I listened to him talk about his fans and the women who wanted just a small piece of his attention, and couldn’t imagine being so good-humored about it all. It was difficult to fathom sharing so much of my own life with the public, making myself available for their criticism and their love in equal measure.
But Ian seemed impervious. Maybe he was used to it by now. Either way, it felt like another big obstacle for whatever was happening between us.
Would it be this way in LA if I went? Would folks stop him on the street or interrupt his meals just to have a part of him—an autograph they could frame and hang on a wall, a selfie they could share on social media? How much was Ian’s peace worth to all these people?
Finally, Ian stood and brushed off the apple pie crumbs from his dark blue jeans. “Well, I’d better get back out there. Send me pictures from the petting zoo, okay?”
“I will,” I promised, saddened by the fact that Ian couldn’t join us. Aside from his obligations in the booth, he’d never put his nephew at risk so publicly.
On a whim, I pulled out the ticket Becca had pressed into my hand. “I’m not usually one to skip line . . .”
Ian saw the ticket and grinned before plucking it from my grasp and sticking it in his pocket. If I visited Ian’s trailer on set, would I see that little blue ticket added to his collection of mementos?
Before I had too much time to wonder, he wrapped his arms around my waist and drew me close.
“Joan Judd, I knew you were jealous,” he whispered, absolutely delighted.
My hands slid up his torso, feeling the muscles beneath. I smiled against his lips, admitting, “Maybe I am.”
The kiss started slow and sweet. It was all comfort and familiarity. The warm evergreen scent that slowed my racing mind. The strength in thearms holding me so securely. And I knew these lips—wide and soft and perfectly in sync with my own.
Ian’s tongue licked at the seam of my mouth, and I obliged on a sigh. In this perfect little bubble, on a warm spring day, I felt safe enough to let my feelings go. To allow my hands to wander over the tops of defined shoulders, to push up onto my tiptoes to be closer, to press my body against the length of his.
It was a luxury, this privacy. It was also an illusion. Because if I listened closely, I could hear conversation from Dorian’s fans in line just beyond the curtain.
In that moment, all I wanted was to be alone with Ian in the fields, lying on a blanket in the sun.
Resigned for all the things that couldn’t be, I drew back and placed my feet firmly on the ground.
Ian’s mouth followed mine, still eager, still caught up, his arms holding tight.
He pressed a final kiss to my jaw and groaned, “Fine. But I’ll see you tonight?”
My hand stroked down his arm to twine our fingers together. I gave one final squeeze. “You’ll see me tonight.”
Then I told myself to let him go before I made a fool of myself.
nineteen
JOAN
It wasn’t until I’d finished bowling the third frame that I realized something was going on.
I’d caught Candace and Mac and Bonnie with their heads together for the fourth time, and they’d looked more excited than guilty.
The Lucky Strike Lanes bowling alley wasn’t the best place for a conversation. It was loud; the sounds of pins crashing, music playing, and people talking created constant background noise. But whatever was going on clearly had my friends’ attention, and I had a bad feeling it had to do with me.
“What is it?” I asked as I took the open seat beside my sister. “Just tell me.”
The women exchanged tight-lipped looks.
It was Bonnie who eventually spoke up. “Well, it appears that someone in the Kirby Falls Facebook group posted pictures of you and Ian from the Spring Fling.”
I winced, not expecting that.
Ian had practically announced his location here in Kirby Falls when that trailer tour interview had aired two weeks ago. His well-meaning effort toboost the local economy—and the orchards—made the location for filming easily searchable.
By some miracle, his fans and the paparazzi hadn’t been knocking down any doors, mostly because the website had reported inaccurately—at Ian’s manager’s request—that filming had finished. Now, photos of Dorian Masters with some mystery woman in rural North Carolina might change all that.
