Page 57 of Saving Ian Pope

Once off the plane, I hit the bathroom and fluffed myself up—teeth, hair, a little makeup, a spritz of perfume. I didn’t want Ian to take one look at me and regret his decision.

I sailed through customs, and a burly guy the size of a brick wall met me in the baggage claim area. He introduced himself as Jovan, Ian’s bodyguard and driver.

All I had to do was point out my bags on the carousel, and Jovan, with the serious black beard, grabbed them and hoisted them to safety, as if they were Barbie suitcases.

He reached for my carry-on, and I clamped it to my side. “I’ll keep it, thanks.”

“The car’s just out front.”

Ian probably hadn’t wanted to come inside to meet me and cause a stir. Of course, now that I didn’t have to hide from Matt anymore, I didn’t care if the paps caught us.

Matt hadn’t asked many questions about how I was finagling a monthly payment from Ian, and I wouldn’t have told him the truth, anyway. It was always best to play your cards close to the vest when it came to Matt.

The sliding doors parted, and we stepped outside into the cool air, me following the brick wall. He pointed up ahead to a black sedan with tinted windows. “Car’s right there.”

I swallowed and kept putting one foot in front of the other. The car door swung open, and Ian stepped outside with a bouquet of yellow roses in one hand. All sense and reason evaporated, and I ran full tilt toward him.

He braced himself for my assault and didn’t even stagger when I threw myself against his chest and wrapped my legs around his waist. He hugged me tightly and spun around with me in his arms, saying my name over and over. When he set me down, he cupped my jaw with one hand and rained kisses down on my wet face. What could I say? I was a sap for happy reunions.

When Jovan slammed the trunk of the car, Ian and I jumped, and then laughed. It felt good to laugh with him. We got into the sedan, which was much more reasonable than the one he’d hired in LA for the concert. No minibar.

He handed the roses to me, and I buried my face in their petals, inhaling the soft, powdery scent. But I’d rather smell him. I put the bouquet on the seat beside me, and leaned against him, my nose planted in his neck. Yep, still smelled the same—masculine, fresh, and a little spicy.

Running my hand through his short hair, I said, “You cut it.”

“Do you like it? I can grow it out again.”

I shook my head. “Suits you. Sets off your jaw line, even with the beard grown out.”

“You’re wearing your hair straight today.” He wound a lock of my blown-out hair around his finger.

“Easier to keep neat on the plane. Do you want me to go wavy?” Wavy hair was nothing. I’d probably tattoo his name across my...chest, if he asked me to.

“I like it both ways.” He glanced at Jovan in the front seat, tugged on my hair to pull me close, and whispered. “I like it wavy and wild when we’re in bed though.”

I didn’t need further invitation. I snuggled next to him, hooking my leg over his, and we snogged our way out of Heathrow Airport, our hands wandering here, there, and everywhere.

By the time I came up for air, Jovan had driven us to the outskirts of the city. Peering out the window, I peppered both Ian and Jovan with questions about the area for about an hour straight until Ian tapped on the glass and said, “And that’s an English cow.”

I punched him in the arm. “Very funny.” A sign at the side of the road caught my attention, and I bounced in my seat. “Look, Milton’s cottage. You never told me you lived near Milton’s cottage.”

“Not sure I knew I did.” He scratched his beard. “Who’s Milton? Jovan?”

Jovan adjusted the rearview mirror. “That’s John Milton, the writer, from I don’t know...two hundred years ago. His cottage is open to tourists.”

Ian sank is head in his hand. “Oh, God. Not John Milton of ‘Paradise Lost.’”

“Is there another?” I put my hand to my chest and quoted, “This paradise I give thee, count it thine.”

“Jovan, help me. You’re going to make me take you there, aren’t you?”

“That would be nice, but I can go by myself. It’s close? Are we almost to your place?”

“About three kilometers.”

I tilted my head. “After a ten-hour plane ride, you’re gonna make me do math? What’s that in miles?”

“About two. We’re almost there. Are you tired? Hungry?”

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