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“Well, I wanted to see if I could talk you into dinner.”
I glance back at the salon. The door is closed. No one can hear, but they might be able to read lips.
“Dinner?”
“The meal at the end of the day?”
“You realize that every single one of those women is going to be talking about you coming into the salon?” How can he waltz into my place of work? Doesn’t he realize there will be theories circulating all over Whispering Creek before nightfall?
“What would they talk about?” Before I can state the obvious, he adds, “And who cares?” Ian is right, of course. People can say whatever they want. Words will never hurt me. I get all that. I understand it. But understanding it and falling in behind it are two different things. “We’re friends, Sandra. Just tell them we’re friends.”
Right. My brain sometimes completes unorchestrated flips. Of course, he is right. I shouldn’t care what people say, and the truth is we’re just friends.
“Now what errand do I need to run before dinner?”
“Huh?” He looks at me like I’m a dull knife, and only then do I get his question. I wave my hand dismissively. “Oh, I’ll do it. And I have to take it by the ranch house. Is that where you’re staying?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I’ll see you then.”
He glances back at the salon. The setting sun shines against the glass, and you can’t really see inside, but I’d bet money those women are all watching us.
“Should we give them something to talk about?” He leans down, as if going in for a kiss. My hand flattens against his chest, which is remarkably firm, as expected, and push him back.
“Ian.” I glare, and he just chuckles.
“I’ll see you soon,” he says at the same time I say, “See you later.”
The moment I step into the salon, Kara asks, “What was that about?”
“Nothing.”
I am seconds away from ripping into her for what she is implying with her facial expression, when she asks, “Is Noah taking everything really hard? Are you all worried about him?”
Jeez Louise. “He had a meeting with a doctor. You just heard him tell you that.” I walk away, shaking my head, acting like she is a looney tune with a one-track mind. Even though, in reality, I seem to recall that’s the excuse I pushed out there when he first walked in.
As I venture through the salon to my office, the client whose name I don’t know says, “I heard Noah is taking it really hard.”
Lordy. Yeah, he’s taking it so hard he’s slept with half of Austin. Not that I will share his secrets with any of these women.
After closing up the salon and stopping by Henrietta’s, my car winds around the packed dirt road I know almost as well as my own. Lights stream over the grassy back yard, so I walk around the side of the house to the screened-in back porch.
Ian jumps up as I approach and lifts Henrietta’s cake box from my arms.
“I brought home takeout for us.”
“This is for Noah. Oliver is supposed to take it to him. It’s from your mom.” He carries it into the kitchen, and I follow along. “Where’s Oliver?”
“Saturday night. He’s out.” That’s right. The guys mentioned going out. Ian crosses his arms across his taut chest. His button-down Oxford fits snugly along the shoulders but otherwise conceals the muscular lines of his arms and chest that I ogled like a schoolgirl back in Houston.
“Did you have time to consider your options?”
I back away and pull out a kitchen chair.
ChapterTwelve
Ian
