Chapter 14
fourteen
IAN
It took longer than I anticipated for Joan to freak out about the kiss.
I blamed the timing of everything. Following the wedding, my days on set were long and grueling.
Della and the first assistant director in charge of the shooting schedule tried to pack as much in as we could before the film broke for the holidays.
My director was adamant about giving the cast and crew the opportunity to celebrate with their families, but the three days after the wedding only left me with time to fall into bed each night and not much else.
I hadn’t seen Joan at all, and I’d barely seen Georgie.
But starting tomorrow, I would have ten days off. Sophia and Darren were flying home to California with most of the cast and crew, but Georgie and I were staying in Kirby Falls.
My parents were spending the holidays with friends.
There had been no invitation to return to Ohio to celebrate together.
Maybe I should have pushed it, insisted on a family gathering so that Georgie could see his grandparents.
But truth be told, I felt more at home with the Judds or the Clarks than I ever had with my own family.
I knew that what Georgie needed right now was consistency and stability, and he had that here, in Kirby Falls.
Regardless of our plans for the break, I was tracking Joan down and figuring out where we went from here. I wasn’t going to let her shut me out and ignore what was happening between us.
The next evening, I parked my rental car beside the tidy lawn of a gorgeous two-story cabin. The house was on the far side of the Judds’ property, as far away from where we were filming as you could possibly get. There was probably a metaphor in there, but I was choosing to ignore it.
The national forest pressed in on one side, and the path from the main highway was more a suggestion than an actual road.
The first-floor windows glowed with warm light, and the wraparound porch looked inviting with its double hanging swings and ceiling fans.
I could imagine Joan out here on hot summer evenings, a book and a beer in hand while crickets chirped and a breeze whirred lazily overhead.
Brady had told me to go to the back door and knock. He’d also been the one to text his older sister and make sure she was home tonight. He and Mac were watching Georgie for me. They had big plans for homemade pizza followed by Wheel of Fortune.
I gathered the stockpot from the backseat and made my way around the side of the house.
In the distance, I could just make out a mobile home with a few lights on.
The yard—if you could call it that—was strewn with lawnmowers, car parts, overgrown weeds, and junk piles.
A white-and-brown goat sat beneath a tree, looking cold and pitiful.
I knew without having to be told that Joan must resent the run-down property next door. The neglect. The lack of care. The poor animal was tied to a tree with little freedom to speak of.
Before my boots hit the top step, the back door swung open. I froze like a cartoon escapee during a jailbreak. I couldn’t raise my hands in surrender on account of the oven mitts and stockpot, but I wanted to.
“Hi,” I said.
Joan stared like she wasn’t quite sure what to do with me. I could see the “what are you doing here” written all over her face.
“I brought dinner,” I added quickly, nerves making me question myself. “White chicken chili.”
“You made it?”
“Yeah.” I may have Facetimed Amy so she could walk me through the recipe, but I’d cooked it myself. Joan’s mother might have also mentioned that it was her eldest daughter’s favorite winter meal. I wasn’t above cheating at this point.
“Come on in,” Joan finally said, opening the door wide.
I unfroze from my position on the stairs and followed her inside.
The cabin was warm and surprisingly cozy. Its owner wasn’t very fanciful or frivolous, so I couldn’t help but stare at the placemats with ruffles that perfectly matched the eyelet lace tablecloth.
There was a drawing on the refrigerator that caught my eye.
I stared, noting it was the only thing on there.
No magnets or pizza delivery numbers, no pictures.
Nothing, except a colorful illustration of Joan on a tractor, drawn by my nephew.
“To Joan, From George” was written at the top in Georgie’s messy scrawl.
Not for the first time, I marveled over Joan’s softness where my nephew was concerned.
There was nothing overtly affectionate or maternal about her, but somehow, she was exactly who Georgie needed.
Her forthright nature, her gentle honesty, and the endless patience she had for all his questions had changed everything.
Georgie was a different kid now than when we’d first arrived in Kirby Falls. And I had Joan to thank for that.
He’d been more open with me lately, too. I’d gotten a few friendship bracelets for my collection and hugs before bedtime. The progress brought a lump to my throat.
“You can reheat it here, if you want,” Joan said, capturing my attention but doing nothing to ease the ache in my heart.
She indicated a burner she’d turned to low on the stovetop.
“Thanks,” I told her, setting the pot down.
“I have some fresh bread I can warm in the oven,” she offered, still looking and sounding unsure.
“That sounds great.”
While she pressed buttons and got a cooking sheet out, I wandered around the kitchen island.
The floor plan opened right up into the living room.
Joan had more throw pillows than I would have imagined on a worn leather sofa that looked very comfortable.
A television was mounted over a gas fireplace that was currently on, and the built-in shelves on either side held a combination of books and picture frames that I wanted to snoop through.
There weren’t many knickknacks or things just sitting around, and I liked that I’d guessed at least one thing right about Joan’s personal space. Although a gallery wall of mismatched frames boasted beautiful artwork, and I couldn’t really have anticipated that.
There was a blanket tossed over the arm of a big, cozy chair in the corner and a book face down on the end table next to it. I’d clearly interrupted her by showing up here this evening.
But I couldn’t make myself regret it.
Not even when I turned around and found Joan watching me cautiously from the kitchen.
I smiled and admitted, “I wanted to see you. My schedule was ridiculous leading up to the break, and I know we need to talk—” My gaze snagged on something on the wall next to her. “Is that a landline?”
Walking over, I picked up the off-white receiver and held it up to my ear to hear an honest-to-God dial tone. “Wow. I’ve never seen one of these before. Can I use it?”
“Christ,” Joan muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“And an answering machine, too,” I gasped. “I thought you only built this place a few years ago?”
“I like having a landline, okay?” She sounded exasperated, like she’d defended this decision many times over. “Cell reception can be unreliable in the mountains. If someone needs to get a hold of me, I want to make sure they can.”
I wiped a hand across my mouth to hide my grin. That was the most Joan-like thing I’d ever heard. “Can I have a tour?” I asked.
She frowned. “You’re nosy.”
I shrugged, unbothered. I was nosy where she was concerned. My fingers itched to comb through every book on her shelf. It would be like uncovering history, a distant civilization.
Of course, I was curious about this woman.
I’d been thinking about her nonstop for weeks.
Daydreaming about a million different scenarios.
Some were innocent and painfully domestic.
Like watching a movie together just to see her reactions—what made her smile or drew a laugh.
Did she eat popcorn? What candy was her favorite?
I bet she required total silence and got annoyed if anyone chatted nearby.
I wanted to know what side of the bed she slept on and what kind of toothpaste she used. Was the coconut I sometimes smelled on her skin from lotion or soap or shampoo? What was her policy on opening presents on Christmas Eve? Did she sing in the shower?
And, of course, some of the fantasizing was decidedly less innocent in nature.
What sounds would she make if I touched her everywhere I wanted?
Would she let me go down on her? How did she feel about hot-tub sex?
For or against? I envisioned those long, toned legs wrapped around my hips and propped up on my shoulders and bent over her couch cushions.
Now, at least, I knew what her couch looked like.
“Yeah, I am nosy about you,” I told her honestly. “I haven’t been shy about what I want.”
I kept my gaze steady on hers and was rewarded a moment later when heat climbed her cheeks, and she had to clear her throat before saying, “Fine.”
She led me through the house, dispassionately indicating bedrooms and bathrooms, a laundry room, and a linen closet.
Her own bedroom was on the main level and was painted a beautiful and indulgent dark green.
More throw pillows decorated her bed, and that fact alone charmed me.
She had artwork on her walls—photographs, if I wasn’t mistaken—of the landscape, gorgeous mountains, a sunset, rows and rows of apple trees.
There were two additional bedrooms upstairs, plus an office. All with furniture, but sparsely decorated. When I stepped into the final guest bedroom to check out the walk-in closet, Joan practically lunged to stop me.
I grinned down where she clutched my arm in a panicked grip. Whispering, I asked, “Is this where you keep your sex toys?”
She rolled her eyes. “No. That would be too far from my bed and make no sense.”
My brain misfired momentarily at the thought of Joan having a sex toy collection and what I’d be willing to do in order to enjoy that with her.