Page 60 of Bone Dust

I nod. “Of course.” I follow him to the double doors leading to the inside of the restaurant to thwart further attempts of amateur photographers. The hostess follows me, while the waiters clean the table. Once Ian’s inside, I turn to her. “Could you please box up our meals?”

“Yes. I’m so sorry this happened.”

“It’s not your fault. I bumped into the table. If you can get the food ready to go, I’ll grab my credit card.”

“No, ma’am.” She puts up a hand. “There’s no charge.”

“Thank you.” I rush to the table and grab my purse. When I look up, I spy the voyeurs. It’s a handful of people and suddenly, my anger spikes. They know who he is, and they know what they’re doing.

I give them a hard look.

I bite back bitter words. Knowing these few people could turn opportunists in a heartbeat and could make Ian’s life hell and sabotage the peaceful, quiet life he craves, I reach into my bag, turn to the hostess, and give her a one-hundred-dollar bill. Her eyes widen.

“Please have everything ready at the front door and help us make a quiet exit.”

“I thought that was Ian Stanton,” she whispers, staring at the door separating us from Ian. It’s a brief move then she puts her eyes on me. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll take care of everything.”

In the car, I fear his silence speaks volumes. Not one word did he utter during the drive to his house. Once we arrive, I’m shocked when he comes around to my side of the car and opens the door.

I stare at his outstretched hand, then take it. The instant our eyes meet, I drop my gaze to the ground as he helps me out of the car. My stomach is still bottomed out over what happened. “I don’t mind staying here while you change.”

He opens the back door, grabs the bag and bottle from the restaurant, and holds it up. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

Momentarily caught off guard at his blasé tone, my sight hops from him to the bag, and back again, catching the calm tone. “You aren’t upset? I thought you’d be pissed.”

His brown hikes. “You think too much.”

He smiles and I’m stunned. A brief moment passes, and I smile back, relieved that he doesn’t seem irritated. Drake would have completely flipped out.

“Pot, meet kettle?” I scrunch up my nose.

He rolls his eyes then turns to the house. “I don’t think too much,” he throws over his shoulder.

“Ha! No? You’re the most introspective person I know. You torture yourself,” I say as I follow him.

“I do not, and that’s all there is to it.” He refutes, closing the subject as he approaches the door. “I’ll change, then we’ll eat. I tried the gentlemanly thing. It didn’t work out, so my kitchen will have to do.”

The screen door creaks as he pulls it open. He presses a code into the keypad mounted on the inside door. It beeps and he turns the knob, then he steps inside and flips the light switch. I follow.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be down in a minute. I’m going to change.”

I step tentatively through the kitchen as he disappears up a set of stairs. I don’t travel far, but just far enough to see into the family room. I glance quickly at the stairs then rush back to the kitchen table. The bag is sitting there, though I don’t recall him setting it down. No matter.

My heels clip-clop on the hardwood floor, even though I’m nearly running on tiptoe.

“You might want to take those off,” he calls from upstairs. “The floors are pine, which is a soft wood. It was a bitch to refinish. Your heel tips will leave divots—and feel free to wander around.”

I slip off my heels and place them by the back door. As I straighten up, I wipe my hands down the front of my dress to stave off wrinkles as I go back to the family room doorway.

The first thing I notice is an enormous stone fireplace and a sigh escapes. I love the smell and warmth of a good fire.

My shoulders relax and my stomach knot unravels as I roam the room. I drag my finger over a pile of books on an end table and cock my head to read the titles. Marketing and self-improvement books, huh? I press my lips together as I move on.

Ian’s furnishings are eclectic. Not what I’d expect from someone who I would have imagined hiring a decorator. What I see reminds me of Ian’s former Bohemian stage style. The chairs and sofa look plush and comfortable, well-worn leather with a few dark, forest green pillows on each. The place is rustic and relaxed. Like him.

“Not what you pictured?”

I jump. His silent, barefoot approach startles me. I turn. He’s shirtless in sweats and my jaw nearly drops. Muscles that were hidden beneath his clothes ripple from shoulders to waist. He looks absolutely delicious.

---