Leaf Well Enough Alone is coming May 26th! But I have zero chill, so I’m going to share Chapter One in its entirety with you, my lovely readers. Hope you enjoy Joan and Ian’s meet-cute disaster.
Chapter One
*Ian*
“Are you alive down there?”
I blinked my eyes open at the sound of the woman’s voice.
A pair of long, tanned, toned legs came into view. My gaze took a leisurely path up her body, past thin-fabric running shorts, a gray V-neck tee shirt, across collarbones shiny with perspiration, before finally reaching a pretty intimidating scowl beneath a maroon baseball cap.
I’d expected to see concern or confusion at the very least. But the face of the woman staring back at me was creased in disapproval, or maybe suspicion.
I suppose I was a stranger on land that wasn’t mine. A weirdo laid out on the edge of a dirt path like a chalk-outlined victim on an episode of Law and Order. I’d played that role once, back when I was just getting started. Mob Corpse #3. It was surprisingly difficult to hold your breath.
I definitely wasn’t holding it now as I struggled to inflate my lungs.
Admittedly, I probably looked a little suspect lying here in my incognito attire—workout clothes, sunglasses, and a Columbus Blue Jackets hat.
Maybe this grumpy mystery woman wasn’t a hockey fan.
I worked to even out my breathing. I no longer sounded like someone with a severe peanut allergy suffering from asphyxiation.
“I’m okay,” I barely wheezed, forcing my upper half into a sitting position.
The woman took a step back. Her stern expression went nowhere, and she radiated distrust.
“Did you hurt yourself somehow?” she asked, voice low and accusatory.
I smiled. I couldn’t help it. She just sounded so damn ornery.
Squinting against the bright sunlight, I tried to make out her features, but the hat covered a lot. She’d clearly been out for a run, and from her lean, lithe form, she didn’t have any trouble jogging across North Carolina farmland.
“I’m fine,” I told her. “Not hurt. Just out of practice.”
That was a lie. I’d never been good at cardio. I could bench-press over three hundred pounds and do squats and lunges all day long—or until my trainer, Maurice, told me to stop. I’d been blessed with a good metabolism, and I hated cardio, always had.
But there’d just been something invigorating about the sunshine on this mild November day. The rolling hills of the farm had called to me. As had the mountains in the distance. Apple trees formed orderly lines all over. Even though the leaves were brown and in the process of falling, the landscape was still undeniably beautiful. I knew a field of dead and dying wildflowers spread out behind me. I’d admired it briefly before I’d collapsed in a heap from exhaustion on the grass this side of the wooden fence.
We had sunshine and scenery in Los Angeles—an abundance of it. But we also had smog and people and traffic and paparazzi.
When I’d stepped out onto the porch of my rental house over at Grandpappy’s this morning, I’d sucked in a lungful of crisp mountain air and been transported. Totally charmed. Utterly gobsmacked by the urge to touch some grass and maybe even an apple tree.
Exploring the property that would be our film set in a few weeks had sounded refreshing. Until I remembered that I wasn’t a runner, and what the hell had I been thinking, going out for a leisurely jog without my phone?
Air was definitely easier to pull in now. There were no longer black spots crowding the edges of my vision.
Still, the woman stared like I was an inconvenient trespasser.
“Can I get you some help? Call someone for you?” She looked around like maybe my keeper was nearby, since I obviously couldn’t take care of myself.
I noticed the end of a stubby brown ponytail sticking out of her ball cap before she turned back to me.
“I was just resting here a minute to catch my breath,” I said simply, adding a smile to see if that might put her at ease. I had a great smile. It had been voted the best one in Hollywood by People magazine three months ago. Reigning male champ. No big.
But my “sparkling visage of masculine charm”—People’s words, not mine—didn’t seem to have any effect. If anything, she scowled harder, creases bracketing a wide mouth with surprisingly full lips. This woman was all long, lean lines, but those lips were lush, maybe the softest thing about her.
Thank God I had sunglasses on, or she’d undoubtedly gut me with a Swiss Army knife for checking her out. These rural types were resourceful like that.
Despite the cover, I still made a point to look away from her mouth.
“What are you doing on my family’s land?” she snapped, and I could tell now that was what she’d wanted to know all along. She’d determined that I wasn’t dying or in need of medical attention before she brought it back around to what she’d intended to ask in the first place.
I wondered if she thought she’d actually pulled off the caring, concerned routine.
She hadn’t. Nothing about this woman screamed warm or nurturing, not even when she’d asked after my health or offered to call someone for me.
That made me want to smile again, but I resisted. I had a feeling grumpy-pants wouldn’t like it.
“Right.” I nodded. “Your land. You must be one of the Judds.”
I’d seen the sign by the road advertising wholesome family fun—apple orchards, pumpkin patches, farm stand, concessions, the whole small-town shtick for tourists. And I was sure there were production notes in an email somewhere telling me exactly whose property I was trespassing on.
“I am,” she agreed, but didn’t offer a first name.
Unbothered, I slowly gained my feet and held out a hand. “I’m Ian Wells. I’m with the film.”
She hesitated just a beat before giving me a surprisingly firm shake. Her hand was a little rough. I could feel callouses sliding across my palm that made me even more curious about her.
Despite the handshake, she still didn’t offer her name. “So you’re with the production crew?”
“Yep.” That was technically true. I’d had my agent negotiate for a producer credit—my first one.
“Then you should know that all the trailers and equipment aren’t coming for another week.”
I nodded again. I did know that. I’d come to town early to get settled with Georgie and my staff. Plus, I’d wanted a break before we hit the ground running. There was no easing into film production. Once we started, it would be full throttle until the holiday break, and then we’d be back at it again until early spring, when we’d return to LA to film a few scenes in the studio. The timeline took place over several months, and we’d need to shoot in various settings, but most of them centered on the mountains of Western North Carolina.
“I was just out for a little stroll to check things out.” I busted out the “megawatt panty-dropper.” Again, People’s words, not mine. “Sorry if I overstepped. I just love it out here, and I was eager to see your home.”
Her eyes narrowed, and I played back my words.
“Not your home specifically. I just meant the land—Kirby Falls—in general.” I laughed good-naturedly. She did not partake. “I wasn’t planning on peeking in any windows or anything,” I joked.
She stared at me like I was a lunatic. This wasn’t going how I’d hoped. I hadn’t met many locals yet, but I’d been looking forward to charming them.
This woman did not look particularly charmed. What happened to Southern hospitality? Her face looked like where it went to die.
Better to get out before she pulled her Swiss Army knife on me. “Welp, I’ll let you get back to your run. Thanks for checking on me. I’ll head back across the road now. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other arou—”
“Back across the road?” she interrupted. “You’re not staying in town?”
I smiled again, pleased that she was finally curious about something. “Nope. I’m over at the Clarks’.”
The woman put her hands on her hips and grumbled something under her breath. I only caught “Maggie,” and “meddling,” and “dammit.”
Huh. I guess she knew Maggie, too.
I’d run into Maggie Clark, the head baker for Grandpappy’s—the tourist farm across the highway from Judd’s—on my second day in town. We’d struck up a friendly conversation, like normal people, after she’d asked for a selfie. Then, she’d ended up offering me a place to stay long-term for the shoot.
Initially, she’d mentioned a tiny house—a rental they had available—but with Georgie and the rest of my team, I’d needed a bigger space. So we’d worked it out that I’d rent her mother- and father-in-law’s home. They were apparently snowbirds who lived in Florida and traveled in their RV the majority of the year.
After nearly a week in the big house by the pond, I was extremely grateful for that charming grocery store run-in with Ms. Maggie. It had been the perfect solution. My little entourage had plenty of space to spread out, and it had gotten us away from that bed-and-breakfast downtown with the nosy and handsy owner.
Serendipitous, if I did say so myself.
But judging by the muttered curse words from the woman in front of me, maybe it wasn’t such good news.
“Is there a problem?” I asked politely.
“Nothing we didn’t ask for,” she grumbled.
She took another two steps back, and I could tell she was preparing to leave, feet bouncing slightly with unspent energy.
“I didn’t catch your name,” I said just as she started to move.
Her feet picked up the pace, and she took off down the dusty path in a relaxed, effortless stride that spoke of years of experience and athletic prowess.
I watched, trancelike, as her body moved. The calm, cool efficiency, something to behold. Her tiny ponytail was actually pretty cute as it bounced. And her backside was—
“I didn’t throw it,” she called over her shoulder.
I felt my lips part around my grin. “I’m Ian, by the way.”
“So you said,” she hollered without turning.
I chuckled and could not help the absolute delight I felt at being so instantly disliked and disregarded by this mystery woman. She’d been surly and unfriendly, and that only made me more determined to win her over.
It had been a minute since someone overlooked my fame and stardom. Then again, the hat and sunglasses did cover most of my face. And I’d introduced myself as Ian instead of the name everyone knew me by.
Dorian Masters was the action hero. Dorian Masters had the best smile in Hollywood. Dorian Masters was the man everyone wanted to know.
Ian Wells was just a kid from Ohio who’d made it to LA. In a place where personal training and modeling and waiting tables could land you a chance encounter, I’d been one of the lucky ones, in the end. I’d met my agent, gotten auditions, and after years of commercials, voiceovers, and even that one romance audiobook I’d narrated, I’d landed my big break.
Now I was a “fan favorite” with “staying power” in an industry that could change overnight. I knew celebrity status was an illusion. I was one bad decision or social media mishap away from being a has-been or a never-was. But right now, I was on top of the world.
And that farm girl with the great ass in running shorts and a ball cap hadn’t given me the time of day.
My face could barely contain my award-winning grin.
“Nice to meet you!” I shouted at her rapidly retreating form.
She tossed up a hand that would have won an Academy Award for the most impatient and halfhearted farewell of all time.
This little town was getting more interesting by the second.
I stood there like an idiot, luxuriating in my own hubris and the midmorning sunshine, before I remembered I still had a one-mile trek back to the rental house.
“Shit,” I huffed.
Then I reached down to touch my toes in an attempt to stretch and heard my spine crack in three places. Alright, never mind. I’d just walk it.
My sneakers scuffed along the dirt of the tractor path and dislodged tiny pebbles as I began the long trudge back to the main road.
I’d work up to running, I decided. Maybe I could even find a workout partner to teach me their ways. Someone with a penetrating stare and an uncompromising scowl.
And I knew just where to look.
