Ian approached wearing his dark sunglasses and a toboggan covering his short hair.
“Did anyone see you?” I asked, looking over his shoulder to the narrow, shadowed lane beyond.
“Nah,” he replied, rubbing his gloved hands together.
It was bitterly cold this morning for the 22nd Annual Kirby Falls Turkey Trot. The weather worried me a little, but not nearly as much as everyone figuring out a damn movie star was running in the race. I had a vision of people chasing Ian down the street, Beatles-style. I knew I could outrun them, but I wasn’t sure if Ian’s training had prepared him to flee his fans at high speed.
Eloise Carter, the festival chair and coordinator for the event, had volunteers waiting to escort us to the front of the start/finish line so that we could line up just before the gun went off. We couldn’t have Dorian Masters in the midst of hundreds of people who were likely to recognize him and cause a frenzy.
I liked to think my fellow residents were neighborly enough to give a man his space—even if he was an international celebrity—but I’d seen the chatter in the town’s ridiculous Facebook group. There was a daily Dorian Watch post where locals could report sightings around town.
Someone had taken a picture of Ian over at Trailview Brewing when he’d joined us for trivia night this past week. It had been blurry and poorly lit, but it had done the job. People had shown up in droves. Ian had happily signed napkins and taken selfies for an hour before I’d elbowed my way in and dragged him out to the parking lot, muttering about how people had lost their damn minds and where was Darren, anyway?
After that, I’d contacted Eloise myself to ensure Ian would be safe to participate in the 5K this morning. The grouchy old busybody had been pleased as punch to comply. She knew Ian’s participation—once revealed—would be fantastic for the event.
“Hey, thanks for getting this all squared away so I won’t get stuck taking selfies all morning,” Ian said before attempting to breathe some warmth into his fingers.
“It was no big deal,” I told him. “Now we get a premium starting position and don’t have to wait in line for it. Win-win.”
It was easier to say that than to admit that I was worried about his safety and annoyed with my neighbors for their behavior.
I helped him attach his race bib, making sure my touch stayed only on the stretchy black fabric of his pullover and not the muscles underneath. I could feel Ian watching me while my fingers shifted the safety pins into place over his abdomen.
“There,” I told him, clearing my throat. “You’re all set.”
“Thanks,” Ian replied with a smirk I chose to ignore.
Darren joined us a moment later from where he’d been watching the entrance to the alleyway.
“You’re not running with us?” I asked, grinning.
He wore his big, puffy winter jacket again and gave me an unamused look. I knew the big man did not like to run. His bodyguard technique leanedmore toward intimidation. Plus, this cold was breaking his California heart.
But we’d built a rapport in the last couple of weeks as both George and Ian had been spending so much time at the orchard. Darren was serious but with a dry sense of humor. He had a soft spot for animals, enjoyed chatting with Mercer, and loved my mother’s sweet tea.
“You’re mean enough to handle anyone who comes after him out on the road,” Darren replied dryly.
I laughed.
“Gee, thanks, guys,” Ian whined. “Glad my safety is so amusing to you two.”
Darren’s dark eyes sparkled, but he slapped Ian on the shoulder good-naturedly. “You’re right, boss. I’ll keep an eye out. Mrs. Carter assigned me someone who’s going to drive me around in a golf cart. We’ll follow behind, and you’ll be safe. I’ll make sure of it.”
Just then, a volunteer turned the corner and said they were ready for us.
Darren wished us good luck as we said goodbye and followed the woman in the neon-green sweatshirt to the front of the pack. People parted and stared, whispering to one another, but no one demanded to know why we were jumping line.
“You ready?” I asked quietly.
“I’ll be right beside you, Coach.”
Ian held up a fist, and I bumped it with my own, feeling a flutter in my middle that meant anticipation, competition, adrenaline, and absolutely nothing else.
The countdown began, and then the starting gun signaled the beginning of the race.
Ian and I took off.
The instinct was there to pull away fast from the crowd at our backs, but it was important to maintain our pace. Or Ian might not make it up the final hill to the finish.
