Chapter 9 #2
I told my family they could leave, but they insisted on walking down to watch.
Ian told Sophia that they should head back to the house.
He said it was to get George out of the cold, but I was pretty sure he was worried about all the people.
There was no way Eloise Carter would pass up the opportunity to announce Dorian Masters as the co-winner of the Kirby Falls Turkey Trot.
Pandemonium was likely to ensue. At the very least, there would be cameras and attention focused Ian’s way.
With a final farewell and another high five for us both, George and Sophia made their way toward the parking garage.
Darren climbed into the front seat of the golf cart beside Becca, and Ian and I sat down behind them, facing backward.
“You’re gonna want to hold on,” I warned him seconds before Becca jolted us into motion.
Ian scrambled to clutch the rail at his side. I snickered.
“Well, Coach. How’d I do?”
At his question, I swiveled to meet Ian’s gaze.
“It wasn’t my best time, but it wasn’t bad.
You did . . . pretty good.” Truthfully, he’d done amazing.
He’d averaged below seven minutes per mile, and beginners didn’t just win races their first time out—even family-fun 5Ks.
It probably helped that he was in phenomenal shape.
Being in his damn twenties probably didn’t hurt either.
He grinned. “So, I’m a natural, is what you’re saying.”
I shook my head and returned my attention to watch Main Street fly by, but there was a smile tugging at my lips.
“You’re a good running partner,” I told him, giving him the honesty I would have comfortably withheld, but maybe he deserved a little bit of truth. “You did great out there today.”
Ian stayed quiet, but I could feel his attention on the side of my face. I didn’t turn—couldn’t confront whatever emotion might be playing out over his features.
With my gaze on the road unfurling behind us, I noted that they’d be removing the road barriers soon and opening up downtown. The crowd would disperse, and folks would go home, most to celebrate Thanksgiving with loved ones.
I gnawed on the inside of my cheek for a moment before reaching a decision.
“You can come to Thanksgiving dinner at the farmhouse, if you want,” I said in a rush, looking at Ian. “George and Sophia and Darren, too.”
His head snapped back in my direction. We stared at each other for a long moment, likely equally surprised by the invitation that had come out of my mouth.
I couldn’t explain it, but it felt wrong that Ian and George should spend the holiday alone.
We weren’t family, but it was downright unneighborly to leave them to fend for themselves while we carried on across the highway with a huge meal.
It would be a tight fit for all of us in my parents’ dining room, but we’d make it work.
And I knew my mother would agree with me.
After some prolonged quiet in which Ian didn’t graciously accept or thank me for the invitation in any way, his face did something complicated before he bit down on his very obvious amusement.
“What?” I snapped. “That wasn’t a joke.”
“No, I know.” He nodded, eyes sparkling.
“I was trying to be nice.”
“You did great.”
I scowled, and he burst out laughing.
It took me a minute, but I finally caught up. “My mom already invited you, didn’t she?”
His laughter continued. “Yeah, but having you blurt it in a rush, out of nowhere, really meant a lot to me.”
Glaring, I whacked him on the thigh—his very firm thigh.
He clutched his leg dramatically. “Don’t injure me. This is an award-winning leg.”
I rolled my eyes and made to turn away.
“Wait,” Ian called, tugging on my arm to get my attention.
“Yes, your mother invited us, but I told her that I didn’t want to impose.
Maggie invited us, too. You Southerners are just desperate to feed people.
” I snorted a laugh because that was true.
“But the Thai place downtown is open. We’ll just pick up some takeout for our little group. No big deal.”
Disappointment I didn’t understand had me looking away, but I nodded. “What about the rest of the cast and crew? Are they doing anything?”
Filming was paused for today, but they were resuming tomorrow.
I knew they were planning a weeklong break for the Christmas holidays so folks could celebrate with their families, but they were on a tight schedule this week—something about the weather and the light this time of year for outdoor shooting.
“Yeah, I think Della is having something catered at the Sterling House,” he replied.
“You don’t want to go there?”
He shook his head and picked at a nonexistent thread on his dark pants.
“No. I wouldn’t be able to take Georgie.
” Ian let out a deep breath. “And, well, you’re supposed to spend holidays with the people that matter, right?
I’ve missed so many things with that kid—birthdays and Christmases. It feels wrong to miss any more.”
I managed another nod.
Further conversation never materialized because the golf cart stopped, and Becca led us up to the courthouse steps, where Eloise Carter waited in a pale blue winter pantsuit and matching beret.
I watched in some weird combination of fascination and horror as Ian morphed into someone else. How he wiped away the emotions he’d worn on his face during our conversation just a moment ago. The shame and regret were quickly replaced by a blinding grin.
The other top finishers arrived, and the brief award ceremony got underway. I stood, beside the podium, unable to focus.
Ian Wells had run next to me and won the 5K, but it was Dorian Masters who smiled and waved to the crowd as he accepted a medal from Eloise.
As expected, the woman took great pleasure in announcing his presence.
People gasped and whipped out their phones as Darren stationed himself to the right of the podium.
Eloise gave a lengthy speech about how important the visitors from Hollywood were to Kirby Falls.
Then she did everything but squeeze Ian’s pecs and say, “My, what big muscles you have.” The old woman should have been embarrassed. Hell, I was embarrassed for her.
Thankfully, the ceremony ended uneventfully. Darren hustled Ian over to the waiting golf cart. He looked back for me, but I waved him off and mouthed, Go. As soon as Ian was seated, Becca took off. They’d avoided a scene, and I was grateful for it.
I found my family and took a few pictures that Candace insisted upon, forcing smiles for my sister’s sake.
I felt strange and uneasy—impatient, and at the same time, disappointed.
Like something was missing. Like it wasn’t worth documenting today’s win if Ian wasn’t standing next to me.
He’d been a part of it, and he should be here.
He’d become a part of more than just my running routine.
And if I closed my eyes, I could still see his face when he said he wanted to spend Thanksgiving with George.
You’re supposed to spend holidays with the people that matter, right?
More than his pained expression so full of uncertainty, his words lingered, burrowing themselves beneath my skin and putting me on edge for the rest of the morning and all afternoon.
I couldn’t focus on the football game with my dad or the cornbread my mother had me mix up. I didn’t even have Brady to distract me. He and Mac were joining the Clarks for their Thanksgiving.
So when the turkey was resting, and the rolls were just coming out of the oven, I stepped into the kitchen and pulled my mother aside.
Six hours after I’d watched Ian escape in a golf cart, my family and I showed up on his porch with turkey, ham, and all the fixings.
Ian stared in confusion as we huddled near the front door.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” Candace called as she breezed by him with the sweet potato casserole.
“Sorry to barge in.” Mercer shrugged his big shoulders and followed his fiancée.
Ian’s mouth opened, but my dad passed him a pecan pie and said, “You’ll turn the game on, right?”
“Sure,” Ian muttered distractedly, but my dad was already inside the house and taking off his shoes.
“What are you doing here?” Ian asked. The question was for those of us remaining on the porch—just Mom and me—but his blue eyes were focused only on mine.
“Well, you couldn’t spend Thanksgiving alone in a strange place,” my mother explained, as if it were obvious. “Plus, we made more than enough for everyone.”
“You’re a good neighbor, Amy. It’s really not necessary, but thank you for this,” Ian told her sincerely.
Then my mother smiled at me in such a way that I knew betrayal was imminent. Just before passing Ian in the doorway, she said, “Actually, it was Joan’s idea.”
Alone on the porch and holding a brown sugar–glazed spiral ham, I bravely met Ian’s gaze and found it so fond and tender that I had to fight the impulse to look away.
“I—”
“Joan!” George cried suddenly as he sprang onto the threshold.
I’d never been so grateful to be interrupted by someone before in my life.
“Hi, George. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Come see my fort in the sunroom.”
“I can’t wait,” I told him honestly.
The kid took off at top speed, socked feet slipping over hardwood flooring.
I made to follow, but Ian’s free hand gently cupped my elbow, stopping me in the narrow entryway. Ian’s body was close. I could feel the heat he radiated as his fingers held me frozen in place. Evergreen warmth invaded my lungs, and something flipped over in my stomach.
“Thank you,” he said, voice low, tone painfully soft.
“It was nothing.”
“It’s not nothing,” he insisted.
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry as a desert. Ian’s face was right there. I could see the dark afternoon stubble along his jaw and all the different shades that made his blue eyes so brilliant. The curly black lashes were deeply distracting.
One careless inhale would have his chest grazing my shoulder, and then where would we be? I didn’t need to know what his muscles felt like. It was bad enough seeing them beneath his clothes. But the realization was there, and attraction along with it.
Of course, Ian was handsome. I wasn’t blind to his face or his body or his dimples. But he was also a commodity. America’s leading man. He wasn’t . . . mine. No matter what he’d insinuated. Silly, inexplicable crushes didn’t matter when you came from two very different worlds.
So I remembered my place, and I kept walking, ignoring the way Ian stood completely still and how I could feel him staring after me.
In the large, open kitchen, Sophia helped unload food and chatted with my sister. Darren had joined my dad in the nearby living room as they flipped through channels, searching for the game.
I placed the ham on the counter, and a moment later, Ian entered my periphery.
I stayed quiet and forced myself to focus on preparing the meal.
Mercer produced a carving knife and platter from somewhere and took the foil off the turkey.
Thank Christ, George entered the kitchen at just that moment and distracted everyone by shouting, “Yay, turkey!”
“I thought you were a vegetarian,” Ian said, grinning down at his nephew.
“That was last week,” the boy informed him, making us laugh.
It was organized chaos as we set the table and uncovered dishes.
All the while, I was painfully aware of Ian moving next to me or behind me.
I’d feel his gaze and force myself to focus on scooping mashed potatoes into a serving dish or brushing honey butter on the rolls.
But I couldn’t ignore how it felt to be here in this moment or why I’d insisted upon it in the first place.
Yes, I was being hospitable. Ian had wormed his way into my life beyond the movie and the orchard and all of it. And, of course, I cared about George and wanted him to have a traditional holiday with people who knew who he was and cared about him. But it was more than that.
It was a quiet admission in the back of a golf cart.
The way I could see every regret cross Ian’s face as he’d spoken about missing parts of George’s early life.
And how he’d been forced to pack it all away at the drop of a hat to become someone else—someone brighter, someone shinier, someone perfect.
You’re supposed to spend holidays with the people that matter, right?
Even if it was only to myself, I could admit that Ian had become that for me.