Speaking of my brother, his tall frame was sprawled in a chair he’d clearly dragged out from the kitchen because the only other available seat was occupied by Dorian Masters.
Dorian Masters ... who sounded like Ian Wells.
Ian, the lurker. Ian, the sunglasses-wearing out-of-towner. Ian, the guy who could barely run a mile without wheezing like an asthma sufferer. Ian, the man who’d told me he was part of the production crew.
“Amy, please call me Ian.”
My attention sharpened on the figure folded into my mother’s wicker rocking chair. The piece of furniture gave an admirable attempt to contain his godlike proportions, but the man hardly fit. He overwhelmed the delicate seat, and I found myself pleased that this scheming interloper might be uncomfortable.
He’d had a haircut since our run yesterday; the dark mop was now buzzed down close to his head. And the ever-present sunglasses were nowhere to be found. Dorian gazed at me with blue eyes so crystal clear that there might have been a sandy ocean floor somewhere at the bottom. His eyelashes were ridiculous. Long and luxurious as a Maybelline ad. Jesus, did he curl them?
The man was, of course, smiling. I could feel my molars grinding together as a result.
“Joanie, aren’t you going to say hi?” my sister said, nervous laughter accompanying her question.
“Oh, we’ve met,” Dorian—Ian, whoever he was—offered. “Well, half met. Joan, is it?” He raised one dark, perfectly-sculpted-by-some-high-priced-salon eyebrow. “Nice to officially make your acquaintance.”
“Yeah. Same.” My voice was gravelly, the words might as well have been made of dust, dry as they were.
I could feel my pulse hammering in my neck. Anger kept my body rigid and immobile by the entrance to the screened porch. I knew my family was staring at me. But the weight of their attention and confusion wasn’t nearly enough to distract me from the trespasser.
Looking at Dorian, sitting happily in my childhood home, I could see it now, what I’d missed before. The shiny veneer, the polished edge. How he was perfectly content to have all the attention focused on him. The way he absorbed it like a sponge. This man looked like he was a guest on a late-night show, entertaining his audience and adoring fans.
His face, his body, his easy manner. It all practically shouted, “I’m not from around here,” or “I have people for that.”
The Ian I’d met on the tractor path last week had been playing a role, giving me a private performance, and I felt like an idiot. But I’d had an inkling, hadn’t I? Something had been off. I’d known there was an angle, a grift ...something.
And here it was. Dorian Masters—international celebrity, beloved movie star, and fame incarnate—was having a little fun with the backwoods locals. I could see from the grin that he’d been doing a little teasing at my expense. Maybe he’d thought he was funny. Maybe he’d just been bored.
But I was nobody’s fool.
While I didn’t keep up with Hollywood gossip the way my mother and siblings did, I wasn’t living under a rock. I knew who Dorian Masters was. For the last two or three years, it had been nearly impossible to wait in thecheckout line at the Winn-Dixie without seeing his beaming face plastered all over the magazines.
What movies he made. His workout routine. Who he was dating. It was all up for public consumption. I’d never really paid it much mind.
That was, until earlier this year, when he’d starred in a film adaptation of one of my favorite books. We’d gone to see it—my friends and I—as a book club. Fully prepared to be disappointed, we’d bought popcorn and candy and sat in a dark theater. I’d been ready to pick apart the dialogue, to scowl at the important moments that wouldn’t get translated to the big screen. And most of all, I’d been eager for the chance to judge Dorian Masters in his role as my favorite romance hero of all time.
But during his first scene, Dorian—clad in tight breeches and an intricately knotted cravat—had done nothing but capture my attention.
Our row of whispering, popcorn-chewing women had gone completely silent as we’d watched Dorian Masters blow every single expectation out of the water. The adaptation had been skillful and bold. It had stuck closely to the original novel and honored it in such a way that we’d all sat in stunned silence afterward before bursting into a flurry of excited chatter.
I hadn’t squealed with delight. I hadn’t turned to Candace in her oversized theater recliner at my side. I’d simply sat and stared at the rolling credits and felt an odd sense of disappointment. I’d been ready to hate the film and nitpick the performance. This young, hotshot actor with his annoyingly good looks and bright white teeth had taken my expectations and dismantled them.
It seemed that was one thing Dorian Masters had in common with whatever version was sitting on my mother’s screened porch.
I wasn’t about to mention my book club or the film now, though. I sure as shit wasn’t going to admit having seen it or the DVD on my shelf at home that featured heavily in the rotation.
So it was, of course, then that my sister opened her big mouth and said, “Joan lovedThe Tycoon and the Aristocrat.”
I resisted the urge to sigh.
“Is that right?” Ian looked absolutely delighted, like someone had dropped a present in his lap. A big one.
I was going to strangle my sister.
Candace met my gaze, and whatever she saw there had her eyes widening as she abruptly backtracked. “Well, we all loved it. Our book club went to see it. You know, I was probably thinking of my friend Bonnie. Joan doesn’t even watch movies. Or read books.” Candace winced. “I mean, shecanread, of course. She’s just so busy. With the farm.”
Ian, unfazed by my sister’s nervous word vomit, smiled graciously. “So your book club enjoyed the film?”
