Chapter 7 #2
“Dating,” he insisted, taking a step closer. “The thing I want to do with you is called dating. I’m not bored or trying to amuse myself or settling for you because you’re convenient.”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly too dry.
I liked to think of myself as fairly level-headed, but it was a lot to have all that good-looking intensity and charisma directed my way.
His calm, confident tone and earnest expression had me feeling unsteady, like I’d misread the whole situation, and now I was back at step one: not understanding his motivations.
It was easier when I’d assumed it was just about meaningless sex.
But then I remembered who he was and imagined the words were simply lines he’d delivered, a mark he’d hit in some production for my benefit alone.
This man was an actor, and I couldn’t forget that.
When I was quiet for too long, Ian asked, “So, why don’t you like celebrities?”
Before I thought better of it, my honest opinion practically leaped from my mouth. “They’re helpless. They have staff that does everything for them. They’re used to people kissing their ass and stroking their ego. Obviously, I’m generalizing, but do you cook your own meals?”
“Nope.”
“Do you wash your own car or scrub your own toilet?”
“No and no,” he replied easily, completely unashamed.
“I bet you don’t even order your own takeout or know how to do laundry.
Ian, if I came into a shit-ton of money, I’d still be a farmer.
I’d probably just buy a nicer tractor and finally replace the conveyor belt on the apple press.
Maybe go to New Zealand in the off-season.
Money and fame wouldn’t change who I was.
I like my life. I like making my own dinner. I like taking care of myself.”
“And cleaning your toilet?” he asked very seriously.
I huffed an exasperated laugh. “Maybe I don’t love cleaning my toilet, but the other stuff—the things that make me a regular, normal, everyday person—I don’t mind those.
And, I think, that’s what makes it worse.
Knowing that most celebrities started out as normal people.
At some point in their past, they knew how to do all the mundane shit that regular folks do every single day.
Now, they just expect someone else to do it for them.
And that’s fine.” I held up my hands in surrender before dropping them to my sides.
“If you have the resources and money to live comfortably like that, good for you. But that’s just not the kind of life I can understand. ”
Ian watched me, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Okay. So, you’d date me if I wasn’t spoiled, is basically what you’re saying?”
I started to roll my eyes, but he actually wasn’t that far off.
Not that I truly believed he wanted to date me—whatever he meant by that.
Despite what he’d claimed, he probably didn’t want anything more than a roll in the hay.
To plant his flag, claim his conquest, and move on to the next troublesome woman who wouldn’t give him the time of day—assuming he could find another one.
“Okay,” he repeated, even though I hadn’t answered him. He nodded to himself and then walked right past me in the direction of the highway.
I opened my mouth and then closed it.
I didn’t know what to say, but Ian looked determined, and that was more worrisome than the butterflies flapping around in my belly.
That night, in the dark of my bedroom, I did something I wasn’t proud of.
With a laptop screen glowing in my face, I googled Dorian Masters.
It was a mistake, I knew that. But I’d let curiosity get the better of me.
It had built up over the last few weeks.
The running, the conversations, a secret nephew who’d wormed his way into my life just as thoroughly as his uncle.
How the man himself had fit in at Mattie B’s so effortlessly, friendly with everyone and content with small-town entertainment.
Or the way he’d visited our neighbors over at Lonely Mountain Winery and shared photos on his social media account that had gotten the owners, Reggie and Aurora Holmes, nearly fifty thousand new followers and a boatload of online orders.
In all the uproar of my daily life, I’d allowed myself to forget who Ian really was.
But staring at page after page of images online really put things back into perspective.
Cameras captured him at after-parties and in ballrooms. So many photos of his smiling face. Ian in a tuxedo, a suit, jeans that cost more than my monthly car payment. Ian holding up an Inferno Man action figure that wore his matching grin.
There were candids, too. Grainy, real-life photos outside of hotels and on sidewalks. Ian, with his sunglasses and Columbus Blue Jackets hat, as he sipped an iced coffee at a café table or ducked into a restaurant.
I scrolled until I saw Ian from the latest award season, posed on red carpets, with a microphone in his face, a different model or actress on his arm in each photo. Some of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. Sleek, graceful co-stars dripping in jewelry, balancing on pencil-thin heels.
I didn’t have much cause in my daily life to feel self-conscious. And as shameful as it was to admit, seeing Ian standing next to those women didn’t make me jealous. It made me resigned. They looked like they fit, like they belonged. Prepackaged perfection.
It was a reminder and an example. Some girls and women looked at those pictures and felt inspired, while others felt like they’d never be enough.
I clicked away from the image search after that.
An online article touted the Dorian Masters life story with an interview from his high school drama teacher and an old girlfriend.
Then there was an interview from a popular celebrity magazine dated three months ago.
The accompanying image caught Ian mid-climb from a glittering swimming pool, his arms flexing, biceps and triceps bulging as he braced himself on the pool’s edge.
His long hair was wet, midnight black, and slicked back from his face, but his eyes were as bright and sunlit as the turquoise water surrounding him.
Even after having run side by side for weeks, I stared at that image, wondering how he could be real.
It didn’t matter that I’d seen Ian in real life.
Hair shorter and buzzed close to his scalp.
Stubble on that very same jaw. A sweaty, panting mess laid out on land that I’d worked with my own two hands.
Perched uncomfortably on a wicker chair while he made my mother laugh.
There was real, and then there was fantasy. And I might have been the only person in the world who’d pick fact over fiction, every damn time.
I snapped my laptop shut and vowed to never google someone I knew ever again.
The following week, I got a message from the film liaison asking if I’d be willing to drive a tractor around for some B-roll, whatever that was. I forwarded it to Brady and Mercer.
Sophia was bringing George over a little early today. I’d made sandwiches for lunch and asked them to join me. Sophia was going to use the time to head into town to grocery shop, but George was content to sit in the sunshine in his winter coat and eat a peanut butter fluff sandwich.
He’d gifted me another friendship bracelet. Tree Farmer it read, making me smile when I caught sight of it.
Halfway through the meal, Ian pulled up to our picnic table in his borrowed side-by-side.
It was the first time I’d seen him since our run last Saturday.
He’d been busy this week with work, but it looked like he’d managed to get away for now.
It was . . . good to see him. Good wasn’t the word, but I couldn’t think of a better one.
And I was resolved to ignore the niggling awkwardness I felt at having googled him.
“Hey,” he said, smiling. He didn’t look like someone who’d recently confessed his feelings and gotten rejected. “Sophia told me where you were. Mind if I join?”
“I have an extra sandwich,” I offered. “But it’s probably not on your approved nutrition plan.”
Ian took my teasing in stride and lowered himself to the bench seat beside his nephew. “Then we’ll just have to agree not to tell Maurice. Hey, Georgie. How was school today?”
“It was fine. I practiced writing sentences, and Sophia and I started reading The Wild Robot.” Then, without missing a beat, the boy asked, “Can I drive the tractor? Joan said we had to ask you first.”
Ian’s gaze shot to mine. “Uhhh.”
“It’s the lawn tractor,” I explained. “I’m mowing the last little bit of the wildflower patch before winter. I thought George might like to help me.”
The conflict practically radiated off of Ian. I could tell he was worried about making the wrong decision or putting his nephew in danger.
“I’ll be with him the whole time, and he’ll have eye and ear protection to wear,” I assured him. “My dad started bringing me along when I was about George’s age.” Truthfully, I’d been helping my dad mow since I was three or four.
The frown lines on Ian’s forehead smoothed incrementally. “Okay, then. Be careful, though. Make sure you listen to Miss Joan.”
George nodded and ripped off another piece of bread.
I passed Ian the lunch I’d prepared for Sophia, our fingers brushing unexpectedly. He took a long swallow from a water bottle, and I tried not to stare as his throat worked.
Shifting on the bench, I made myself focus on my food and not whatever weirdness was making me extra jumpy around Ian. I knew he was attractive. I wasn’t an idiot. But it was harder to ignore today for some reason.
He unwrapped the sandwich and said, “What do we have here?”
“The best thing ever,” George replied, sticky marshmallow dotting his upper lip.
I fought a grin. “It’s just peanut butter and marshmallow fluff.”
Ian took a huge bite before I’d even finished speaking. He groaned. “That is the best thing ever. Definitely don’t tell Maurice.”
George giggled. “She uses chunky peanut butter. That’s why it’s so good.”