There was something so sweet about his honesty. It made it even better knowing that Ian probably—definitely—would not have wanted me to know about his forays into domesticity. Obviously, our conversation had spurred him into action. I didn’t know whether to be horrified or strangely impressed.
If the warm amusement in my middle meant anything, I was leaning more toward impressed ... and attracted—well, more attracted. Ian had that face, those dimples, and that body. But now he was an A-list celebrity doing household chores in his spare time, and—yep—that was making me feel things.
I’d called him spoiled, and he’d set out to do something about it.
Oh, Jesus. Did he think I would date him now?
Before I could panic about the ramifications of Ian doing laundry very poorly, George said matter-of-factly, “My mom never let me have brownies and ice cream.”
The boy rarely spoke about his mother, so I made sure my tone was casual. “Really?”
“Yep. She said it would make me too hyper or hurt my belly. But it didn’t hurt my belly at all yesterday.”
“Your mom probably just wanted to make sure you were healthy.”
George frowned, turning that over. “So, Uncle Ian doesn’t want me to be healthy?”
To myself, I thought,Ian wants you to be happy. There’s a difference.
But to the kid, I replied, “Your uncle wants you to be healthy, too. It’s okay to have a treat now and then. And maybe Ian had just as much fun cooking the brownies with you as you did eating them.”
George smiled. “It was pretty fun. He let me crack the eggs all by myself.”
“So, you think you want to be a chef now, or you still want to be a farmer?”
He giggled like I was silly, and the sound made me smile. “Farmer!” he shouted, earning a laugh.
“What was the big, important thing you needed to ask me about?”
“Oh, can we go fishing sometime? Uncle Ian said you were good at fishing, and I’ve never been. I’ve read about it, though.”
I didn’t know how I felt about George and his uncle having conversations about me. That felt a little too ... real. I’d compartmentalized everything about the film—from the interruptions to the shooting schedule to ourvisitors—into temporary categories. It was important to keep those things separate. George and Ian, the movie, all of it, couldn’t get mixed up with real life.
“I can take you fishing,” I agreed. “I’ll keep an eye on the weather for a mild day, and we’ll try the pond over at Grandpappy’s. You think Miss Maggie would let us fish over there?”
I already knew the answer to that, but I also knew George liked visiting the Clark matriarch at the bakery where she worked. We could swing by when I took him home in a few hours.
“I bet she would. Can we go ask her?”
“Sure thing, George.”
“Maybe she’ll have a treat for us.”
I smiled. “Maybe she will. You ready to help plant these tulip bulbs?”
“Yep!”
I passed him a pair of kid-sized gardening gloves I’d picked up at the tractor supply store.
I tried to ignore the way it felt when he grinned up at me like I’d done something special. They were just gloves.
And this was all temporary. It wouldn’t do to blur the lines between fleeting and forever ... for any of us.
nine
JOAN
I stood around the corner from First Avenue in the small alley that ran behind Burke Hardware and Paperback Writer, the bookstore downtown.
