“Then you should know that all the trailers and equipment aren’t coming for another week.”
I nodded again. I did know that. I’d come to town early to get settled with Georgie and my staff. Plus, I’d wanted a break before we hit the ground running. There was no easing into film production. Once we started, it would be full throttle until the holiday break, and then we’d be back at it again in the spring. The film took place over several months, and we’d need to shootin various settings, but all of them centered on the mountains of Western North Carolina.
“I was just out for a little stroll to check things out.” I busted out the “megawatt panty-dropper.” Again,People’swords, not mine. “Sorry if I overstepped. I just love it out here, and I was eager to see your home.”
Her eyes narrowed, and I played back my words.
“Notyourhome specifically. I just meant the land—Kirby Falls—in general.” I laughed good-naturedly. She did not partake. “I wasn’t planning on peeking in any windows or anything.”
She stared at me like I was a lunatic. This wasn’t going how I’d hoped. I hadn’t met many locals yet, but I’d been looking forward to charming them.
This woman did not look particularly charmed. What happened to Southern hospitality? Her face looked like where it went to die.
Better to get out before she pulled her Swiss Army knife. “Welp, I’ll let you get back to your run. Thanks for checking on me. I’ll head back across the road now. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other arou?—”
“Back across the road?” she interrupted. “You’re not staying in town?”
I smiled again, pleased that she was finally curious about something. “Nope. I’m over at the Clark’s.”
The woman put her hands on her hips and grumbled something under her breath. I only caught “Maggie” and “meddling” and “dammit.”
Huh. I guess she knew Maggie, too.
I’d run into Maggie Clark, the head baker for Grandpappy’s—the tourist farm across the highway from Judd’s—on my second day in town. We’d struck up a friendly conversation, like normal people, after she’d asked for a selfie. Then, she’d ended up offering me a place to stay long-term for the shoot.
Initially, she’d mentioned the tiny house on Clark lands, but with Georgie and the rest of my team, I’d needed a bigger space. So we’d worked it out that I’d rent her mother and father-in-law’s home. They were apparently snowbirds who lived in Florida and traveled in their RV the majority of the year.
After nearly a week in the house, I was extremely grateful for that charming grocery store run-in with Ms. Maggie. It had been the perfect solution. My little entourage had plenty of space to spread out, and it had gotten us out of that bed and breakfast downtown with the nosy and handsy owner.
Serendipitous, if I did say so myself.
But judging by the muttered curse words from the woman in front of me, maybe it wasn’t such good news.
“Is there a problem?” I asked politely.
“Nothing we didn’t ask for,” she mumbled.
She took another two steps back, and I could tell she was preparing to leave, feet bouncing slightly with unspent energy.
“I didn’t catch your name,” I said just as she started to move.
Her feet picked up the pace, and she took off down the dusty path in a relaxed, effortless stride that spoke of years of experience and athletic prowess.
I watched, trancelike, as her body moved. The calm, cool efficiency, something to behold. Her tiny ponytail was actually pretty cute as it bounced. And her backside was?—
“I didn’t throw it,” she called over her shoulder.
I felt my lips part around my grin. “I’m Ian, by the way.”
“So you said,” she called without turning.
I chuckled and could not help the absolute delight I felt at being so instantly disliked and disregarded by this mystery woman. She’d been surly and unfriendly, and that only made me more determined to win her over.
It had been a minute since someone had overlooked my fame and stardom. Then again, the hat and sunglasses did cover most of my face. And I’d introduced myself as Ian instead of the name everyone knew me by.
Dorian Masters was the action hero. Dorian Masters had the best smile in Hollywood. Dorian Masters was the man everyone wanted to know.
Ian Wells was just a poor kid from Ohio who’d made it to L.A. In a place where personal training and modeling and waiting tables could land you a chance encounter, I’d been one of the lucky ones, in the end. I’d met my agent, gotten auditions, and after years of commercials, voiceovers, and even that one romance audiobook I’d narrated, I’d landed my big break.
