Chapter 9
nine
JOAN
I stood around the corner from First Avenue in the small alley that ran behind Burke Hardware and Paperback Writer, the bookstore downtown.
Ian approached wearing his dark sunglasses and a toboggan covering his short hair.
“Did anyone see you?” I asked, looking over his shoulder to the narrow, shadowed lane beyond.
“Nah,” he replied, rubbing his gloved hands together.
It was bitterly cold this morning for the 22nd Annual Kirby Falls Turkey Trot.
The weather worried me a little, but not nearly as much as everyone figuring out a damn movie star was running in the race.
I had a vision of people chasing Ian down the street, Beatles-style.
I knew I could outrun them, but I wasn’t sure if Ian’s training had prepared him to flee his fans at high speed.
Eloise Carter, the festival chair and coordinator for the event, had volunteers waiting to escort us to the front of the start/finish line so that we could line up just before the gun went off.
We couldn’t have Dorian Masters in the midst of hundreds of people who were likely to recognize him and cause a frenzy.
I liked to think my fellow residents were neighborly enough to give a man his space—even if he was an international celebrity—but I’d seen the chatter in the town’s ridiculous Facebook group. There was a daily Dorian Watch post where locals could report sightings around town.
Someone had taken a picture of Ian over at Trailview Brewing when he’d joined us for trivia night this past week.
It had been blurry and poorly lit, but it had done the job.
People had shown up in droves. Ian had happily signed napkins and taken selfies for an hour before I’d elbowed my way in and dragged him out to the parking lot, muttering about how people had lost their damn minds and where was Darren, anyway?
After that, I’d contacted Eloise myself to ensure Ian would be safe to participate in the 5K this morning. The grouchy old busybody had been pleased as punch to comply. She knew Ian’s participation—once revealed—would be fantastic for the event.
“Hey, thanks for getting this all squared away so I won’t get stuck taking selfies all morning,” Ian said before attempting to breathe some warmth into his fingers.
“It was no big deal,” I told him. “Now we get a premium starting position and don’t have to wait in line for it. Win-win.”
It was easier to say that than to admit that I was worried about his safety and annoyed with my neighbors for their behavior.
I helped him attach his race bib, making sure my touch stayed only on the stretchy black fabric of his pullover and not the muscles underneath. I could feel Ian watching me while my fingers shifted the safety pins into place over his abdomen.
“There,” I told him, clearing my throat. “You’re all set.”
“Thanks,” Ian replied with a smirk I chose to ignore.
Darren joined us a moment later from where he’d been watching the entrance to the alleyway.
“You’re not running with us?” I asked, grinning.
He wore his big, puffy winter jacket again and gave me an unamused look. I knew the big man did not like to run. His bodyguard technique leaned more toward intimidation. Plus, this cold was breaking his California heart.
But we’d built a rapport in the last couple of weeks as both George and Ian had been spending so much time at the orchard. Darren was serious but with a dry sense of humor. He had a soft spot for animals, enjoyed chatting with Mercer, and loved my mother’s sweet tea.
“You’re mean enough to handle anyone who comes after him out on the road,” Darren replied dryly.
I laughed.
“Gee, thanks, guys,” Ian whined. “Glad my safety is so amusing to you two.”
Darren’s dark eyes sparkled, but he slapped Ian on the shoulder good-naturedly. “You’re right, boss. I’ll keep an eye out. Mrs. Carter assigned me someone who’s going to drive me around in a golf cart. We’ll follow behind, and you’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of it.”
Just then, a volunteer turned the corner and said they were ready for us.
Darren wished us good luck as we said goodbye and followed the woman in the neon-green sweatshirt to the front of the pack. People parted and stared, whispering to one another, but no one demanded to know why we were jumping line.
“You ready?” I asked quietly.
“I’ll be right beside you, Coach.”
Ian held up a fist, and I bumped it with my own, feeling a flutter in my middle that meant anticipation, competition, adrenaline, and absolutely nothing else.
The countdown began, and then the starting gun signaled the beginning of the race.
Ian and I took off.
The instinct was there to pull away fast from the crowd at our backs, but it was important to maintain our pace. Or Ian might not make it up the final hill to the finish.
A few eager beavers shot by us, but I knew they wouldn’t last. They were all flash, cheetahs capable of short sprints. Silently, I bet Ian and I would overtake them by the first mile.
I’d been running this race regularly for nearly twenty years.
Except for that one Thanksgiving when I’d had a fever of one hundred and two, I’d almost always placed in the top five.
I knew who my competition was, and I’d keep an eye out for them.
But most of these people were looking for a fun holiday run with their families.
And the cold would have them wheezing and walking before too much longer.
I was thirty-six. I knew there would come a day when sixteen-year-old Gretchen Rose Tate or college track star Tom Gordon would probably take the top spot.
But that wouldn’t be today. Despite the frigid temperature, I felt strong and fast. And maybe, just maybe, I wanted a good finish for the man at my side.
Yes, he was a spoiled movie star, and he’d started training dishonestly because of some weird, unfathomable crush on me.
But he’d shown up, worked hard, and improved a lot in the last month.
Ian had taken my advice to heart. Who knew it was so hot when a man actually listened to the competent women in his life?
I was proud of Ian, and I wanted us to do well today so that he could be proud of himself, too.
Running next to Ian was familiar by now.
I was still aware of his body next to mine, all the defined muscles and broad expanse of masculine beauty.
But there was an easiness about our movements that had grown slowly over all the miles we’d put in together.
It was strange to think I was actually comfortable with the man who had fan club chapters in over thirty countries.
Yet here we were, breaths and steps in sync, the steady rhythm of my heart a soundtrack to our growing friendship.
At eighteen minutes into the race, we turned the final corner and started up the short incline that would take us across the finish line. Folks caught sight of us, and cheers went up. People were lining the road on either side, shouting out encouragement. Someone had a cowbell.
Ian puffed out a heavy breath, and I knew his lungs were burning with the effort, but I caught his gaze and said, “You’ve got this.”
He nodded, focused, and kept going.
As we closed in on the crowd and the giant time clock, Ian slowed. I lost him in my periphery. Worried that he’d gotten a cramp or something, I looked back over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
He looked fine, not doubled over in pain or hobbling through a muscle spasm.
My gaze shifted briefly over Ian’s shoulder to see Tom Gordon, maybe thirty yards behind us, arms and legs pumping hard up the hill.
Ian waved an impatient hand toward the finish line. “Go ahead. Take it.”
Oh, this idiot. He thought he’d just hang back and let me win.
We’d trained together. Ian had worked hard for this, and now he wanted to diminish that with some well-meaning sweetness.
Rolling my eyes, I reached over and snagged Ian’s hand, pulling him into step beside me as we crossed the finish line together.
He let out a strangled laugh and squeezed my hand. Despite the chill on my face, I could feel my pride warm and near to bursting as Ian and I grinned at one another in the face of our victory.
Neighbors and strangers clapped and cheered as we eventually slowed to a stop partway down the block. I saw Brady, Mac, Candace, and Dad standing with George and Sophia, so I steered Ian in their direction.
My brother held a sign that said, “Run like zombies are chasing you.” I could tell Mac had done the artwork because a pretty impressive zombie was illustrated beneath his messy lettering.
Everyone congratulated us, and my dad thoughtfully passed over a couple of water bottles.
“Mom wanted to be here,” Candace said, “but she and Mark are cooking. The turkey had to go in, and he’s getting all the pies ready.”
“You guys looked great out there,” Sophia said.
“Thanks,” I told her. Then held my hand up for a high five from George.
“I still think it would have been more fun if there had been turkeys running with you,” the kid said seriously, earning some laughs from my family.
Just then, a golf cart came squealing to a halt beside us.
Darren and Becca were mid-laugh as they climbed out.
Of course, she was the volunteer he’d been assigned for the security detail.
They were probably best friends already.
I didn’t think I’d ever heard Darren laugh before, but it made sense that Becca made it happen. Everybody loved that girl.
Will’s fiancée came up and immediately hugged me, completely unconcerned with the fact that I was sweaty. “Congratulations, Joan!”
I smiled. “Thanks, Becca.”
“And congratulations to you, Ian.” She just went ahead and hugged him, too.
“Thank you?” His wide eyes met mine over her shoulder.
I mouthed, Will’s leafer, and he nodded as recognition dawned from our conversation at Mattie B’s.
“Y’all hop in,” Becca said after she released Ian. “I’ll drive you down to the courthouse for the award ceremony. I think they set up some outdoor heaters for the crowd.”