Chapter 13 #3
It was ridiculous that Ian felt like he had to put up with people violating his personal space. That he was content to just grin and go on with his life instead of telling everyone to fuck off—my great-aunt Linda included.
“Well, the only person I want manhandling me right now is you. You promised me a dance.”
I slid him a look, but allowed the subject change. It was inevitable. I’d agreed to it earlier, and I wasn’t about to backtrack. No matter how much I might want to.
Following the ceremony, Ian had caught me in a moment of weakness. I’d been so damn grateful for the way he’d moved my sister to tears. For the way he’d spoken about Candace and Mercer and their love, the things he’d said.
I probably would have agreed to just about anything in that moment.
Now, Ian calmly waited, hand outstretched, intent to collect on my promise.
As if on cue, the music changed from upbeat and celebratory to something slow and romantic that I recognized from Candace’s playlist.
Resigned to my fate, I let Ian lead me out onto the dance floor.
We passed other couples. Mac and Brady were fighting over who was going to lead.
Becca had her head resting on Will’s shoulder as they swayed gently.
And Candace and Mercer were wrapped up in one another.
I was glad they were taking some time for themselves.
Ian’s warm hand settled against my bare back, and I fought a shiver.
He looked good in his dark suit, the tailored fabric soft beneath my palms. It struck me again how graceful Ian moved for someone his size. There was nothing oafish or lumbering about the man.
But this wasn’t a country western two-step. We were barely moving, bodies close together.
Unlike the last time we’d danced, I couldn’t think of a single thing to say. My mouth had gone dry, and any easy conversation about the wedding or George or the damn weather had abandoned me.
There was only the feel of Ian’s palm on my naked spine.
The brush of our legs as we shifted—the silky material of my dress sliding along sensitive thighs.
The buzzed hair at his nape was soft and velvety beneath my fingers.
I could feel Ian’s heart beating. Or maybe it was mine. I couldn’t tell at this point.
Time passed, and we still didn’t speak.
If I could just get us back on solid ground, things might not feel so heavy. Why wasn’t he cracking jokes or grinning at me?
The moment was rife with tension, charged with anticipation. I couldn’t believe we weren’t throwing off sparks. But I wasn’t about to pull away. I didn’t want to.
I’d been fighting whatever was happening between us for weeks now. Content to play pretend and ignore this unsettling attraction. Just because I didn’t understand it, didn’t mean I couldn’t feel it.
It was always there. A slow simmer just beneath the surface. A touch that lit me up. A laugh that made me smile. A bone-deep patience that unknotted all my wary mistrust.
Then there was the way he made time for George and the people he cared about. And today, he’d added my family to that list.
I liked Ian. I did.
I never expected to, and maybe that was the hardest pill to swallow. That I’d been so wrong about him. This felt like losing a game I was playing with myself.
The ballad ended, transitioning into “Love Shack” by The B-52s. But Ian and I stood unmoving in the middle of the floor. People whirled around us, dancing and shimmying, but we were still, staring at one another.
I exercised regularly and was in great shape, but for some reason, I couldn’t catch my breath. Ian watched me, gaze intense, and I felt the weight of more than just his attention.
We were in the middle of the crowd, exposed, on display. Ian would never be able to fade into any background. And that was where I was most comfortable.
When I couldn’t take it anymore, I turned, gasping and unsteady, and walked determinedly toward one of the side doors.
The December night was cold, but I didn’t regret my decision. I’d rather be out here with my thin gown than inside where it was warm and I was a coward.
I leaned against the railing of the balcony that overlooked downtown and took slow, deliberate breaths.
Everything was decorated for the holidays, and warm white lights sparkled all around. A moment later, I felt Ian’s suit jacket settle gently over my bare shoulders. It was still warm from his body, and something about that felt more intimate than if he’d pressed himself against me completely naked.
He braced his forearms on the railing, mirroring my pose, shoulder pressed close. “You look beautiful. I meant to tell you that earlier, a dozen different times.”
I snorted a disbelieving laugh. My dress was pretty—Candace had picked it out because it didn’t matter to me what I wore, as long as she was happy.
The silky emerald-green material was long and clung to my body.
It dipped low in the back, just this side of indecent.
My hair was curled and pinned and elegant.
My nails had been buffed and painted, which felt like a waste on someone who had dirt under them any other time.
The dramatic evening makeup completed the look of a woman who could shine up nice on occasion but rarely made the effort on her own.
If Ian was impressed by the version of me he saw today, he’d be disappointed the rest of the time.
I’d seen the women he was usually photographed with. Curvy, youthful, objectively beautiful.
That wasn’t me.
At my sound of derisive amusement, Ian turned my way. “What?” he asked, seeming genuinely confused.
“You’re used to models and actresses and red carpets. I cannot imagine that me in a bridesmaid dress I’m never gonna wear again is what does it for you.”
I could feel him staring at my profile, and it made me want to squirm. I’d said all that offhandedly, but maybe it revealed too much. How aware I was of his celebrity life. How unsettled he made me feel. How I’d never fit in his world.
I should have just taken the fucking compliment, but it had seemed so ridiculous in the face of what he was accustomed to. I knew my strengths. Being glamorous wasn’t one of them.
“None of that is real, you know?” he said quietly.
“What isn’t?”
“The red carpet. The women I’m photographed with.
My manager sets me up with those people.
Whoever needs media attention at the moment or to distract from whatever scandal is happening.
It’s all a game of you scratch my back, I scratch yours.
I haven’t been in a relationship—a real one—in a very long time.
It’s too hard to meet people. To trust them. ”
I met his gaze and nearly winced at the intensity there—the honesty so bold and unabashed.
“But you trust me?” I asked.
“Yeah, Joan. I do. You’re loyal and dependable. You’re one of the very few people who know about Georgie. For me, it doesn’t get any more trustworthy than that.”
Maybe it was the jittery adrenaline sparking inside me since we’d danced. Maybe it was the wedding and the fairy-tale bubble we’d been trapped in all day. Maybe it was hearing him call me loyal with such earnest reverence that I wanted to remember the moment forever.
Maybe it was every single one of those things that had me leaning in, closing the distance, and surprising him with a kiss.
Ian made a sound, something slightly dumbstruck and arousingly needy. Like I’d put my hands down his pants instead of where they lay, innocently over the railing.
But he recovered quickly, slotting his upper lip between mine and cupping my jaw. He drew me close, the heat and size and sultry scent of him only making me ache to be closer.
I felt his other hand move beneath my jacket—his jacket—to touch my waist. His hold was unsteady as he gripped the fabric of my dress and then smoothed it back out.
I smiled against his lips, liking that he’d caught himself, been unsure.
He could have torn the thing in his excitement, and I wouldn’t have been nearly as affected as I was by the hand that was currently shaking against me.
I wanted him unsettled. Needed him to be just as out of sorts as I was. No one liked making bad decisions alone. And nothing about this was going to end well.
Maybe two months ago, we could have had a no-strings fling to keep the celebrity entertained while on location in the mountains. But now—
Everything was different.
He wasn’t some spoiled actor I tolerated occasionally. He was my teammate. My friend. He was George’s uncle. My dad’s poker buddy. My brother’s workout partner. He’d married my sister and my friend today. The lines were well and truly blurred.
We’d somehow tangled ourselves up in each other. And now his hands were on my body like I’d been thinking about for weeks.
My lips parted as urgency flared to life. Ian took the invitation and slid his tongue into my mouth. He tasted like the champagne I’d watched him drink—bubbly and sweet.
Suddenly, I didn’t want to be out here in the cold in semipublic. I wanted to be someplace private, where I could see him and feel him and do every dirty thing I’d never let myself imagine.
My hands stroked over his pecs, the muscles flexing beneath my curious fingers. I slowed our frantic kisses, knowing that we couldn’t do this here. Ian might have been seen as a commodity, but I wasn’t about to treat him like one by putting him on display.
He pressed his lips gently to my upper lip, the corner of my mouth, my chin, my eyelids. I felt him sigh as he placed a final kiss against my forehead.
Reluctantly, I opened my eyes.
When he leaned back, he was already smiling. Whatever he saw on my face must have been amusing because his grin widened. “Nice to see you out of breath for once.”
I huffed a laugh into the cold night air. Clouds of my amusement drifted away over our heads.
Ian’s eyes danced in the glow of the Christmas lights. His happiness was so tangible, I felt like I could reach out and touch it, wrap it around me to keep me warm.
“We should go in,” I told him after a moment.
“Why?”
“Because someone is going to find us out here. I can’t believe they haven’t already.”
“So what if they do?” he said, shrugging.
I blinked. “The last thing you need is someone to post a picture of us in the town Facebook group or call into Sheila Jessup’s stupid podcast tip line to report on our—our—”
“Our what?” Ian asked, clearly enjoying my sudden bashfulness. “Our canoodling? Our superhot make-out sesh? The way you couldn’t keep your hands—”
“Alright. You’ve made your point.” I rolled my eyes before taking a step away toward the train station doors.
But Ian’s warm hand snagged mine before I could get too far. I turned to find his dark brows drawn low, gaze focused and intent.
The sudden seriousness of his expression had me straightening. That sparkling energy from earlier, that sense of restless unease, was back. My dress felt too tight—my skin along with it.
“Let them,” Ian said. “Let them catch us or talk about us. It doesn’t matter. I’m not embarrassed, and I don’t regret it. You can kiss me whenever you want, Joan. Frankly, I wish we hadn’t stopped.”