have to be honest with me, or you could hurt yourself. If you weren’t up for the distance or the pace, I don’t know unless you tell me. What’s really going on here, Ian?”
“How are you not even breathing heavy right now?” he asked, exasperation evident.
“I run every day. My body is used to it.”
At my pronouncement, Ian’s eyes fell away from my face, as if he needed to check for himself.
His bright blue gaze traced the length of my torso and took a slow and steady detour over my hips and down my legs.
The running tights I wore felt very indecent all of a sudden.
I shifted, ignoring the sudden awareness in my middle.
“Yeah, well, my body isn’t used to it,” he finally said, pushing himself into a sitting position. His breathing had evened out for the most part, but his cheeks were still flushed from exertion. “I told you I don’t do cardio.”
“No, you told me you’re bad at cardio.”
“I am. Plus, I hate it. So I don’t do it.” He propped his forearms on his bent knees and looked away.
It was my turn to catalog the hills and valleys of his big body.
Whereas I was mostly flat, straight lines, Ian was a study in dips and arches, swells and valleys.
When I couldn’t take all the muscles straining his pullover and joggers, I flung a hand out and said a little shrilly, “But look at you!”
He looked sheepish. “Those are just muscles. I lift weights, and I’m on a pretty intense nutrition plan. Having a high metabolism doesn’t hurt either.”
“So you don’t do cardio, but you wanted me to train you.” It was a statement. That was exactly what had happened, but I didn’t understand it.
“I wanted to spend time with you,” he corrected gently.
I shifted on my feet. “You wanted to spend time with me . . . while running?”
Ian huffed a laugh. “No, not ideally. But I’ll take what I can get.”
I stared at him, hoping some sort of understanding would come to me, but at this point, I would need divine intervention or to phone a friend to figure out what the hell was going on right now.
“Why? I don’t get—”
“Because I like you, Joan. I like you,” he repeated, voice tired in a way that had nothing to do with running three miles at six in the morning.
Then what he said registered, and I took a step back.
“I wanted to get to know you,” he explained. “You didn’t seem very open to hanging out with me. Hell, you wouldn’t even tell me your name. I thought if we worked out together, you might . . . I don’t know. I don’t even know what I thought.”
Confusion had me frowning. I put my hands on my hips and stared down at Ian. He squinted up at me in the early-morning light.
“You’re—you’re a movie star,” I said, voice sharp, tone clipped. It sounded like an accusation.
“You’re a farmer,” he replied dryly.
I gave him a flat stare.
It wasn’t that I had low self-esteem or something. I knew that I was good at a lot of things. I also knew where I was lacking. Realistically, there was no reason for an A-list celebrity with his own fragrance line to want to run with me because he liked me. It just didn’t make sense.
No part of me believed that any one person was better than another.
Ian didn’t deserve more respect or to get away with traffic violations because he was famous.
But our places in the world were very different.
What was normal for him—galas, movie premieres, award shows, paparazzi—was not normal for me.
So, for the life of me, I couldn’t understand what this was. What his motivations were.
We were past me thinking Ian was just messing with the locals for his own entertainment. But maybe it was just a sex thing. I’d already signed an NDA, after all. That probably made things easier, logistically.
I considered this reasoning, and some of my vexation abated. Men did crazy things for sex.
“How old are you anyway?” I asked suddenly.
Ian eyed me skeptically. “Twenty-nine.”
“Jesus, you’re still in your twenties.” I’d known he was younger than me, but the confirmation was brutal. “And you’re what? Attracted to me.” I didn’t tack a question mark on the end because while I did want confirmation, I wasn’t fishing for compliments.
“I am,” he replied.
“And I’m old enough to be your—”
“To be my what?” he interrupted hastily.
“Your much older sister,” I finished flatly.
Ian laughed and looked away. “Yeah, I don’t feel particularly brotherly toward you, believe me.”
Maybe he was bored, so sex with a local seemed like a nice way to pass the time. My eyes fell to his broad shoulders, mostly against my will.
Contrary to the attraction simmering in my middle, I said matter-of-factly, “Movie stars aren’t really my type.”
If I thought he’d be disappointed by my statement, I would have been wrong.
Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “Has that come up a lot for you?”
“No,” I admitted.
Apparently recovered from his cardiovascular ordeal, Ian rose gracefully to his feet.
There was no denying he was a big guy. Easily standing seven or eight inches above my height of five eight.
But despite being muscular and tall, he didn’t loom, and I wasn’t intimidated by his size.
Even when he’d been a stranger on my family’s land, I’d never been afraid of Ian.
There wasn’t one single aggressive thing about him, except for, maybe, how fucking attractive he was.
It was visceral, his beauty. I felt it in my gut.
The swift whoosh flipping my stomach over.
It was there in the knot in my throat when I tried to speak.
The way my eyes wanted to linger over every single one of his features and then come back for seconds.
He was a work of art. Practically untouchable. And the whole world knew it.
Maybe that was the problem.
“Well, how do you know movie stars aren’t your type?” he asked.
“Because I don’t have the patience for celebrities. Nor would I waste my time agreeing to whatever it is you want. You’re here temporarily. Getting tangled up with you for a quick hook-up or a reliable lay while you’re filming feels like a recipe for disaster.”