Page 9 of Saving Ian Pope

I kept mine on, too. The day might be waning, but the sun still hung low in the sky, creating a glassy glare on the water.

As we hit the sand, he grabbed my arm. “Hang on. I wanna feel the sand between my toes. I haven’t been to the beach in a while.”

I kicked off my flipflops and dangled them from my fingers. Again, I had a burning desire to know more about how he’d spent his year, so far—obviously not at the beach.

After he removed his running shoes and stuffed his socks inside the shoes, he tied the laces together and slung them over one shoulder. He then rolled up his jeans. “I’m ready.”

We trudged through the dry sand, and occasionally my shoulder would bump against his arm. Nobody seemed to notice him, or if they did, they’d decided not to make a fuss.

I slid a glance at him from the side of my eye. Did he want them to or not? Fame had to be a double-edged sword. If people noticed you, even if that caused a hassle, it affirmed your relevance. If they gave you your privacy, you’d have to wonder if they’d recognized you, or worse, didn’t care.

Of course, I wanted lots and lots of people to buy and read my books, but I would detest the level of fame that Ian had endured. I remembered scenes of frenzied girls chasing the Five2Go boys down the street and mobbing them everywhere they went. I preferred my anonymity.

We made our way to the wet sand, littered with seaweed, shells and other debris from the ocean. Ian jogged a few feet in front of me, leaving his imprint in the sand. I had a sinking feeling he’d leave his imprint on more than just the beach, and I put one hand over my heart, as if that could protect it from what I knew was marching toward me.

I followed him by placing my feet into his bigger prints.

He veered toward the water and danced in the foam from the breaking waves. “Feels good. Dip your toes.”

“I’m sure it’s freezing. The Pacific is always cold, even at the end of a sunny day.”

“Chicken.” He splashed into the water as it reached the hem of his rolled-up jeans. “Do you surf?”

“Once in a while—with a wetsuit.”

He kicked at a wave, and the arc of water caught the sunlight and glittered like diamonds dropping to the sand. He crooked a finger at me. “Join me.”

I inched a little closer to a wave rushing to shore, and the water tickled my toes. “Definitely cold.”

Ian swung around and charged toward me. He scooped me up in his arms, as if I weighed no more than a kitten, and carried me back to the water.

I shrieked and kicked my legs, but he held me high above the rolling waves and spun around. I threw my head back and laughed at the sky as the spray from the sea dabbled against my cheek, droplets of saltwater landing on my tongue.

Panting, he lowered me to the ground. “Did you think I was going to toss you in?”

“Crossed my mind, but then you’d have to find a ride back to your hotel.” I tucked my fluttering hair behind one ear.

He’d released me but kept possession of my hand, and I let it remain with him. He laced his fingers with mine and tugged me forward.

Hands clasped, we continued our walk on the beach, leaving most of the clutches of beachgoers and their screaming kids behind us as we ventured farther north toward the bluffs.

The fog rolled in quickly, as it often did on a summer night, and I nudged his shoulder. “I don’t think we’re going to see much of a sunset tonight unless the fog just keeps flowing inland.”

He said, “I always found it strange that Malibu could be 20 degrees colder than where I lived, which was about 20 kilometers away.”

“You lived in...?”

“Calabasas.”

“Ah, yes.” I disentangled my hand from his. “The Valley playground of the rich and famous so they don’t have to rub shoulders with the people of Van Nuys.”

From the corner of my eye, I could see his head jerk toward me. I pursed my lips. I didn’t know why that bitchy comment had tumbled out of my mouth. Jealousy, probably.

He chuckled lightly. “Yeah, I guess. I don’t think I ever went to Van Nuys, but you would’ve loved the library in my old house.”

“Really?”

“It was a two-story room with a massive number of books and one of them rolling ladders to reach all of them.” He took my hand again, more firmly this time. “You said you studied English at uni, and I noticed all the books you had at your place. I suppose you read all the time. You probably know more about English authors than I do—Shakespeare and Chaucer and that lot.”

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