Chapter 17
seventeen
IAN
I’d been over to her house plenty of times at this point, but Georgie was usually with me when Joan and I made dinner together.
Nerves churned in my belly as I stood there waiting, like a teenager on a first date. This wasn’t technically a date, but it felt like something.
The door swung inward, and Joan stood there, looking frazzled and out of breath.
“Did you have to defend yourself against the creepy doll collection?” I asked.
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. “No, just straightening up.”
I raised an eyebrow. A glance around the interior showed it just as tidy as every other time I’d been there, but I wouldn’t push it and tease her. I was nervous, too.
“Are you going to let me in?” I wondered.
She was still blocking the door.
Her blue eyes drifted toward the pizza box in my hand.
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “It’s an Apollo’s special. Marinated Greek chicken, mushrooms, Kalamata olives, feta cheese, and banana pepper rings.”
Joan nodded and stepped aside, sweeping her arm out in an invitation to enter.
“I want to see your movie collection. I’m picking,” I told her.
Grabbing the remote control for her television, I attempted to find the streaming services. But Joan abandoned the plates and napkins she’d been gathering and walked over to open a cabinet beneath her bookcase.
Of course, she had an actual DVD collection.
“Wow. I didn’t even know they still made these,” I murmured absently, crouching down to browse the titles.
Her annoyed sigh had me chuckling as she made her way back into the kitchen.
I thumbed through the plastic cases, absorbing the titles that had caught her fancy.
It made sense that she’d want to keep physical reminders of the films she found worthy of her time.
Movies and television shows disappeared from streaming services left and right.
Joan would appreciate the permanence of something she could keep on a shelf.
The knowledge made me feel warm with affection.
My finger hovered over a DVD at the end of the top row, hardly daring to believe what I was seeing.
“You own The Tycoon and the Aristocrat?” I asked.
“Um, yeah,” Joan replied after a long moment.
It had been the first movie I’d done in an effort to branch out and away from action-hero roles.
It had won Oscars for Best Costume Design and Best Makeup and Hairstyling.
The period drama had challenged me in a way I’d never anticipated.
I’d worked with a voice and accent coach for three months before filming began.
There had been hours of dance lessons and choreography.
The sex scenes had required an intimacy coordinator and detailed directions.
The sweeping romance and grandeur of the time period had been like stepping into another world.
It was one of the roles I was most proud of.
Standing, I turned to face Joan and held up the DVD. “I remember Candace saying something about how much you loved this one.” At the time, the knowledge had only fed my ego. Now, it meant something different, something more.
Joan placed two beers and two waters on the coffee table before joining me. “Our book club watched it together,” she answered, noncommittally.
“The case looks pretty worn. Probably from too much use,” I teased. “Look, there’s even a little crack right here.”
Frowning, Joan snatched the DVD out of my hand to examine it. “Where?”
I was already grinning when she looked up after finding nothing.
She whacked me on the shoulder with the case.
“Careful. We’re watching that one.”
For a moment, Joan appeared dumbfounded. “You want to watch your own movie?”
“Yep.”
“Isn’t that weird?”
“Nah,” I insisted. “This ego you’re so fond of really likes the idea.”
Joan eyed me skeptically.
Truthfully, I was more nervous than I could ever remember being, but it seemed like an important opportunity to learn something else about Joan.
She was the most poker-faced person I’d ever met.
I never knew what she was thinking or feeling.
She was locked up so tight, always protecting her emotions and guarding her heart.
I didn’t know exactly where I stood with her.
But, in this, it felt like being handed the gift of insight. I didn’t want to squander it.
Besides, if I got the chance to sit next to her for two hours, I was going to do it. She was someone I respected. Someone so good at everything that it should have been maddening, but it only made me ache to be better.
I wanted her to love the film. I wanted to catch a smile on her face, knowing I was the one who’d put it there. I wanted Joan to see me in a different light—not the careless, spoiled celebrity who didn’t take things seriously. I wanted her to think I was good at something.
Finally, we settled in with our pizza on the couch. I focused on eating while the film opened. But I managed only half of a slice before nerves had me setting my plate aside.
Shifting in my seat did nothing to alleviate the restless energy and awareness coursing through me. Every brush of our shoulders or bump of our knees reminded me that Joan was right there. Her warmth and her body and her opinions . . .
Discreetly, I took in Joan’s reaction to the first scene featuring my character—the tycoon—and the love interest—the aristocrat. The meet-cute was filled with banter and tension, and Joan’s eyes were focused on the screen.
As inconspicuously as possible, I watched Joan as she watched me. I didn’t need to stare at myself for one hundred and twenty-eight minutes. I’d rather get a glimpse into what she was thinking and feeling.
By the time the ballroom dance sequence rolled around, Joan’s pizza lay forgotten on the coffee table. I witnessed the way her walls lowered as she lost herself in the story, the performance of it. Her lips moved, shaping some of my lines, and I felt my chest grow tight.
When the screen shone with bedroom candlelight, I forced myself to take a steadying breath.
Realistically, I hadn’t considered what it would be like to sit next to Joan while the character I was portraying made love to a woman on screen.
Every gasp through the speakers, every intimate caress, every rustle of clothing seemed loud in the living room.
What was it like for Joan to watch these moments, this feigned intimacy?
For me, it was weirdly cold and technical. I could recall the equipment on set and the boom in my periphery, the intimacy coordinator having me reposition my arm to discreetly cover the actress from a certain angle.
But how did the final product come together through Joan’s eyes?
She appeared rapt, gaze focused.
Was she reading desire and lust? Did she realize that none of that was true?
During the final scene of the film, emotion brightened Joan’s features as my character delivered a monologue, confessing his endless, consuming love for the heroine.
The version of me sitting there on the couch with my thigh pressed to Joan’s could hardly breathe.
We were quiet as the credits rolled.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore and said, “Well?”
She turned to face me, expression serious. “It was . . . alright.”
I snorted out a laugh, and she smiled.
“Shut up,” she teased. “You know it was good. You know you were good. Every time I watch it—and there have been many—I catch something new that I missed. A subtle expression. A shift in your body language that so perfectly embodies the character that it makes me irrationally angry that I didn’t notice it before.
It’s the best book adaptation I’ve ever seen. ”
Instinctively, I knew not to give her shit about this.
I felt weirdly proud and inexplicably shy.
From side characters to household names, I’d played dozens of roles in my career, but this was the one—a romance hero—who’d captured her interest and earned her appreciation. That meant something to me.
She meant something to me.
Joan was so insular and mysterious, unimpressed with ninety-nine percent of the world’s population. It felt like a major accomplishment that she’d watched my film and enjoyed the performance.
It made me want to earn her trust, her approval in all things.
I didn’t know what to do with her praise or my complicated emotions surrounding it.
So, I joked, “Oh, this is from a book?”
Joan gave me a look so disbelieving that it was like she could see straight through me.
Like she could tell that I’d read the novel the film was based on six times prior to filming.
How I’d taken copious notes, consulted the author, and visited fan forums online to find out what readers loved best about my character.
I’d fought for scenes in the script. I’d ad-libbed lines that had been allowed to stay, direct quotes from the text that readers still raved about.
I’d worked my ass off for the role of the tycoon in order to make sure that the pieces and parts that fans loved would translate to the big screen. Honoring the character and the novel and the author had been forefront in my mind throughout filming and for months beforehand.
Joan blinked, searching my face like she could see the truth, like I wasn’t an award-winning actor who should have been able to pull off a little fib.
“You knew it was a book. There’s no way you did that,” she accused, sweeping a hand in the direction of the television, “without knowing. I bet you read it. More than once.”
Smiling awkwardly, I looked away. “You caught me.”
Fiddling with the remote, I stopped the DVD and gathered the remnants of our dinner. But I knew Joan’s gaze was laser-focused on me.
I felt embarrassed, self-conscious in a way I hadn’t while she’d been watching me act on screen.
Swallowing hard, I couldn’t look at her as I carried our dishes into the kitchen.
After unloading the items on the counter, I turned to find Joan standing behind me, staring at me curiously.
“Why do you do that?” she asked.
“Do what?”