“I’m okay,” I barely wheezed, forcing my upper half into a sitting position.
The woman took a step back. Her stern expression went nowhere, and she radiated distrust.
“Did you hurt yourself somehow?” she asked, voice low and accusatory.
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. She just sounded so damn ornery.
I squinted against the bright sunlight and tried to make out her features, but the hat covered a lot. She’d clearly been out for a run, and from her lean, lithe form,shedidn’t have any trouble jogging across North Carolina farmland.
“I’m fine,” I told her. “Not hurt. Just out of practice.”
That was a lie. I’d never been good at cardio. I could bench press over three hundred pounds and do squats and lunges all day long—or until my trainer, Maurice, told me to stop. I’d been blessed with a good metabolism, and I hated cardio.
But there’d just been something invigorating about the sunshine and mild November day. The rolling hills of the farm had called to me. As had the mountains in the distance. Apple trees formed orderly lines on the slight incline across the path. Even though the leaves were brown and in the process of falling, the landscape was still undeniably beautiful. I knew a field of dead and dying wildflowers spread out behind me. I’d admired it briefly before I’d collapsed in a heap from exhaustion on the grass this side of the wooden fence.
We had sunshine and scenery in L.A.—an abundance of it. But we also had smog and people and traffic.
When I’d stepped out onto the porch of my rental house this morning, I’d sucked in a lungful of crisp mountain air and been transported. Totally charmed. Utterly gobsmacked by the urge to touch some grass and maybe even an apple tree.
Exploring the property that would be our film set in a few weeks had sounded refreshing. Until I remembered that I didn’t run, and what the hell had I been thinking, going out for a leisurely jog without my phone?
Air was definitely easier to pull in now. There were no longer black dots crowding the edges of my vision.
Still, the woman stared like I was an inconvenient trespasser.
“Can I get you some help? Call someone for you?” She looked around like maybe my keeper was nearby since I obviously couldn’t take care of myself.
I noticed the end of a stubby brown ponytail sticking out the back of her ball cap before she turned back to look down at me.
“I was just resting here a minute to catch my breath,” I said simply, pairing it with a smile to see if that might put her at ease. I had a great smile. It had been voted the best one in Hollywood byPeopleMagazinethree months ago. Reigning male champ. No big.
But my “sparkling visage of masculine charm”—People’swords, not mine—didn’t seem to have any effect. If anything, she scowled harder, lines bracketing a wide mouth with surprisingly full lips. This woman was all long, lean lines, but those lips were lush and distracting, maybe the softest thing about her.
Thank God I had sunglasses on, or she’d undoubtedly gut me with a Swiss Army knife for checking her out. These rural types were resourceful like that.
Despite the cover, I still made a point to look away from her mouth.
“What are you doing on my family’s land?” she snapped, and I could tell now that was what she’d wanted to know this whole time. She’d determined that I wasn’t dying or in need of medical attention before she’d brought it back around to what she’d intended to ask in the first place.
I wondered if she thought she’d actually pulled off the caring, concerned routine.
She hadn’t. Nothing about this woman screamed warm or nurturing, not even when she’d asked after my health or offered to call someone for me.
That made me want to smile again, but I resisted. I had a feeling grumpy-pants wouldn’t like it.
“Right.” I nodded. “Your land. You must be one of the Judds.”
I’d seen the sign by the road advertising wholesome family fun—apple orchards, pumpkin patches, farm stand, concessions, the whole small-town charm thing for tourists. And I was sure there were production notes in an email somewhere telling me exactly whose property I was trespassing on.
“I am,” she agreed, but didn’t offer a first name.
Unbothered, I slowly gained my feet and held out a hand. “I’m Ian. I’m with the movie.”
She hesitated just a beat before giving me a surprisingly firm shake. Her hand was a little worn. I could feel rough callouses sliding across my palm in a distracting sort of way that made me even more curious about her.
Despite the handshake, she still didn’t offer her name. “So you’re with the production crew?”
“Yep.” That was technically true. I’d had my agent negotiate for a producer credit—my first one.
