Chapter 26
CHAPTER 26
S avannah
“Holy shit!” Ian grabs the edge of the table and pushes away from the scalding inferno that’s burning his crotch. He jumps back and the steaming hot food falls onto the bricks below. “That’s fucking hot!”
I cringe as thick, red marinara clings to his pants. “I’m so sorry!” Mortified and stunned, I’m momentarily rooted to the spot. Two waiters rush to offer help, using napkins to brush the lingering food to the ground. It seems to make the situation worse, and Ian takes a backward step, pushing their hands away. “Stop!” He grabs one man’s arm. “Stop!”
The man instantly pulls back. The hostess, seeing the commotion as she seats two more customers, rushes over. “Oh my gosh. Are you okay, sir?” She gives the two men a hard look. “Did one of you drop the plate?”
“No,” Ian stops her. “They were trying to help,” he says.
I look around. Several customers are snapping pictures with their cell phones. I move close to him to block their view.
“I’m so, so sorry. What can I do to help?”
He takes his eyes off me and the mess and he, too, sees the picture happy customers. “I’m going to the bathroom. Can you tell them to box up our food?”
I nod. “Of course.” I follow him to the double doors leading to the inside of the restaurant to thwart further attempts of amateur photographers. The hostess follows me, while the waiters clean the table. Once Ian’s inside, I turn to her. “Could you please box up our meals?”
“Yes. I’m so sorry this happened.”
“It’s not your fault. I bumped into the table. If you can get the food ready to go, I’ll grab my credit card.”
“No, ma’am.” She puts up a hand. “There’s no charge.”
“Thank you.” I rush to the table and grab my purse. When I look up, I spy the voyeurs. It’s a handful of people and suddenly, my anger spikes. They know who he is, and they know what they’re doing.
I give them a hard look.
I bite back bitter words. Knowing these few people could turn opportunists in a heartbeat and could make Ian’s life hell and sabotage the peaceful, quiet life he craves, I reach into my bag, turn to the hostess, and give her a one-hundred-dollar bill. Her eyes widen.
“Please have everything ready at the front door and help us make a quiet exit.”
“I thought that was Ian Stanton,” she whispers, staring at the door separating us from Ian. It’s a brief move then she puts her eyes on me. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll take care of everything.”
* * *
In the car, I fear his silence speaks volumes. Not one word did he utter during the drive to his house. Once we arrive, I’m shocked when he comes around to my side of the car and opens the door.
I stare at his outstretched hand, then take it. The instant our eyes meet, I drop my gaze to the ground as he helps me out of the car. My stomach is still bottomed out over what happened. “I don’t mind staying here while you change.”
He opens the back door, grabs the bag and bottle from the restaurant, and holds it up. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
Momentarily caught off guard at his blasé tone, my sight hops from him to the bag, and back again, catching the calm tone. “You aren’t upset? I thought you’d be pissed.”
His brown hikes. “You think too much.”
He smiles and I’m stunned. A brief moment passes, and I smile back, relieved that he doesn’t seem irritated. Drake would have completely flipped out.
“Pot, meet kettle?” I scrunch up my nose.
He rolls his eyes then turns to the house. “I don’t think too much,” he throws over his shoulder.
“Ha! No? You’re the most introspective person I know. You torture yourself,” I say as I follow him.
“I do not, and that’s all there is to it.” He refutes, closing the subject as he approaches the door. “I’ll change, then we’ll eat. I tried the gentlemanly thing. It didn’t work out, so my kitchen will have to do.”
The screen door creaks as he pulls it open. He presses a code into the keypad mounted on the inside door. It beeps and he turns the knob, then he steps inside and flips the light switch. I follow.
“Make yourself at home. I’ll be down in a minute. I’m going to change.”
I step tentatively through the kitchen as he disappears up a set of stairs. I don’t travel far, but just far enough to see into the family room. I glance quickly at the stairs then rush back to the kitchen table. The bag is sitting there, though I don’t recall him setting it down. No matter.
My heels clip-clop on the hardwood floor, even though I’m nearly running on tiptoe.
“You might want to take those off,” he calls from upstairs. “The floors are pine, which is a soft wood. It was a bitch to refinish. Your heel tips will leave divots—and feel free to wander around.”
I slip off my heels and place them by the back door. As I straighten up, I wipe my hands down the front of my dress to stave off wrinkles as I go back to the family room doorway.
The first thing I notice is an enormous stone fireplace and a sigh escapes. I love the smell and warmth of a good fire.
My shoulders relax and my stomach knot unravels as I roam the room. I drag my finger over a pile of books on an end table and cock my head to read the titles. Marketing and self-improvement books, huh? I press my lips together as I move on.
Ian’s furnishings are eclectic. Not what I’d expect from someone who I would have imagined hiring a decorator. What I see reminds me of Ian’s former Bohemian stage style. The chairs and sofa look plush and comfortable, well-worn leather with a few dark, forest green pillows on each. The place is rustic and relaxed. Like him.
“Not what you pictured?”
I jump. His silent, barefoot approach startles me. I turn. He’s shirtless in sweats and my jaw nearly drops. Muscles that were hidden beneath his clothes ripple from shoulders to waist. He looks absolutely delicious.
“You’re reading my mind.” I cross my arms over my chest and take a step or two toward him. “The floors are beautiful.” I glance down then up, meeting his eyes. “Sorry if I scratched them.”
He shrugs, moving past a pair of open windows dressed in plain, straight curtains in the same hue and texture as the pillows.
“I’m sure they’re fine. A few dings will add character.” He goes to a cupboard and pulls open a door. “Doesn’t exactly scream ‘rockstar,’ does it?”
“I like it. It’s you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” A smile tugs the corner of his mouth. Ian looks so much younger when he smiles, and much more handsome.
My heart skips.
“Follow me. I’ll heat up our dinner.” He sets the plates down and snatches the bag. When he flips another switch, a longer, darker part of the kitchen lights up. My eyes widen. It’s a stunning, high-end, complete chef’s kitchen.
“Alexa. Play soft jazz.”
Music emerges from speakers that blend in with the crown molding and my head moves to count how many. There are four; one in each corner and the music fits the vibe of the room. I watch as he pushes a button beneath the polished stone-topped island.
“I’ve never seen a stove like that.”
“La Cornue Chateau 150.” He rattles off the information then takes his eyes away from plating the meal to look up at my wide-eyed expression. “It’s from France.” He smiles.
I’m flabbergasted, disbelieving what I just heard him say.
“What?” He chuckles.
“You cook?”
“Don’t you?” His brow playfully quirks.
“Touché.” I agree with a tip of my head then look around. “I just never heard a guy rattle off the details of his stove.”
“Ah, but is it just a stove?” He jokes.
Is it? I have no idea but it’s a massive piece and the focal point of the room. He’s giving me the impression this room might be his favorite. Soft green paint covers the walls, with a white hue overhead on the ceiling. One entire wall is covered with pegboard, which is filled with all sorts of pots and pans. I look over at him as he reaches into the bag and empties the containers of food onto the plates. I look around the corner of the island just in time to see the plates disappear into an under-mounted microwave. He holds up the re-corked bottle of wine.
“Yes?”
I nod and he goes to another cabinet and retrieves a long-stemmed wine glass. I walk to his side as he uncorks and pours.
“Can I do anything to help?”
“I think I can handle it.” He juts his chin and looks over toward a cozy, semicircle nook. There, an oval table sits in front of a pillow-backed window seat. On the other side is an old church bench with a tufted cushion matching the one at the window. “Go. Sit. Take your wine. This’ll only be a minute.”
I follow his instructions, taking a seat at the window side of the table. The moon isn’t full tonight but its glow shines over a small garden.
“Are those herbs you’re growing out there?”
I turn as he places a tall glass of ice and a Coca-Cola directly across from where I’m sitting. “It is.”
“So, you do like to cook!”
“Never said I didn’t.” He returns to the beeping microwave and pulls out the plates. Once he’s approached the table, he sets the plates down and takes a seat across from me on the bench. “I used to eat so much fast food on the road.” He shakes his head. “Cooking gave me something to explore and, a man’s got to eat, right? Besides, when we get the occasional rain and the windows are open, it’s the best smell.” He picks up a fork and smiles. “Dig in.”
I do. I haven’t eaten all day. Apparently, neither has he, and we fill our stomachs in silence.
I watch Ian eat and he glances up, meeting my eyes. The corners of his eyes crinkle but his expression softens. His smile graces his lips more than he knows and the look reminds me of the tenderness inside a man who’s endured so much. The lines etched in his tanned skin aren’t just from time spent working in the sun, but of a hard life.
Funny how everyone sees the privilege and not the pain.
“C’mon, Savannah. Eat.” He juts his fork toward my plate.
There it is.
That relaxed man I saw chasing fireflies with my daughter. Sometime between the night he overdosed and now, he’s found peace. I wonder how foreign a feeling it must be to someone navigating the newness of a quiet and uneventful life— especially given how chaotic his life used to be.
His stare intensifies and my gaze drops to my plate. I cut the manicotti with the edge of my fork.
“Tell me about Gigi.”
I lift my eyes. “What do you want to know?”
He pushes his chair back a few inches from the table. “I don’t know. Whatever you want to tell me. She’s quite the little spitfire.” His shoulders pulse. “What was it like holding her in your arms that first time?”
I swallow my food as a dreamy feeling settles over me and set my fork on the edge of the plate. I tent my arms, resting my elbows on the table and interlacing my fingers. I think for a second as the memory of holding her after she took her first breath settles in my mind’s eye. “It was incredible. Like time stood still and everything and everyone else faded away.” I begin, my voice soft and full of emotion. I catch his gaze. “It was magic.”
“Was she a hard birth?” He quizzes.
“I don’t know how to answer that. I’d gone through hours of labor. The doctors were talking c-section because my blood pressure was erratic. Before we could decide, my labor suddenly became fast and hard. Gigi was calling the shots.” I lean back and sip the wine as he patiently waits for more.
“She was early—four weeks. She had to go to the neonatal intensive care unit immediately following her entrance to the world but, before they took her away, they placed her in my arms.” A small smile tugs at my lips. “I’ve never been the same since.”
“Sounds surreal.”
“It was insta-love. I breathed her in. Felt the softness of her hair against my cheek. When I kissed her, my heart exploded.” A duet of tears tumbles down my cheeks. “Like I said, magic.”
“Guiliana is the best kind of magic.”
Out of nowhere, fear stabs me, and I suck in a breath. and Ian instantly notes the change.
Ian’s brow pinches. “What’s wrong?”
I say nothing, imprisoned by irrational thought.
“You’re pale. Tell me.” Concerned, he reaches for my hand and our eyes meet. “I promise; it’s okay.”
Feeling awkward and embarrassed, I look away from him. “It’s stupid. It’s just with Drake showing up …” A picture flashes through my mind. “It was a dream,” I explain, shaking my head. “I guess I’m just still shaken up a bit.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“I don’t know.”
All of a sudden, my appetite wanes. Not really paying attention to what I’m doing, I push away the plate. A silent lull drops. A few awkward moments later, Ian speaks.
“How worried are you about that guy?”
“I don’t know, but maybe I should be.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because he’s unpredictable and it isn’t just me I have to be concerned about.”
“You’re worried about him hurting Gigi?”
“Or Sam. Or Cora. Or you. Or anyone else I love and care about. Anyone he sees as a threat.” I’m rambling and, when I look at Ian, he’s grinning. I’m confused. “Why are you smiling?”
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “No reason.” He looks me dead in the eye. “Nothing’s gonna happen, Savi. Promise.” He peers at my plate. “Now, c’mon. Eat your dinner.”
I pick up my fork and, though I’m perplexed, he stares as I take a forkful. The look is intense in his beautiful eyes, sending a shiver down my back. I don’t know what it is but there’s a secret hiding there.