Page 6 of Saving Ian Pope

He snatched his hand back as if scorched and then clicked the chopsticks together like a pro. “Another bite?”

I nodded. Could he just feed me noodles forever?

“Oh my God. You’re Ian Pope.”

Chapter 3

IVY

Ian gave me a twisty smile before turning to face his accuser, a young woman about my age, prime Five2Go fanbase. The blonde clutched the arm of her goggle-eyed friend as they shimmied in front of Ian expectantly.

“I am.” Ian flashed a smile. The effect was instantaneous. The women blushed and fluttered and tittered.

“Can we get you to sign something? Can we get a picture with you?”

“Absolutely.”

I studied the interaction through narrowed eyes as the women produced a few flyers from their book bags and shoved them toward Ian, along with a pen. It was as if the presence of the women had flicked a switch hidden somewhere on his body—and I wouldn’t mind doing a thorough search for the switch’s location.

He chatted easily with them, the smile never leaving his face. He accommodated them in every way—signing a few items and even using their phones to take selfies. He hugged them and assured them new music was on the horizon.

My gaze darted among the other people in the sculpture garden, almost expecting a stampede, but after a flurry of interest, everyone had turned their attention back to their own affairs. Even if they did recognize Ian, spotting a celebrity in LA had lost its luster for most residents...except the Five2Go fandom.

When he sat back down on the bench, he shrugged and said, “Sorry.”

“No, I mean, whatever. Does it bother you? You were so nice. I’m not so sure I could be that friendly to people interrupting my private time.” I snapped the lid onto my half-eaten bowl of noodles, the feeding session lost, and shoved them into the plastic bag at my feet.

Leaning back, Ian folded his hands behind his head. “It doesn’t bother me. Not really. It’s part of the pact.”

“There’s a pact?” I tugged on a lock of my hair and wound it around my finger.

“Of course. The fans buy your music, your merch, go to your concerts, and make you rich beyond your wildest dreams. In exchange, you have to give up an expectation of privacy, your...”

“Soul?”

His gaze jumped to my face, and he rubbed the scruff on his chin with his knuckles. “Something like that.”

“Ugh.” I brushed off my skirt and nudged the bag in his direction for his trash. “Not for me.”

“I really don’t mind. You never know what someone else is going through. A fan could be having a bad day or a bad week. As a celebrity, you have an opportunity to cheer someone up. I couldn’t live with myself if I thought I had contributed to someone’s sadness by turning down an autograph.” He sat forward on the bench, warming to his topic. “It reminds me of the story I read about a guy who jumped from the Golden Gate Bridge and survived. He had bi-polar disorder and was having an episode. He had gone to the bridge to jump. As he walked along in the fog, he told himself if just one person reached out to him, he wouldn’t jump. A couple, German, I think, approached him to ask him to take their picture. With tears streaming down his face, he snapped their photo, but they never asked him why he was crying. He jumped.”

My hand covered my mouth and tears pricked my eyes. “That’s a true story?”

“It is.”

“But he survived to tell it.”

“He was one of less than one percent of Golden Gate Bridge jumpers to survive. He said that a sea lion kept him afloat when he surfaced with all his broken bones.” Ian shrugged. “So, a sea lion cared more than another human.”

“That’s an incredible story. You want to be the sea lion.”

“I do.” He crumpled up a pile of napkins and tossed them into the bag. “I know it’s Saturday, and you’re probably busy, but if you’re not, you wanna hang out for a while? My manager, Jack, is probably going to do something with his friends, and I don’t feel like tagging along. I also don’t wanna be stuck in the hotel by myself for the rest of the day. I mean...if you’re free.”

Ian Pope didn’t have anything better to do on a Saturday night in LA than spend it with a clumsy romance author? Should I pretend I had a hot date? A fabulous party to attend? A book signing with a thousand fans?

“I’m not busy. I was just going to do a little writing.”

He aimed a finger at the books he’d stuffed into my bag earlier. “A continuation of the randy air marshals?”

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