Alone on the porch and holding a brown sugar–glazed spiral ham, I bravely met Ian’s gaze and found it so fond and tender that I had to fight the impulse to look away.
“I—”
“Joan!” George cried suddenly as he sprang onto the threshold.
I’d never been so grateful to be interrupted by someone before in my life.
“Hi, George. Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Come see my fort in the sunroom.”
“I can’t wait,” I told him honestly.
The kid took off at top speed, socked feet slipping over hardwood flooring.
I made to follow, but Ian’s free hand gently cupped my elbow, stopping me in the narrow entryway. Ian’s body was close. I could feel the heat he radiated as his fingers held me frozen in place. Evergreen warmth invaded my lungs, and something flipped over in my stomach.
“Thank you,” he said, voice low, tone painfully soft.
“It was nothing.”
“It’snotnothing,” he insisted.
I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry as a desert. Ian’s face was right there. I could see the dark afternoon stubble along his jaw and all the different shades that made his blue eyes so brilliant. The curly black lashes were deeply distracting.
One careless inhale would have his chest grazing my shoulder, and then where would we be? I didn’t need to know what his muscles felt like. It was bad enough seeing them beneath his clothes. But the realization was there, and attraction along with it.
Of course, Ian was handsome. I wasn’t blind to his face or his body or his dimples. But he was also a commodity. America’s leading man. He wasn’t ... mine. No matter what he’d insinuated. Silly, inexplicable crushes didn’t matter when you came from two very different worlds.
So I remembered my place, and I kept walking, ignoring the way Ian stood completely still and how I could feel him staring after me.
In the large, open kitchen, Sophia helped unload food and chatted with my sister. Darren had joined my dad in the nearby living room as they flipped through channels, searching for the game.
I placed the ham on the counter, and a moment later, Ian entered my periphery.
I stayed quiet and forced myself to focus on preparing the meal.
Mercer produced a carving knife and platter from somewhere and took the foil off the turkey.
Thank Christ, George entered the kitchen at just that moment and distracted everyone by shouting, “Yay, turkey!”
“I thought you were a vegetarian,” Ian said, grinning down at his nephew.
“That was last week,” the boy informed him, making us laugh.
It was organized chaos as we set the table and uncovered dishes. All the while, I was painfully aware of Ian moving next to me or behind me. I’d feel his gaze and force myself to focus on scooping mashed potatoes into a serving dish or brushing honey butter on the rolls. But I couldn’t ignore how it felt to be here in this moment or why I’d insisted upon it in the first place.
Yes, I was being hospitable. Ian had wormed his way into my life beyond the movie and the orchard and all of it. And, of course, I cared about George and wanted him to have a traditional holiday with people who knew who he was and cared about him. But it was more than that.
It was a quiet admission in the back of a golf cart. The way I could see every regret cross Ian’s face as he’d spoken about missing parts of George’s early life. And how he’d been forced to pack it all away at the drop of a hat to become someone else—someone brighter, someone shinier, someone perfect.
You’re supposed to spend holidays with the people that matter, right?
Even if it was only to myself, I could admit that Ian had become that for me.
ten
JOAN
