Dez

THREE WEEKS LATER

W hen I was a kid, I was obsessed with horses. I wore out my copy of the horse care manual, I watched Black Beauty a million times, and I decorated every wall of my room with horse posters. My obsession was so intense, and I loved them so much, I told everyone I knew that I wanted to be a veterinarian, just so I could take care of them.

Then came the summer that my mom scrimped and saved, all so she could sign me up for horse riding camp. Two weeks of lessons and rides and mucking stalls and learning to shoe them... everything I'd been dreaming of for a year. I told all my friends about it for months. I couldn't wait to go.

And then the day arrived, where all of my theoretical knowledge bumped up against the experience of real, live, terrifyingly massive horses.

I didn't even make it through the first day.

Sitting here in Ian's tasting room, practicing one of the scenarios in the Connor Group's customer service training manual, feels a lot like that first day of camp. Nothing in their theory can stand up to the onslaught of intensity that is Ian Worthington-Jones.

"Let's try it again, shall we?" I straighten my spine and force calm into my voice. He will not win this round. I won't let him.

"I thought it went well that time, didn't you?" Ian's eyes are sparkling and the corner of his mouth quirks up despite his best attempt at hiding it. He's messing with me. I know it. He knows I know it. But he's determined to keep it up.

"Mr. Worthington-Jones, generally speaking, it is not advisable to refer to any of your customers as a charlatan or a wanker." I give him a smile that shows all my teeth.

"Oh, come on. I gave him his money back, too. That must earn me some leeway."

"Not even then, I'm afraid."

He huffs out a laugh and crosses his arms across his chest. I try not to notice what it does for his pecs. I fail. Hard.

"Seems like that's half the fun," he grouses. Well, he pretends to grouse in the way that means he is pulling my leg.

In the last couple of weeks, I've discovered the many faces of Ian Worthington-Jones. Although my familiarity with his quirks most likely has a lot to do with all the videos of him I watched in my misspent youth, staying in his house is giving me a whole new level of insight.

Ninety percent of the time, he's got resting grump face. Which seems fair. He's got a lot to be grumpy about. If I were him, I wouldn't appreciate my business partners thinking I needed a professional babysitter either. Though he did earn it with his hotel room trashing ways. The Connor Group is heavily invested in hotels.

The rest of the time, he wears a variety of salty expressions. There's the slight frown, where his eyebrows contract just enough to notice. That means he's listening, but skeptical. The out and out eye rolls happen when I say something he declares is "corporate speak." Then there's the tiny eyebrow raise when I amuse him, or tell him something he thinks is clever. I'm never sure if that's a good thing where he's concerned.

I suspect he doesn't want to find me funny. Or even human. Then he'd have to consider not being a butthead. And Ian Worthington-Jones is one hundred percent being a butthead today.

"New plan. Why don't we take a break?" I suggest. My boss texted me this morning from somewhere in Europe. I should answer her. Get her opinion on how I should encourage Ian to cooperate. She's been at this longer than I have, and she is known for having clients that eat out of her hand. Liv is the rich guy whisperer. I respect her game.

Ian stands up and stretches, wandering away from the table we're sitting at to the picture window that looks out at the stunning grounds. My gaze follows his. The terraced hills glow in the fierce summer sun, all the greens and browns rolling over the gentle curves of the hills. From up here, it's like rows of stitches across the earth, smooth lines undulating over the ground. They seem to go on forever and ever, gradually disappearing into the forest that butts up on the edge of the property.

Years ago, Teeny Bop magazine had a story on how Ian's family had a house near here. I'd read that story with a pang of envy, imagining how incredible it must have been to run wild out here in the country. My parents were so young — too young — when they had me. They could never have afforded for us to live anywhere like this.

"It's gorgeous," I say when Ian notices my stare. "So lush. My neighborhood is barren in comparison."

Ian grunts his agreement. "I've been all over the world, but never found a place I loved more."

We share a smile, and it feels super genuine. Like we finally found something that both of us can be sincere about, where neither of us is covering up a soft spot with a slick attitude. It's… nice.

I'm about to ask him another question about the winery when both of our phones buzz. There's a text from Ian's manager Daphne to the both of us.

IWJ: Got lucky — Marta had a cancellation. You know, the genius photog? Sending her your way for glamour shots of you plus product. Hop in the shower. Wet hair is a good look on you.

DLG: Make sure he doesn't scare them off pls he stares miserably back as the shock rolls over my face. Ian's been famous since he was nineteen. He must have had his photo taken literally thousands of times. It would never have occurred to me that he was anything but happy to show off his stunning looks.

"Don't do it." His smile twists in a way that makes my heart ache for him. "Don't pity the poor little rock star who secretly hates having anyone look at him. Yes, I'd rather pluck out my own lashes than say cheese, but for the love of Pete, don't waste your sympathy on me."

"I suppose you can cry into your millions about it," I tease, desperate to jolly him out of this sudden mood. But a weird expression I can't read crosses his face and he refuses to meet my eyes.

"Well. I'd better go get ready for my closeup. Keep an ear out for the door, will you?"

I nod. Ian pats me on the shoulder and heads off to his room. I wonder about how much we love our celebrities, and how we reward them, and what it costs them to get those rewards.

But that question's way above my pay grade, and in the meantime, I have real world work to manage. I spend the next thirty minutes replying to emails and checking in with my other clients, until I'm interrupted by the soft chime of Ian's doorbell. I'm confused until I recall Daphne's text and rush to the foyer.

Marta Gunderson, the photography world's equivalent of a rock star, waltzes into the space like she belongs there, trailed by two assistants steering a cart between them.

"I know you." Marta is brusque. "you work for the smart one. Olivia."

"I do. I'm ."

"No." Her eyes narrow, and she taps her chin. "Not . Something with a flower. Dahlia?"

"Daisy. Daisy Lynn Green." I don't know why I'm giving her my entire government name, like she's the school principal and I'm a wayward student.

"Daisy! Yes!" She claps her hands and satisfaction. "It's cute. Simple. Like sunshine."

"Daisy?" a masculine voice intones. I close my eyes and tip my head back, willing my body to melt into the floor. I deliberately didn't tell Ian my real name. Yet here we are in precisely the scenario I wanted to avoid.

"Yep!" I add an extra dose of cheer into my voice. "Yours truly is a Daisy. It probably won't surprise you to learn my nickname in high school was ‘FreshAz,' will it?"

I stop talking when I turn around and nearly swallow my tongue whole. Ian wears low-slung jeans that make it clear he's not wearing anything else. His dark hair is tousled, the waves and curls more pronounced than I've ever seen them. And for someone who hunted down approximately nine million pictures of him during Courage's heyday, that is saying something.

His chest and feet are bare, and tiny beads of water slide down his pecs in gentle cascades. I suddenly want to be a towel with all my might.

"Ian!" Marta's voice interrupts my fantasy. "It's good to see you. Selling wine now, hmm?"

His tight smile doesn't quite reach his eyes." Got to diversify the income. You taught me that."

"Glad you've finally listened. Which reminds me: you weren't still with Arthur Kent when he?—"

Ian makes a vague gesture in my direction, then mimes zipping his lips. I'm not sure why he wants her to keep quiet about someone I don't even know, but whatever. Maybe there's some super secret rich people code he and Marta exchange, and us regular folks aren't allowed to be part of it.

"Marta," I give her a big smile. Not going to make a fuss over their secrets. "It's wonderful that you and Ian know each other. I imagine that familiarity makes the shots go more smoothly."

"It can." She gives Ian a frank appraisal. "Or it can make it harder, because they know I won't put up with spoiled star bullshit."

I blink. She laughs at my expression.

"Ian's a good boy, though. Very cooperative."

I blink again. Surely we aren't talking about the same man.

"Only for you, lovely Marta." He's practically purring at her. I roll my eyes at his shameless flirting and turn back to her.

"We should head back to the tasting room." I suggest. "We're excited to see what you think of the space, Marta. I know how good you are when it comes to images of people, but I'd love to see what you do with the product. Have you done much commercial photography?"

We discuss the campaigns she's done while Ian gets a shirt on and slips into a pair of loafers. He gives her assistants directions to the tasting room, then helps them load everything back into Marta's van for the drive over.

About an hour later, everyone is settled into the space. Marta is mumbling to herself as she takes shots of the wine bottles, making slight adjustments between pictures. She shows us the images on her computer; they're looking good.

"These are wonderful," I say honestly. "I like the mysterious kind of effect you're creating here. But I wonder if we could play with something?"

"Hmm?" Marta asks. "What do you mean?"

"Maybe some moody black-and-white of Ian's hands around the bottle? We could do some with his guitar in the background, or just using the signet ring he always wears? Courage fans will recognize it. And then you could put his signature on the image in post?"

I draw a quick sketch of what I mean on my iPad. Marta is silent for a few minutes, weighing my concept. I cross my fingers, hoping she'll be into it.

"I like it," she finally says. "Let's try."

As she and her assistant set up the shots, I organize Ian, finding his ring and rolling up the cuffs of his seersucker shirt, so his forearms show.

"Interesting concept." I look up, sure he's teasing me again, but his eyes are sincere.

I shrug. "The wine is what's on sale, right? We should emphasize that. Not you, so much."

He laughs soundlessly, but doesn't say anything more. I examine his hands. The nails are in good shape, but he needs a bit of moisturizer. I reach my bag, retrieving my precious tube of La Mer hand cream.

"Hey! That's cold!" Ian squirms as I carefully dole out a dab.

"Hush you, big baby," I tease. "Sometimes we have to sacrifice for beauty."

I gently massage the cream into his skin. As my fingers glide up and down the expanse from his fingertips to those corded forearms, my brain conjures up other, more naked situations where I might rub something on Ian's skin. I don't dare make eye contact. I'm afraid he'll see my every lust-filled thought in my face.

Ian's hands are tense at first, but by the time I'm done, they are limp in my grasp. I but when I look up, he's leaning back in the chair, face relaxed. Without the usual tension on his face, he looks a lot like that fresh-faced boy I idolized so long ago.

"Mr. Worthington-Jones?" one of Marta's assistants calls. "We're ready for you now."

Ian stands up, stretching, all his long limbs like a work of art. He smiles down at me, and I immediately think of a big cat. Beautiful and far too dangerous.

"Come on," he says, in a sexy drawl. "Let's go make some magic."