Page 20 of Homecoming

I wasn’t stupid, I knew what he meant, his intentions were poorly disguised. And to be honest, my body screamed to let him ‘get to know me’ in every way he wanted. Just looking at his powerful body, and the graceful way he moved, made my ovaries sing.

Aside from my body giving me hints that could not be missed, my heart wanted to know Ian in any way I could. And that was dangerous ground for me.

I didn’t have a good track record with love, evidenced by the fact that I was a twenty-nine-year-old woman who hadn’t had a relationship that lasted longer than six months. And it wasn’t all the guy's fault. Whenever things started to get serious, I would find faults with them that I couldn’t get over.

Once, I broke up with a guy because he wanted to have a date night every week, and I found that annoying. I mean, who knew what could happen that particular day of the week, maybe I couldn’t go out to a fancy restaurant and have a nice meal. Maybe I needed to wash my hair.

See what I mean?

To be honest, after seeing Ian again, all grown up, tall with a killer body that couldn’t be missed even under that jumpsuit he wore most of the time, I started to realize things never worked out because none of them were Ian.

I had carried a torch for that man for years, and I wasn’t even aware of it.

And Ian was the kind of man who wanted commitment, at least that was what the internet stalking I partook of him over the years suggested.

His last relationship lasted for three years. She was an up-and-coming actress, who had fame in her own right, and was on the fast track to becoming the next America’s sweetheart. Their breakup was ambiguous, the bland statement made by both their PR team claiming schedule differences, and dedication to their respective career as the reason for it.

I waited with bated breath for the ugly to come. For accusations to wash over the internet, for dirty laundry, for the claims from close ‘sources’. But they never did. Both Ian and his ex talked respectably about each other with the press, saying they grew apart because they spent so much time apart.

In fact, there wasn’t a single smidge of a scandal that surrounded Ian Williams.

The only thing that was talked about recently was his new teammate Max, and how he was the son of the team’s owner, so his position was granted and not deserved. Fuelling the headlines was Max’s behavior, strutting around as if nobody could touch him, and Ian’s occasional reaction to all of it. Still, Ian hadn’t made a single comment in the media.

As I said, he seemed like a genuinely good guy, and I didn’t know if I could handle it.

I was afraid to get to know him more and in the end, get disappointed. We all had skeletons in our closets, and something told me, Ian’s were bigger and scarier than most people’s.

Sighing, I dropped my laptop onto the bed and got out of it.

I needed to do something. I had too much energy and no idea how to spend it.

Actually, there was an idea on how to spend all that energy, but it included Ian and my bed, and it also gave me hot flashes whenever I let my guard down to think about it.

Experiencing the aforementioned hot flash, I walked into the bathroom and splashed cold water over my face, in an attempt to cool down. If I didn’t stop thinking about Ian and his muscular body, moving over mine, while he was sliding into me, I would end up taking a freezing cold shower.

It was getting ridiculous.

Everything I did sparked some thought or fantasy about him.

Walking out of the bathroom and shaking my head in disbelief at myself and how quickly I was becoming infatuated with Ian, I heard my phone ping with a message.

I hoped it was Rylee with something she needed me to do that would occupy my time and distract my brain away from Ian. I dug into the sheets on the bed and pulled the text up.

It was from an unknown number.

I want to see you… Ian

I got a thrill from reading his words on my phone like a girl who was waiting for her crush to text her. Well, the only difference in my situation was that I was no teenager.

It didn’t even occur to me to ask how he got my phone number. I knew how these things worked. He probably asked one of his people to get it for him, and they worked their magic.

I looked at the clock and frowned as I typed.

Aren’t you supposed to be at the track?

Who says I’m not? I have time. I want to see you.

Pushy much?