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“You too.”
“We’re so glad we could make this work,” Ben says behind me, busting up the meager moment we were having.
Ian glances over my shoulder to give him his attention, and ridiculously, I almost pout at the loss of it. What the fuck is that about?
A woman not much taller than me with graying, auburn hair shuffles past Ian, plopping down into one of the conference chairs. “Let’s get the paperwork signed. I have another meeting.”
Ian catches my eye, smiling at the look on my face. He leans in, lowering his voice. “My agent. Not big on nonsense.”
“Ah.” I chuckle. I hitch a thumb over my shoulder at Theo, who is alternating between trying to put distance between himself and a moon-eyed Ben and getting my attention to come be his buffer. “Mine. Very big on nonsense.”
“Better get this out of the way,” Ian says. His fingers touch my elbow then, my skin tingling from the contact. “Wanna grab coffee after? Catch up?”
He expects me to compose myself with just the two of us? Has he looked at himself in the mirror lately?
My mouth is a little dry, but somehow, I manage to get the words out. “That would be great.”
Another smile that I have to pretend doesn’t make my stomach flutter, and I mentally chide myself for acting like the kid he still thinks I am. I’m not sixteen anymore, and Ian has lived a whole life since I saw him last. Fanning the flames of an ancient crush is a recipe for disaster. Best to shut it down quickly.
I watch Ian take his seat, trying to ignore how his shoulders fill out the soft-looking gray cotton of his henley or the way his hair brushes against his collar.
Easier said than done.
Don’t be weird. Don’t be weird. Don’t be weird.
As many times as I repeat it in my head, I can’t ascertain whether it’s actually helping or not. The meeting went fine; Ian and I didn’t get much of a chance to chat anymore while our respective teams hammered out the details of the agreement and pointed out where we needed to sign, and save for a stilted exchange about where we could grab coffee—we’ve spent most of the walk from the studio in awkward silence.
I think it’s that we’re both realizing how many years have passed between us, how much life we’ve lived apart, how different we’re bound to be…It’s difficult to navigate. Neither of us can seem to figure out how to step back into the space we once shared.
“It’s just up here,” I tell him, pointing at the wooden sign hanging over my favorite coffee shop.
His head bobs with a nod, his long hair sliding against his shoulders with the movement. I can’t pretend that I haven’t been sneaking glances at the thick, red mass of his hair in the last hour. When he was still in college, he used to keep it shorter, more clean-cut. I’ve seen plenty of coverage of him during games, so I knew he had let it grow out—but every time I’ve caught glimpses of him over the years, it’s been under a helmet. Without one, it falls back like it’s perpetually fresh from a good run-through by his own fingers, tumbling over his ears and touching his shoulders in barely-there curls that elicit a strong urge to touch. More than once I’ve wondered what it might feel like if I were to run my fingers through it.
The smell of fresh coffee hits my nostrils when I step through the door that he opens for me, and it’s a bit of a balm for my frazzled nerves. The place is crowded, and falling into line means being shoved further into Ian’s side against both of our wills.
“Sorry,” I mutter. “They’re busy today.”
“It’s fine,” he tells me. “Place looks cool.”
“They make these blueberry scones that are basically better than sex,” I say offhandedly, immediately blushing when I realize what I’ve said. “Wow. Sorry.”
Ian’s cheeks tinge pink when I peek up at him, but he smiles regardless. “They must be some really good fucking scones.”
“The best,” I assure him.
God. It’s unfair that his smile looks like that. Beards are supposed to be for woodsy types and old men. On him, all it does is accentuate how white his teeth are, how perfectly straight. Not to mention the way it frames his lips. Which are plush and pink and entirely too soft-looking for my liking. It’s been years. It’s criminal that he got better-looking in that time.
“So, your show. Big star, huh?”
I roll my eyes. “Hardly. It’s a local network. It’s fun though.”
“A local network is still more than a lot of bakers are doing back in their kitchens. Don’t sell yourself short.”
I can’t pretend I don’t like the praise, but that could just be an echo of the girl who used to hang on his every word begging for scraps.
“Yeah, well…” I rub my arm. “It is pretty cool. A dream, really.”
Someone bumps into me then, jostling me to the side, and I teeter for a second before I feel Ian’s warm, strong hand bracing at the small of my back to steady me. I feel the weight of it as if it were touching me skin to skin rather than through the cotton of my shirt, tingles shooting up my spine from the contact.
