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I chewed on my bottom lip. “No. I’d need at least one killer in there, though,” I added. “Or like, a stalker.”
There was a smile in Bea’s voice when she answered. “Romantic suspense is very popular.”
The panic had receded, and in its place, the smallest kernel of hope.
Today, it was enough.
“Thank you, Bea. I appreciate you taking the time for me on a weekend.”
“You’re welcome.”
I ate some lunch, staring at the sticker-covered surface of my laptop and mulling over the series of the day’s events. Even though I felt better about what had happened, I kept going back to that initial rush of fear that I’d irrevocably screwed something up just by imagining him in that scene.
Maybe it was just my writer brain latching onto someone who had swoony male protagonist energy in spades. Not only that, but he was there. The closest possible person in my life.
But still, the idea that I was redefining Ian in any way didn’t necessarily sit right either.
I hated the idea of keeping something like this from him, but after his own admission of not wanting to ruin our friendship, I had to decide whether blunt honesty was going to make things better or worse.
I quickly glanced at the clock and decided that waiting would only make things worse.
Taking the last bite of my sandwich, I tossed my paper plate in the trash, snagged my purse off the bench, and shoved my feet into my untied tennis shoes. Maybe the shop was our new place for decimating emotional barriers because I thought about what I might say to him as I drove over.
So funny story … I wrote a thing, and you sort of got me off and apparently, I have a kink for possible exhibitionism and a little bit of praise. Haha. Isn’t that hilarious?
The groan echoed in my car. No longer a whimper, because we’d blown past that.
I almost turned around, but as I took the last corner toward the shop, there was like, a whole-ass group of people there. My eyes widened as I took it all in.
Cameron was there, along with Ivy, who was in a sleek black dress, holding a clipboard. Ian was leaning up against a tree, and he looked so pissed off, I almost burst out laughing. There was a photographer motioning to Ian, whose expression grew darker and darker the longer he listened, and two assistants holding those circular light reflector screens pivoted around the tall, bearded frowning man who’d unwittingly starred in my little fantasy.
As I pulled the car in next to his truck, he finally saw me, his eyes cutting over and locking with mine through the windshield.
His brows flattened, his frown intensifying.
I grinned and gave him a little wave of my fingers.
Ian narrowed his eyes.
Instead of making me want to leave, I hopped out of the car and walked to where Cameron stood. “Well, if that isn’t the happiest-looking model I’ve ever seen,” I said.
Ian grumbled something under his breath.
The blonde beside Cameron snorted, then turned to me with a quirked eyebrow. “He just loves being told what to do, doesn’t he?” she said, waving a perfectly manicured hand toward the man in question.
I laughed, studying Ivy out of the corner of my eye. She was one of those scarily pretty women, with the kind of severe features that graced magazines and catwalks—all sharp, high cheekbones and flawless skin and an angular chin. She gave me a million character ideas, just by standing there.
Her eyes zeroed in on where the photographer instructed Ian to change his pose, and she shook her head. “That won’t work.” She cleared her throat. “Don’t make his shots so formal, Robert. Let him move and talk and do his normal stuff.”
Ian leveled her with a glare that would make a grown man cower. “None of this shit is my normal stuff, Ivy. Can I be done now?”
She glanced down at her clipboard, shockingly undeterred by the cloud of anger rolling off him. “Nope.”
The photographer sighed. “Maybe go back about fifteen feet and walk through these trees toward me. You don’t have to look straight at the camera. Just tuck your hands in your pockets and walk normally.”
Ian stomped through the woods, his frame tight and his face absolutely murderous. When a laugh threatened to escape, I slapped a hand over my mouth.
“How the hell did you get him to do this?” I asked.
