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What a sight he was, I thought. Objectively, Ian Wilder was a good-looking son of a bitch. A weak stream of sunlight poured through the middle of the barn, dust motes dancing in the air, and when he passed through that sunlight, it bounced off his hair and bone structure in a way that had me shaking my head.
“What?” he asked.
“You.” I gestured vaguely. “All you’re missing is a cowboy hat and some glistening abs, and you could be on the cover of a book.”
He snorted, but the slightest wash of pink tinged the tips of his cheekbones.
Why was it so terribly endearing when a handsome man blushed at the smallest of compliments? Maybe because it meant that he wasn’t a douchebag. The hot ones who knew they were hot wouldn’t blush. They’d preen and puff out their chest and smirk, thinking it was all so incredibly attractive.
It wasn’t. Excessive smirking was a giant red flag in my book. Immediate no.
Ian didn’t do any of those things. No preening or puffing, and he only smirked when the situation demanded it. He might be bigger now, with more muscles covering his tall frame, might’ve grown into his features in a really pleasing way, but at his core, he was still the same quiet kid who didn’t like to waste his daily word count on strangers. He saved all those words for the people who meant the most to him.
“You hiding?” Ian hopped up onto the bale of hay next to mine, his arm brushing against my own. “It’s not very exciting in here.”
“Speak for yourself. It’s got atmosphere.”
He pointed at the laptop. “You going to turn this into your new office?”
“Maybe.” I slid my computer onto my lap, mainly to cover my thighs because it really did look like I wasn’t wearing anything underneath my AC/DC shirt. “I just finished a call with my writing coach,” I told him.
Ian was quiet. “You don’t sound very inspired.”
Inexplicably, a woolly ball of emotion crept up my throat, lodging somewhere in the middle. “What if I can’t do this anymore?” I whispered. I’d never actually said it out loud. “I know I shouldn’t define so much of my self-worth on this hunk of machinery, on my ability to fill a document with words, but…”
“But you do,” he finished.
Slowly, I nodded. “I’ve always wanted to tell stories. And I can’t admit it to many people, but I’ll feel like I failed myself if I give up on doing that. If I have to get a job somewhere else because my brain decided it was done coming up with more books.” I sniffed, trying again to swallow past that obstruction in my throat. “Like I’d have to say goodbye to this big piece of who I am if I can’t do it.”
For a few minutes, Ian didn’t talk. He took a deep inhale, his frame brushing more fully against mine. His skin was so warm, and I closed my eyes while I waited for him to answer.
When he did, the sound of his voice was deep and rumbly, and I felt it behind my breastbone. “What if I woke up tomorrow, and my hands didn’t work. I couldn’t make things anymore, right? Does it negate what I’ve already created because I have to shift my focus?”
“No, of course not.” I sighed because I knew what he was trying to do. “But that’s different?—”
“Why? Because your brain isn’t a part of your body? Maybe it needs to rest for a couple of years. Maybe it needs a change. Maybe you need to stop being so fucking hard on yourself and talk to yourself like you’d talk to me.”
With my chest locked in a ruthless vise, I could do nothing but stare over at him.
Eventually, Ian turned, his eyes holding mine steady. The light in the barn made them more golden than usual, bright striations cutting through the deep brown that I’d never noticed before.
“How would you talk to me right now, Harlow? If I were the one struggling.”
But my voice didn’t work. If I tried to answer him, I’d cry, and based on the look on his face, he already had his answer.
I’d tell him to give himself grace.
I’d tell him that the things he’d created were amazing and beautiful, and having to do something else for a while didn’t make them less amazing or beautiful.
I’d tell him I was proud of him, no matter what he did.
My shoulders sagged, and just for a moment, I leaned my weight against his. “Dammit, Ian,” I whispered.
He laughed, a slow roll of sound under his breath, and I wanted to wrap myself up in it like it was a warm, fuzzy white blanket.
“I know I can’t be saying anything that other people haven’t already told you,” he said.
I straightened, and my side felt cold when it wasn’t touching his skin. “Yeah, but somehow you’ve always said things in a way that I can actually hear it. It’s so annoying.”
