We were past me thinking Ian was just messing with the locals for his own entertainment. But maybe itwasjust a sex thing. I’d already signed an NDA, after all. That probably made things easier, logistically.
I considered this reasoning, and some of my vexation abated. Men did crazy things for sex.
“How old are you anyway?” I asked suddenly.
Ian eyed me skeptically. “Twenty-nine.”
“Jesus, you’re still in your twenties.” I’d known he was younger than me, but the confirmation was brutal. “And you’re what? Attracted to me.” I didn’t tack a question mark on the end because while I did want confirmation, I wasn’t fishing for compliments.
“I am,” he replied.
“And I’m old enough to be your?—”
“To be my what?” he interrupted hastily.
“Your much older sister,” I finished flatly.
Ian laughed and looked away. “Yeah, I don’t feel particularly brotherly toward you, believe me.”
Maybe he was bored, so sex with a local seemed like a nice way to pass the time. My eyes fell to his broad shoulders, mostly against my will.
Contrary to the attraction simmering in my middle, I said matter-of-factly, “Movie stars aren’t really my type.”
If I thought he’d be disappointed by my statement, I would have been wrong.
Amusement sparkled in his eyes. “Has that come up a lot for you?”
“No,” I admitted.
Apparently recovered from his cardiovascular ordeal, Ian rose gracefully to his feet. There was no denying he was a big guy. Easily standing seven or eight inches above my height of five eight. But despite being muscular and tall, he didn’t loom, and I wasn’t intimidated by his size. Even when he’d been a stranger on my family’s land, I’d never been afraid of Ian.
There wasn’t one single aggressive thing about him, except for, maybe, how fucking attractive he was. It was visceral, his beauty. I felt it in my gut. The swift whoosh flipping my stomach over. It was there in the knot in my throat when I tried to speak. The way my eyes wanted to linger over every single one of his features and then come back for seconds.
He was a work of art. Practically untouchable. And the whole world knew it.
Maybe that was the problem.
“Well, how do you know movie stars aren’t your type?” he asked.
“Because I don’t have the patience for celebrities. Nor would I waste my time agreeing to whatever it is you want. You’re here temporarily. Getting tangled up with you for a quick hook-up or a reliable lay while you’re filming feels like a recipe for disaster.”
“Dating,” he insisted, taking a step closer. “The thing I want to do with you is called dating. I’m not bored or trying to amuse myself or settling for you because you’re convenient.”
I swallowed, my throat suddenly too dry. I liked to think of myself as fairly level-headed, but it was a lot to have all that good-looking intensity and charisma directed my way. His calm, confident tone and earnest expression had me feeling unsteady, like I’d misread the whole situation,and now I was back at step one: not understanding his motivations. It was easier when I’d assumed it was just about meaningless sex.
But then I remembered who he was and imagined the words were simply lines he’d delivered, a mark he’d hit in some production for my benefit alone.
This man was an actor, and I couldn’t forget that.
When I was quiet for too long, Ian asked, “So, why don’t you like celebrities?”
Before I thought better of it, my honest opinion practically leaped from my mouth. “They’re helpless. They have staff that does everything for them. They’re used to people kissing their ass and stroking their ego. Obviously, I’m generalizing, but do you cook your own meals?”
“Nope.”
“Do you wash your own car or scrub your own toilet?”
“No and no,” he replied easily, completely unashamed.
