“We should go,” I say.

  She stares at me like I’m an oddity.

  “Well, we should.”

  She points to the hat and the glasses. “Did you want me to get these?”

  Oh. Shit. Right. “Yes. Good idea.”

  I’ve got to get my focus back. I take her into the store and buy them, vowing to fight off all distractions for the rest of the day.

  This is going to be the hardest job of my life.

  17

  A LAVENDER EYE MASK, PLEASE

  BANKS

  After we return, she retreats to the house to get ready for the day. I take the opportunity to check in with Dean back in Los Angeles as I walk around the perimeter of the property, chatting with my longtime friend on the phone.

  He’s the kind of friend who’d bail you out of jail no problem and ask questions later. Fortunately, he’s never had to do that for me. Like me, he’s also laser-focused on growing this business.

  “The crew arrives tomorrow—Saturday,” I say, recapping the plans for the upcoming shoot starting this weekend. “Vega the director, the rest of the cast, and so on. We have our best-practices briefing scheduled then. And everything’s a go for securing the location for the first shots on Sunday afternoon, which is a pretty basic, no principal cast, just beauty shots.”

  “Great. And we’ve got Wanda Rodriguez on Haven,” he says.

  “It was a lucky break she was available,” I say of the former CIA field agent, who’s been protecting several high-profile clients since leaving the agency.

  “I’d like to think it was my magic touch at convincing her,” he says.

  He’s never been short on confidence. “Yeah. It was you, Dean.”

  “I know,” he deadpans, then shifts to a more serious tone. “But it’s a damn good thing. Tabitha was happy to hear we could get a woman on the job.”

  The logistics producer made it clear that since the film is helmed by a female director, written by a woman, and produced by a woman-owned company, it’d sure be nice to see some women in the security team too.

  Done.

  We have backup coming in as well, so I’ll have some other close protection officers covering Haven and Ripley from time to time, since Wanda and I can’t do twenty-four-seven security. After Dean and I cover the prep work, as well as the assignments for our team on site, then cover the projects he’s handling in Los Angeles for corporate clients, he clears his throat and says, “How’s it going so far? You seemed a little…before you left.”

  I bristle as I walk past the white fence hemming in row after row of purple flowers with that soft, powdery, woodsy scent that’s supposed to be calming. “A little what?”

  “A little tense every time the job came up,” he says, getting straight to the point now.

  How the fuck could he tell? I thought I was playing it cool. I roll my shoulders like I can shrug it off. Maybe I need a lavender eye mask. “Just because it’s a big job.”

  “That’s what I meant,” he says. Oh. So he thought I was stressed about the importance of the job. Not that I might fuck it up beyond all recognition thanks to this unchecked attraction.

  “Hell, I’m a little tense about the job,” he continues.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m so over working for other people,” he says as I reach the corner of the fields, then turn up the street that runs along the back of the farm. “Did that long enough for Stan. Don’t want to do it again.”

  There it is. The reminder. “Same, brother. Same.”

  He blows out a breath. If a breath could sound hopeful, this one does. “It’ll be good,” he says, like he’s reassuring himself more than me.

  “Absolutely,” I say, because it fucking will, I’ll make sure of it. We won’t miss a thing. No one in the whole damn world is more organized than I am. Being a little bit of a control freak goes a long way in my field.

  “And how’s the sister?” he asks.

  It’s a standard business question. A normal check-in about the client. A conversation we’ve had a hundred times before in the last year as we’ve worked together, running our firm. But also in the years before when we were working for Stan Withers and our didn’t-give-a-shit boss sent us too-thin briefs without any real research, leaving Dean and me to sink or swim, whether it came to field work or cybersecurity.

  Plus side though? We learned by doing, because we had no other choice but to figure out the jobs all on our own.

  No job, though, has ever been this tempting.

  In all my years in close protection, I’ve never warred with desire for a client. I think about the answer I can’t give to Dean’s question.

  Ripley Addison is sexy. Fiery. Challenging. All the things she was the night I met her and even more. But I don’t say any of that because I don’t want Dean to worry. Like it’s no big deal, since really, it has to be no big deal, I say, “She’s a typical non-celeb client. Doesn’t think she needs a bodyguard. But it’s fine.”

  He chuckles. “Know the type well.”

  “Yup. How are things with the McKellar project?” I ask, shifting gears to a corporate client, since I don’t want to dwell on me and these feelings I can’t entertain.

  He slides into those details easily and when I’ve rounded the property a third time, we’re done. “Keep me posted,” he says.

  “You know I will.”

  “I do,” he says.

  I hang up, wishing I didn’t feel like I’d lied to my friend and business partner. But when I reach the main gate for Lavender Bliss Farms, I try to shrug off the uncomfortable feelings, vowing to focus on the client’s needs—giving her the space she asked for while watching her back.

  That I can do without lying.

  By the end of the evening, I’ve finished some admin work, helped pick and prune flowers with Ripley, and accompanied her on some deliveries. I stayed in the background, giving her space to chat with her customers, her employees, her friends. While she talked to Ramona by the lavender maze about something that clearly distressed the woman in the shop, I hung back, out of earshot. When she ran into a woman with heavily pierced ears and a nose ring, I gave them space for the convo.

  As we return to the farm, Ripley heads inside the home, and I go to the shop, on a mission. A guy I’m pretty sure is Cyrus is working there today, bobbing his shaggy head of hair to something that sounds like Jack Johnson. He’s a white surfer dude with long hair, a deep tan, and an obvious vibe—that his life is a vibe.

  “Hey, bro,” he says with a smile. “What can I do you for?”

  “How’s it going?” He doesn’t have a name tag, but Ripley told me the names of everyone who worked here so I can surmise. And I like to use people’s names when I can. That’s something my mother taught me. It personalizes interactions. Shows them you care, even if it’s someone you’ll never see again, she says. “I’m Banks. You must be Cyrus.”

  He puffs out his chest. “I am. And you’re like Kevin Costner, right? I love that movie. I mean it’s old, but old movies are so cute, man, aren’t they? But hey, no surprise there. Old people are rad. I wonder what it would have been like to be an old person back then?”

  Wow. That is quite an if you give a moose a muffin train of thought. He seems to be enjoying it since his gaze is drifting off, and perhaps he’s picturing himself in the good old days of the nineties.

  I wait for him to come back to the present moment.

  He shakes his head. “Anyhoo. Talk to me, bro.”

  I nod toward the lavender eye masks. “I’ll take one of those, Cyrus.”

  “Sweet,” he says, then hands me one, not making a move to ask for payment.

  My brow knits. “How much?”

  “Bro, you’re keeping my boss safe. It’s on the house.”

  Pretty sure giving things away is not helping the boss, but this is not my circus nor my monkeys. “I’d like to pay.”

  He shakes his head. “Your money’s no good here.”

  “I bet it cashes just fine,” I say.

  “Nope,” he says with a pop of his lips.

  The fact that he thinks he can win this battle of wills with me is, admittedly, impressive. No wonder Ripley hired him. He has tenacity under this chill exterior.

  That goes on for about another minute until I stare him down and say in no uncertain terms, “I’m not leaving until I pay.”

  With a huff, he holds up his hands, relenting. “Have it your way.”

  I buy the eye mask, thank him, and leave, setting the mask neatly on the nightstand in the cottage. We’ll see if it helps relieve all my supposed tension after all.

  When it’s dinnertime, I don’t expect Ripley to feed me. I tell Lila and Ripley that I’ll order takeout, but Lila insists, and I’m not one to argue with grandmothers. At dinner we discuss security precautions for the farm, and I review the plan. But I’m pleased that Lila and Ripley are savvy already about best practices.

  And, like I promised, I show Ripley that she can take care of everyone and everything while I look out for her. I’ll do it again tomorrow and throughout the length of the shoot, respecting her boundaries and the boundaries of the job.

  As the day fades and night settles its blanket over the farm, I nod toward the front door, a sign I’m heading off to my quarters for the night.

  “See you and Hudson bright and early,” I say with a wink as I reach for the doorknob but don’t open it.

  “Just try to keep up with me,” she retorts.

  “I’ll be up and at ’em.”

  “Right, because you don’t sleep.” She cocks her head to the side, lifting her chin. “Hey. Are you a vampire bodyguard?”

  “Do you think I am, Ripley?”

  “I’m definitely getting that impression. But you’re not allergic to sunlight. Hmm.”

  I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling as I shift back to the practical. “Tomorrow, the crew comes. That’s when things will start to get more hectic. It’ll be more important⁠—”

  “I know. I get why it’s important to have you,” she says, mimicking my serious tone.

  I’d like to have her.

  “You’re just saying that because you can’t shake me,” I tease.

  She arches an eyebrow. “I can’t?”

  Fuck. I almost forgot who I was dealing with. I drag a hand down my face. “What have I done?” I mutter.

  When I look up, she sure looks like she’ll be having the last laugh. “I guess we’ll see.”

  I sure will. But I’ll rise to the challenge. “Then, I can’t wait to see how you’re going to try to shake me tomorrow.”

  Ripley’s smile is too damn pleased. “It is on.”

  18

  THE TOILET PAPER FAIRY

  RIPLEY

  Do I have a lot to do at the farm?

  You bet.

  Am I going to get it all done?

  No problem.

  But am I still going to find new ways to drive Banks crazy?

  Of course I am. A challenge is a challenge is a challenge.

  After I walk the dog (with Banks), do the Saturday-morning chores (with Banks), hop on my computer in my makeshift office on the living room couch in the farmhouse to pay some invoices, review production plans, and check in with the stores around the area that carry our lavender oils, soaps, sachets, lotions, and potions (without Banks, who’s presumably skulking around the lavender maze, checking for hidden cameras in its coils and twists of hedges), I grab my phone. Make an appointment for this afternoon. Then, I text my girls as I trot upstairs to grab the laundry.

  Ripley: Guess who has a plan to drive her bodyguard crazy?

  Then, I tell them about the plan and the appointment I made. But Chloe’s not interested in my evil genius, evidently.

  Chloe: Um, can we hear more about the hot bodyguard instead of your plans?

  Bridget: As in, where can I get one?

  Chloe: What she said!

  Bridget: Honestly, all innkeepers should henceforth have bodyguards. Let’s make it a new town ordinance.

  Chloe: I’d be all over that vote. Solidarity!

  Ripley: Excuse me, can I get a word in edgewise?

  Chloe: Better text faster, girl.

  Bridget: Yeah, we have town bylaws to pass, Ripley. Hear ye, hear ye—I hereby declare all the women of Darling Springs who want a bodyguard shall have one.

  Chloe: Some men might want them too.

  Bridget: Good point. Come and get ’em! Hot bodyguards for sale here at my hot bodyguard stand!

  Ripley: It’s not all it’s cracked up to be!

  Chloe: La, la, la, la, la. I can’t hear you.

  Ripley: He follows me everywhere!

  Bridget: To the bathroom? To the shower?

  Ripley: No, and no.

  Chloe: To your…bedroom?

  She finishes that text with the wide-open-eyes emoji. I laugh as I dump the clothes and towels in the washing machine, voice texting my reply.

  Ripley: No!

  Chloe: Then I’m not seeing the problem.

  Bridget: Me neither.

  Ripley: Why am I cursed with loving you two so much? You never see things my way.

  Bridget: Because your way is wrong. And, also, my inn is all booked out for the next month! My bank account is happy!

  Chloe: Things I’ve never said in my life.

  I shift gears instantly as I set the timer on the machine. Chloe works at the doggie daycare in town. She loves it since she loves dogs, and moonlights as a dog trainer, but money has been a constant struggle for her.

  Ripley: I heard Sheriff Simmon’s family adopted a new old Chihuahua from Little Friends. The Sheriff herself is too busy to train him and he seems to be driving her bananas. Maybe he needs some training lessons from you?

  Chloe: Oooh! Because you know what I say—you can teach an old dog new tricks.

  We chat about potential work for her as I rush through the house, tidying up as I go. They tell me how much they’re keen to catch up with Haven again, since it’s been so long as I pop into the kitchen to clean coffee cups—everyone who works here, from Cyrus and Ramona to the farmhands, wander into the kitchen throughout the day to grab a cup or two or three. But the sink is shining and empty. I didn’t expect that. I spin around, opening a cupboard. All the mugs are put away. That’s a surprise too. But a welcome one. The kitchen is more immaculate than it’s ever been. I finish my chat with my friends—finally telling them about my plan for the afternoon—when Grandma breezes in, looking fabulous in linen pants with a tie waist and short-sleeve blouse. Dropping my phone into my shorts pocket, I whirl around, grateful for her magic touch here in the kitchen. “Thank you for cleaning. You didn’t have to, but I sure appreciate it,” I say. She’s retired, and I want her to enjoy her life, not clean up after me.

  “Wasn’t me. Maybe the kitchen fairy came by.”

  I laugh, then stop at the counter to meet her gaze across from it. “And the toilet paper fairy is still going strong.”

  “The toilet paper fairy never misses a beat. She popped by this morning.”

  Grandma’s been stocking all the bathrooms with toilet paper forever. She did it when Haven and I were in high school. When she came home from shopping, she’d drop off rolls in every bathroom. We never once had to hunt for a roll under the cabinet because Grandma was the toilet paper fairy. And often, the bed-making fairy, the laundry fairy, and the straightened-up-your-desk fairy. “I don’t deserve you,” I say.

  “You do,” she says, then comes around the counter and drops a kiss to my forehead. “Also, I’m going to Petaluma today to see some friends. Translation: have a long lunch and get day-drunk.”

  I wag a finger. “Don’t drive.”

  “Please. Daisy’s picking me up in a few minutes. She’s our DD and always has been.”

  “God bless Sober D.”

  “Indeed.”

  I shoo her out of the kitchen. “Now go enjoy your wine and girl time. You deserve it.”

  “I do. But so do you,” she says, then waves goodbye.

  I check the time on my phone. A zing of anticipation thrums through me. Only twenty more minutes till our appointment. As I grab my canvas bag from a hook in the foyer, a name I haven’t seen in more than a year flashes in my texts. My ex, Eric Patrick. Intrigued, I click on it. Hey, hey! How’s everything, Ripley? Looks like Darling Springs is about to become the darling of the movies. Maybe I should open another fusion café there after all! Would love your thoughts on that! You know the town so well.

  Um, no.

  I stare at the message for a beat longer. The guy ditched me because he was tired of small-town life. Now he wants to profit from it. I do have a terrible track record with men, but I also know how to use the delete button.

  I lift a finger and with much fanfare, I send his text to the trash, then move on to the next one. I tap out a text to Sheriff Simmon about her new pup, then head to the little shop on the farm. Ramona wanted to talk to me yesterday about how to handle a complicated situation with a friend, who lately only ever talks about herself.

  I rap on the door even though it’s open and she’s organizing shelves of lavender lotion. “So how are you feeling today about our chat?”