Chapter 18 #3
There were artisans and food vendors set up among local farmers and craftspeople. Judd’s had a booth near the corner of Main and 4th Street, and Grandpappy’s was always right beside us. Eloise called it friendly competition, but since both farms were actual friends, none of us minded.
My parents were manning our table alongside Candace and Mercer as they sold treats, sweets, and Judd’s Orchard merchandise.
Apples weren’t in season yet, so we didn’t have as many offerings as the Clark bunch, whose farm was extensive and sold produce nearly year-round.
They had a good spread of greens, fresh garlic, herbs, and bakery items for this early-spring event.
Will and Becca were chatting with folks visiting the Grandpappy’s tent, but they both paused to give me a wave as I arrived, sliding between our neighboring tables.
“What are you doing here?” my mother asked. “I told you we were happy to work the festival.”
“I know,” I replied. “I just wanted to check in. See if anyone wanted a break to grab some lunch.”
It wasn’t that I didn’t trust my family to handle things.
Well, it used to be that—old habits died hard—but for the most part, I knew that Candace and Mercer had it covered.
But when my parents were involved, I often worried that they were overextending themselves.
I always looked for ways to ease their burdens, and sometimes that came off as bossy and overbearing.
“Thanks, honey,” my dad said, squeezing my shoulder affectionately. “But we’re good.”
“Actually, you can do something for me,” my mother piped up.
Mercer gave a look that clearly conveyed I was in for it now, and it was my own damn fault.
“What is it?” I asked hesitantly.
Mom grabbed a paper bag and started filling it with things—hand pies, coffee cake, a slice of caramel apple pie, and some .
. . turkey sandwiches. “You can run this over to Ian in the kissing booth. I made him some sandwiches he likes before I left the house. He’s probably too nice to ask Eloise for a lunch break.
And I’m sure he’s been the busiest booth on the street this morning. You go check on him for me.”
My sister didn’t even bother hiding her amusement.
I sighed and accepted my fate as well as the bag from my mother.
She beamed. “Thanks, sweetie.”
Without a fond farewell for anyone I was related to, I trudged off down the street in the direction of the carnival games and rides set up in the bank parking lot.
This was what I got for trying to micromanage. I loved my mother, but she was not above manipulating her offspring. I knew what she saw when she looked at me and Ian and George. A ready-made little family.
Ian and I had been discreet about our relationship.
I hadn’t seen any sense in getting anyone’s hopes up—least of all, my own.
We had George to think about, after all.
It had seemed simpler—smarter—to keep what was happening between Ian and me to ourselves.
Plus, there was the whole celebrity aspect.
If tabloids caught wind of a romance brewing between Dorian Masters and a farmer .
. . I didn’t even want to consider the havoc that would wreak.
It made Ian’s invitation to a Hollywood premiere that much more complicated.
While he might have tried to sell it as just one night and no big deal, it would mean being photographed in his world, speculated about. My life—my entire existence—would be picked apart for public consumption. That prospect was daunting.
Obviously, my sister knew what was going on with Ian, but not because I’d spelled anything out. The kiss conversation had happened after the wedding, and she’d been extra observant as a result. I’d simply told her we were taking things as they came and not to get too worked up about it.
The reality was that everyone in my inner circle probably knew that Ian and I were .
. . more. I lived in a small town, and people liked to talk—even well-meaning people, like my friends.
Ian wasn’t shy with his affection, and sometimes I’d catch him watching me in a way that made it hard to deny what we were to one another. Other times, I’d catch myself.
We were a small-town secret . . . so basically everyone already knew.
But that wasn’t the point. My mom didn’t need to manufacture these reasons for us to see one another. She didn’t need to get her hopes up either. I had no idea what was going to happen with Ian, but I was a realist.
My life was here, and his couldn’t be.
But that didn’t mean I didn’t wish things could be different.
About a block from the bank, I noticed a line of people on the sidewalk. As I walked, I grew more suspicious. Dread settled in my gut as I eyed the single-file crowd of predominantly women.
When I turned the corner into the parking lot, I finally caught sight of the kissing booth. All these people were, indeed, queued up to get cozy with Dorian Masters.
As I made my way toward him, I noticed Darren stationed in front of the booth.
Relief flooded my veins. Thank goodness Ian had someone looking out for him.
If left to his own devices, Ian would have probably agreed to walk a bride down the aisle on her wedding day or give someone a ride to the airport.
As it was, he seemed to be Facetiming someone at the request of the lady at the front of the line. There was a lot of high-pitched squealing coming from the phone’s speakers. Undeterred, Ian grinned and spoke into the device.
Darren caught my eye, looking like a man who’d seen some things over the last three hours. From his other side, Becca popped up in a neon-green volunteer shirt. She gave me a wave, and I returned it.
Becca then spoke quietly to the woman holding the phone out for Ian.
Then she faced the crowd and clapped three times loudly, like a kindergarten teacher.
“Alright, y’all! Mr. Masters will be taking a quick break.
He’ll be back with you in fifteen minutes.
” Groans rose from those assembled. Becca made a face at the crowd like she was deeply disappointed in them.
“If you don’t want to wait, feel free to go ask your husbands to hold your place in line. ”
That got them to shut up real quick, and I let out a startled laugh. I could only imagine how annoyed the partners of these women were as they waited hours to meet a movie star.
Ian wrapped up the video call and waved to the crowd. Becca slid a red curtain closed on the front of the booth. I guess that afforded Ian a moment of privacy.
“Hi,” I said to my friend.
“Hey, Joanie. He’s been a champ all morning. But I’m glad you’re here so he can take a little break. Here.” She passed me a blue ticket.
I stared at the little paper rectangle in my palm. “I’m not taking a turn on the Ferris wheel, Becca.”
She grinned. “I know. Maybe you’ll need it for something else, though.” Before I could argue or blush like a damn schoolgirl, Becca winked and said, “Go on around the side. There are a couple of chairs back there.”
“Thanks,” I muttered, still a little embarrassed by the suggestion that I’d want a ticket for the kissing booth.
I passed Darren one of the turkey sandwiches from my mother. He nodded his thanks.
I hadn’t even rounded the corner before a strong hand reached out and tugged me inside the booth. The back was completely open, but the sides were covered, and now the front was as well by the red curtain.
Ian wrapped his arms around me and hugged me hard. “You are a sight for sore lips.”
I grinned into his shoulder. “I think you meant eyes.”
“Oh my God, these women, Joan. You wouldn’t believe.”
Oh, I’d believe it, alright. “I really want to tell you I told you so, but that would be rude.”
He leaned back to meet my gaze, eyes wide and expression frazzled. “I feel so used. Like a piece of meat. I think my biceps are sore from all the squeezing. Will you massage them and make it all go away?”
Grinning, I shook my head at his dramatics. “Look at you being objectified. How terrible it must be to be a man in this day and age.”
He’d been nodding along pitifully, but then stopped abruptly. “Oh, right. Women put up with shit all the time. You’re right. I’m a jerk.”
With a gentle touch, I ran my hands up the poor, abused arms in question. Smiling gently, I said, “It’s okay. But you did bring this upon yourself.”
He had the good grace to appear sheepish. “It’s for a good cause. And it’s just a few more hours. Actually, the majority of people have been great. Most only want to talk or take a selfie together. Not much kissing going on.”
“Good. I brought you some lunch from Mom.”
He was already digging into the paper bag with gusto. “Thanks. Will you stay and keep me company?”
“Sure. Where’s George?”
Ian unwrapped the other turkey sandwich and passed me half. “He’s with Sophia riding the carnival rides. I think they’re going to hit the petting zoo after lunch and then head back to the house.”
“I’ll text Sophia and track them down, check out the petting zoo with the kid.”
He smiled warmly at me. “I’m sure he’d love that.”
We spent the next ten minutes eating and laughing while Ian told me about all the crying women and the crazy requests he’d received that morning.
Three different people had come up to show him their Inferno Man tattoos.
One was on someone’s butt, so that had been unexpected, and likely the reason Darren had looked so shell-shocked when I’d arrived.
Ian had Facetimed various sisters and cousins and friends who lived out of state. He’d signed numerous autographs and agreed to record a video for someone’s mother who was going through cancer treatment.
I listened to him talk about his fans and the women who wanted just a small piece of his attention, and couldn’t imagine being so good-humored about it all.
It was difficult to fathom sharing so much of my own life with the public, making myself available for their criticism and their love in equal measure.
But Ian seemed impervious. Maybe he was used to it by now. Either way, it felt like another big obstacle for whatever was happening between us.
Would it be this way in LA if I went? Would folks stop him on the street or interrupt his meals just to have a part of him—an autograph they could frame and hang on a wall, a selfie they could share on social media? How much was Ian’s peace worth to all these people?
Finally, Ian stood and brushed off the apple pie crumbs from his dark blue jeans. “Well, I’d better get back out there. Send me pictures from the petting zoo, okay?”
“I will,” I promised, saddened by the fact that Ian couldn’t join us. Aside from his obligations in the booth, he’d never put his nephew at risk so publicly.
On a whim, I pulled out the ticket Becca had pressed into my hand. “I’m not usually one to skip line . . .”
Ian saw the ticket and grinned before plucking it from my grasp and sticking it in his pocket. If I visited Ian’s trailer on set, would I see that little blue ticket added to his collection of mementos?
Before I had too much time to wonder, he wrapped his arms around my waist and drew me close.
“Joan Judd, I knew you were jealous,” he whispered, absolutely delighted.
My hands slid up his torso, feeling the muscles beneath. I smiled against his lips, admitting, “Maybe I am.”
The kiss started slow and sweet. It was all comfort and familiarity. The warm evergreen scent that slowed my racing mind. The strength in the arms holding me so securely. And I knew these lips—wide and soft and perfectly in sync with my own.
Ian’s tongue licked at the seam of my mouth, and I obliged on a sigh.
In this perfect little bubble, on a warm spring day, I felt safe enough to let my feelings go.
To allow my hands to wander over the tops of defined shoulders, to push up onto my tiptoes to be closer, to press my body against the length of his.
It was a luxury, this privacy. It was also an illusion. Because if I listened closely, I could hear conversation from Dorian’s fans in line just beyond the curtain.
In that moment, all I wanted was to be alone with Ian in the fields, lying on a blanket in the sun.
Resigned for all the things that couldn’t be, I drew back and placed my feet firmly on the ground.
Ian’s mouth followed mine, still eager, still caught up, his arms holding tight.
He pressed a final kiss to my jaw and groaned, “Fine. But I’ll see you tonight?”
My hand stroked down his arm to twine our fingers together. I gave one final squeeze. “You’ll see me tonight.”
Then I told myself to let him go before I made a fool of myself.