Page 6 of Talk Vino To Me
He huffs out a laugh and crosses his arms across his chest. I try not to notice what it does for his pecs. I fail. Hard.
“Seems like that’s half the fun,” he grouses. Well, he pretends to grouse in the way that means he is pulling my leg.
In the last couple of weeks, I’ve discovered the many faces of Ian Worthington-Jones. Although my familiarity with his quirks most likely has a lot to do with all the videos of him I watched in my misspent youth, staying in his house is giving me a whole new level of insight.
Ninety percent of the time, he’s got resting grump face. Which seems fair. He’s got a lot to be grumpy about. If I were him, I wouldn’t appreciate my business partners thinking I needed a professional babysitter either. Though he did earn it with his hotel room trashing ways. The Connor Group is heavily invested in hotels.
The rest of the time, he wears a variety of salty expressions. There’s the slight frown, where his eyebrows contract just enough to notice. That means he’s listening, but skeptical. The out and out eye rolls happen when I say something he declares is “corporate speak.” Then there’s the tiny eyebrow raise when I amuse him, or tell him something he thinks is clever. I’m never sure if that’s a good thing where he’s concerned.
I suspect he doesn’t want to find me funny. Or even human. Then he’d have to consider not being a butthead. And Ian Worthington-Jones is one hundred percent being a butthead today.
“New plan. Why don’t we take a break?” I suggest. My boss texted me this morning from somewhere in Europe. I should answer her. Get her opinion on how I should encourage Ian to cooperate. She’s been at this longer than I have, and she is known for having clients that eat out of her hand. Liv is the rich guy whisperer. I respect her game.
Ian stands up and stretches, wandering away from the table we’re sitting at to the picture window that looks out at the stunning grounds. My gaze follows his. The terraced hills glow in the fierce summer sun, all the greens and browns rolling over the gentle curves of the hills. From up here, it’s like rows of stitches across the earth, smooth lines undulating over the ground. They seem to go on forever and ever, gradually disappearing into the forest that butts up on the edge of the property.
Years ago, Teeny Bop magazine had a story on how Ian’s family had a house near here. I’d read that story with a pang of envy, imagining how incredible it must have been to run wild out here in the country. My parents were so young — too young — when they had me. They could never have afforded for us to live anywhere like this.
“It’s gorgeous,” I say when Ian notices my stare. “So lush. My neighborhood is barren in comparison.”
Ian grunts his agreement. “I’ve been all over the world, but never found a place I loved more.”
We share a smile, and it feels super genuine. Like we finally found something that both of us can be sincere about, where neither of us is covering up a soft spot with a slick attitude. It’s… nice.
I’m about to ask him another question about the winery when both of our phones buzz. There’s a text from Ian’s manager Daphne to the both of us.
IWJ: Got lucky — Marta had a cancellation. You know, the genius photog? Sending her your way for glamour shots of you plus product. Hop in the shower. Wet hair is a good look on you.
DLG: Make sure he doesn’t scare them off pls & thx. Remind him of stakes?
“For fucks’ sake.” Ian frowns into his phone. “What am I, a damn show dog?”
He runs a hand over his carefully gelled hair. Shorter and grayer than it was in his heyday, his waves are carefully controlled with the generous amount of product I can tell he’s applied to it.
“This is a good thing, right?” I ask. “More fun than working through these modules?”
“No.” He sighs, opening the door for me. We strap ourselves into one of the golf carts. Ian revs the engine and takes off toward the house.
For five minutes, I hold back, but curiosity gets the better of me and I have to ask.
“Why is this a bad thing?”
Ian turns away from the window to face me. “I fucking hate having my picture taken, Dez.”
I blink at him in surprise; he stares miserably back as the shock rolls over my face. Ian’s been famous since he was nineteen. He must have had his photo taken literally thousands of times. It would never have occurred to me that he was anything but happy to show off his stunning looks.
“Don’t do it.” His smile twists in a way that makes my heart ache for him. “Don’t pity the poor little rock star who secretly hates having anyone look at him. Yes, I’d rather pluck out my own lashes than say cheese, but for the love of Pete, don’t waste your sympathy on me.”
“I suppose you can cry into your millions about it,” I tease, desperate to jolly him out of this sudden mood. But a weird expression I can’t read crosses his face and he refuses to meet my eyes.
“Well. I’d better go get ready for my closeup. Keep an ear out for the door, will you?”
I nod. Ian pats me on the shoulder and heads off to his room. I wonder about how much we love our celebrities, and how we reward them, and what it costs them to get those rewards.
But that question’s way above my pay grade, and in the meantime, I have real world work to manage. I spend the next thirty minutes replying to emails and checking in with my other clients, until I’m interrupted by the soft chime of Ian’s doorbell. I’m confused until I recall Daphne’s text and rush to the foyer.
Marta Gunderson, the photography world’s equivalent of a rock star, waltzes into the space like she belongs there, trailed by two assistants steering a cart between them.
“I know you.” Marta is brusque. “you work for the smart one. Olivia.”