“I see.”
Bright-eyed, Mac straightened and snatched her phone off the table. “Do you want to see?”
But I held up a hand. I’d made the mistake of googling Dorian Masters early on. I’d witnessed him with models and actresses, women so beautiful they didn’t look real. Whatever images a local or an amateur photographer had captured at the Spring Fling were sure to be nothing so glamorous or flattering.
“But, they’re good,” Mac pouted. “They got taken down by admin Becca pretty damn quick, but I’d already downloaded them.”
“Becca deleted the post?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Candace confirmed. “She didn’t want them to circulate or make it to some entertainment site. So far, Ian has only had to deal with residents and tourists in Kirby Falls. We don’t need him hounded by paparazzi or obsessed fans.”
That was kind of Becca. I glanced between the gleeful faces of my sister and my friends. At leastsomeonewas looking out for me.
“Really, Joan,” Bonnie said, “you should see them. They’re ... y’all look good together. Happy.”
I was already shaking my head, but her last word stopped me.
My brows furrowed, and Bonnie smiled sweetly, nodding.
As if detecting my surrender, Mac squealed and started tapping away on her phone. She placed the device in the center of the table, and all four of us leaned in.
She swiped slowly through a collection of slightly crooked and off-center images of Ian and me in the back of the kissing booth.
The first few showed us eating and talking, knees slotted between one another as we sat on two folding chairs in the midday sun. In one shot, Ian had just taken a huge bite of caramel apple pie, and I’d been mid-laugh, shoving a napkin his direction.
The following photos caught us kissing, a stop-motion sequence of my touch running from Ian’s chest to his shoulders, his arms locked around my lower back, fingers fisted in the back of my shirt.
“Damn, girl.” Mac whistled.
I touched the back of her hand to stop her from scrolling for a moment.
Even with the terrible lighting and the shitty camera-phone lens, Ian and I looked like something beautiful, something timeless. The way Ian’s big body curved over mine. How we were so obviously wrapped up in one another. We looked like the stars in an old movie.
Apprehension gave way to a flicker of panic. These photos could have very real consequences. The invasion of privacy, the world’s reaction, the impact on Ian’s career and my daily life. A story about Hollywood’s leading man and a small-town farmer could explode in all our faces.
But despite the fear chilling my bloodstream, there was a warmth battling it. These images were undeniable. There was no hiding what we meant to one another, how deep that well of emotion ran.
I forced myself to take a breath, to push away the dread of discovery. Taking in the photo once more, I allowed the warmth to flood my veins and buoy my strength.
I wanted to frame it and stare at it. I wanted to send it to Ian and tell him to kiss me like that every day for the rest of our lives. I wanted to delete it from this phone and my memory forever.
There was nothing rational about my reaction, and I didn’t know how to?—
Mac swiped to the next photo.
Candace sighed suddenly, “Oh, this one is my favorite.”
At the image suddenly on the screen, I leaned in without thought, without permission. I heard myself make a sound, part gasp, part wounded animal. Luckily, it was too loud in the bowling alley for my friends to hear me. Still, I fought the urge to cover my mouth with my hand.
The photographer—interloper, whatever you wanted to call them—had captured the moment when I’d just exited the booth.
I was looking down, my face painfully soft, and I was pressing two fingertips to my lips, like I could hold on to Ian’s kiss if I just tried hard enough.
I had no memory of doing that. I just remembered feeling dazed, overwhelmed, grateful for the stolen moments behind the curtain.
But it was the rest of the image that made pressure build in my chest, behind my eyes. Ian was staring after me. He’d stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans, and his eyes were on my back. People talked about unguarded moments. His face was a case study in vulnerability and openness, longing so deep and endless, it was all I’d see when I thought of him.
The first night we were together, when we’d watchedThe Tycoon and the Aristocrat, he’d confessed in a whispered rush,I know I’m going to make a fool of myself. I’m going to be so fucking stupid over you. And I can’t help it. Couldn’t stop it even if I wanted to.
