She blows out a thoughtful breath. “Well, it’s just a lot. On the one hand, do I say something the next time we’re hanging out? On the other hand, what if she’s going through something, and this is her way of coping?”

  I nod sympathetically. “You never really know what someone’s going through. But maybe you can try and ask that?”

  Ramona seems to consider what I’ve said. “Maybe I will. Thanks, Ripley,” she says, then nods to the gate. “Where are you and the sexy warden going?”

  I smile at the nickname, then tell her my plans.

  “Oh! I want a boyfriend who does that with me,” she says, a little impressed.

  Better squash that notion, stat. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

  She snickers.

  “He’s not,” I say, more insistent.

  “I mean, maybe not yet.”

  “See if I get you a treat again,” I tease, then I turn around and head toward the sexy warden.

  He’s waiting for me.

  At the gates.

  With our bikes.

  But I like to keep him on his toes. Literally. “Guess what?”

  “You signed us up for that pole dancing class after all and you’ve got spike heels in that bag?” he says, nodding toward my shoulder.

  I pat the bag, making sure he can’t see it. “Good guess.” I mean, he’s not far off when it comes to what I’m carrying with me. “But that’s not what I was going to say.” I gesture toward my pickup, parked down the road. “We can use my truck today.”

  He holds out his hand, clearly asking for keys. “I’ll drive.”

  “My truck?”

  “Presumably it has a steering wheel, brakes, and gas?”

  “Yes,” I grumble.

  “Then I’ll drive,” he says.

  “But it’s my truck.”

  “What if there are paps in town and we need to lose them?”

  “There’s not going to be a high-speed chase.”

  “You never know.” He’s not joking.

  “Banks,” I press.

  He sighs, then relents. “Fine,” he says, then rolls his shoulders, like he’s mentally girding himself for the indignity of being the passenger.

  My mind flashes back to yesterday at the coffee shop. To him not liking naps. To him liking control. Then to now—the kitchen being pristine. “Did you clean the kitchen?”

  “I did,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say genuinely. “That was thoughtful.”

  “Happy to do it.”

  “You don’t like messes, do you?”

  “I do not,” he says.

  But it’s more than that. Banks Kendrick likes to be in control of his life, his environment, his job, the premises. He likes to handle things. But people are who they are for a reason. Maybe that’s just his nature.

  Or maybe once upon a time, he wasn’t able to control a damn thing.

  I hand him the keys. “You can drive,” I say.

  He clutches them like they’re a precious gift, then we head to my wheels.

  19

  THE PERILS OF PEDICURES

  RIPLEY

  If Banks had taken this detour two days ago, I’d have been pissed that he was trying to make the point he’s making. But now I’m damn curious as he drives slowly past The Ladybug Inn. So curious I’m rubbernecking, but it’s not for a glimpse of the star supposedly staying there, getting into his small-town character.

  I’m checking out the guys waiting outside. A chill slides down my spine, but I try to shake it off. I don’t like the invasion of the paps in my hometown, but they’re only doing their job. It’ll be over soon enough, I hope.

  That same, stocky guy in the ballcap from the other day is across the street, camera in hand, like he’s been staking out the entrance, waiting for New Chris. There’s another man next to him, also with a camera. He’s short, with a fair complexion, and also sporting a man bun. He’s in position too.

  “That’s Silas, as you know,” Banks says, nodding to the first guy.

  “He’s still here?” I ask, a little amazed at his, well, stamina. “Doesn’t he have other work?”

  “Sure. But he can do both. He’s a former sports journalist, so he’s agile with a camera. He does a lot of work in San Francisco since Webflix is shooting some TV shows there. He’s always following some of those celebs, and sports stars there too when he’s up in Northern California instead of LA.”

  That makes sense, I suppose. With some reluctance, I nod. “And the other guy? Any idea?”

  “Ludwig,” Banks says. “He fancies himself an Ansel Adams. Takes moody black-and-white rain shots in Seattle or fog shots in San Francisco. So when there’s a big fish, he chases it.”

  “And Chris is a big fish,” I say.

  “Yup, and that’s why he wants a shot of Chris and Haven. Ludwig has a six-month-old and a four-year-old. He freelances for the highest bidder. Usually to News Site Ink, which is a company that buys pics from photographers and sells them to celeb sites.”

  “You know him too?”

  “Do you know all the varieties of lavender?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Then I know all these guys.”

  “How did you know they were here?”

  “I did some recon the night I arrived. Figured they’d be camped out at one of the hotels in town. But I’ve got a friend in LA—guy named Tyler—who works in private security too. Former Marine. We help each other out with intel.”

  “Why wouldn’t Chris stay someplace else? Like another town? Somewhere harder to find.”

  Banks shrugs as he drives past the inn. “They’d find him there too. Why make it harder for himself?”

  That’s kind of sad. But also the reality of fame, I suppose. “Fair point.”

  He comes to a stop at the stop sign. “But let’s hope they won’t be chasing you.” He blows out a breath. “Why don’t we make sure there aren’t others stationed outside of wherever you’re taking me.”

  I scoff. “It’s not like I dropped hints on the farm’s socials about where I’d be going.”

  “I know. Just let me keep you safe.”

  “Fine,” I say, but maybe I do like how intent he is on doing the job. “Just go down Main Street.”

  He does a drive-by, and the coast is clear. That’s a relief. I don’t want to spend my days ducking and hiding. Besides, I have a challenge to carry out.

  “Ah, this is nice,” Banks says ten minutes later, rolling up the cuffs of his jeans and dipping his feet into the bubbling water at Daisy’s Nails.

  With a whole lot of panache.

  Damn him. I can’t win.

  “I have always wanted to get a pedicure,” he says, tossing me one of those dimpled smiles that make my chest flip.

  I look away so he can’t see the cartoon hearts fluttering over my chest. I’m right next to him in a comfy, faux leather chair too. We’re both waiting for our nail techs to return from wherever nail techs go when you soak your feet.

  Banks did not balk when we walked through the door of the salon, and I told him we were getting our toes done. He didn’t flinch. He simply said, “How did you know this was on my bucket list?” For such a control freak, the man rolls with my one-upmanship.

  Though, admittedly, I haven’t been able to one-up him. He meets all of my challenges, then exceeds them.

  I don’t know if I should be irritated or impressed.

  As he stretches out his big, burly frame in the massage chair, he reaches for the controller on the arm and punches a few buttons. The back of his chair rolls. It bumps him forward, and as it does, he says, “Ahhh” in a choppy rhythm. “This is fun too. You should try it. Want me to turn yours on?”

  “I can turn mine on myself, thank you.”

  With a sly grin, he jumps on the double entendre, asking, “Can you now? Turn yours on?”

  “You bet I can,” I say, but I don’t activate the chair. I’ve never liked the high intensity of the mechanical pressure.

  “You really should try it,” Banks says, the words coming out staccato again as the chair bumps him along once more. “Or wait. Should we get a couples massage after this?” He presses his hands together in prayer. “Tell me that’s next on your try to ditch me list.”

  He has me there. I don’t know how to play chicken with him. “You’ll have to wait and see what I have planned,” I say, though I’m scrambling mentally to figure it out.

  “I’ll be ready for the dare,” he says, clearly having too much fun with me as he paddles his feet in the pedicure tub. “I might get addicted to pedicures.”

  A laugh bubbles in my throat. I jerk my gaze forward so I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my mirth. I’m exasperated with him, not amused, dammit. He’s aggravating…and yet I keep wanting to push his buttons. To aggravate him more. Why is it so much fun to press him?

  I wish I knew.

  “But I will give you credit for a valiant effort today,” he adds, poking the massage chair arm with a finger to emphasize his point. “Lesser men would cower at having their feet done. I am not one of those men.”

  “Of course you’re not. I should have known a guy who does origami and listens to Mozart wouldn’t be scared off by a pedicure,” I say, an admission of sorts.

  “I’m evolved,” he says.

  I stifle a smile.

  “I saw that,” he mutters.

  “Saw what?”

  “That little tease of a smile.”

  “No, you didn’t,” I say, trying to stay stoic.

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You’re impossible,” I say, right as Daisy’s granddaughter, Maggie, hustles over to me from the front counter and gives my arm a squeeze. “Hey there, Ripley. I just saw Sarah is handling you today. She’s my new girl, and I love her already. You’re getting the usual? A standard pedi?”

  “That’d be perfect.”

  As Maggie grabs a towel, Banks looks my way. “So you don’t do manicures, but pedicures are your thing?”

  I shrug happily. Maybe I threw him for a loop there. “I love pedis. My mom always used to take Haven and me when we were younger,” I say, fondly remembering those times when Mom took us out for our girls’ trips, her little matching towheads happily following her down the street to this very salon.

  “That sounds nice,” he says with a warm smile.

  “It was. A little treat every few months. I kept it up. But manicures are a waste in my line of work.”

  “Makes sense.”

  I pause for a beat, giving him a playful look. “Or maybe I just contain multitudes,” I add.

  His lips curve up. “You sure do.”

  Maggie returns and sets up a towel on the footrest. “Here you go.”

  “And how’s little Carson?” I ask Maggie, the friendly, freckled woman who owns the shop now. It’s gone from generation to generation, like my farm.

  “Aww, he’s great. Just started to crawl last week.”

  “Watch out, Mama,” I say with a low whistle.

  “Don’t I know it,” she says, then tells me about her little baby and all the milestones he’s hit. When she’s done, she squeezes my arm again and takes off as Sarah returns and sets up on a low stool. Another tech parks a stool at Banks’s feet.

  I turn to my shadow. “My grandma’s bestie—Daisy—owned this shop, and then her son ran it, and now her son’s daughter runs it. Maggie,” I say, nodding toward the front counter, where Maggie’s set up on the computer.

  “Family business. Nice,” he says warmly as the tech scrubs my feet with an exfoliating scrub. “That must be one of the things you like about this town?”

  The earnestness of his question catches my full attention. “I do. I love that everyone looks out for each other,” I say, thinking of high school, when my parents died. My throat squeezes with emotion. It was fifteen years ago, and I can still remember the aftermath of their death clearly. Not just the day we got the terrible news, but the way the people of Darling Springs took care of Haven, my grandmother, and me.

  I must be wearing my emotions on my face since Banks shifts in his chair, almost like he’s trying to shield me with his body. He can’t, of course. But I can feel it in the gesture. Like he’s trying to protect me from anyone listening in on the emotional moment as he asks quietly, “You okay?”

  With sadness, I meet his dark-brown gaze, answering first with a sturdy nod. “I am. Just remembering when my parents died. It was like the whole town wanted to take care of us afterward.”

  His expression is sympathetic, his tone solemn. “I’m sorry for your loss, but I’m glad you had people to comfort you.”

  “Thank you,” I say, then look around toward the door and the street beyond. The businesses I know. The families I see every day. The stories they share. I look back at him. “Even though there are photogs in town for the movie and paparazzi now and tour groups, I don’t think I could leave. It’s weird, but it’s like the whole place became my family. Even when Haven left, I always felt like”—I pause, take a moment to collect my thoughts—“this was where I was supposed to be. I have good friends here,” I say, and before I know it, I’m telling him about Chloe and Bridget and even some of my new friends in Darling Springs. “Like this woman named Juliet who moved here recently. Well, she’s a part-timer. She lives and works in San Francisco.”

  “Does that mean she feels like less a part of the town?”

  I shake my head. “Oh, she’s one of us now. She’s brought a lot of business to Darling Springs. She and her hubs started hosting couples retreats here,” I say, enthused as I tell him more about the new kids. “They have this podcast all about romance and dating and such, so they host couples retreats at a house they were gifted by a listener who’s from here.”

  “Juliet and Monroe, right?” he asks.

  I blink, pull back. “You know them?”

  “Not terribly well, but I was passing through town a year or so ago and ran into Monroe. Since then, I’ve listened to their show a few times.”

  I smile. “Small world.”

  He smiles too. “I suppose it is.”

  “Do you know what they call their house here? The Horny House.”

  Banks laughs. Big, deep, pleased. “Sounds like my kind of home.”

  “It’s a fun place,” I say as the tech rubs hot stones along my calves. I sigh contentedly, enjoying the touch. “And you live in Los Angeles now, you said?”

  “I do,” he says.

  “Even though you grew up in Lucky Falls?”

  “I did.”

  He’s a little clipped when I ask about Lucky Falls. I’m not entirely used to that from the king of comebacks. Come to think of it, he didn’t say much about Lucky Falls yesterday, either, when he told me where he was from, only that it’s not a bad place. Does that mean he dislikes small towns? He didn’t sound that way a few minutes ago. But maybe there’s something about that place he doesn’t care for. “Are you a city guy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  His expression darkens, like there’s a storm cloud over his head. “Anonymity is a good thing, I’ve found,” he says, a little evasively.

  So then it’s not a Lucky Falls thing. It’s a Banks thing. I press a little more. “In your line of work?”

  “Something like that,” he says, then looks to his feet.

  It’s a sign he doesn’t want to talk much any more about where he’s from or where he lives now. I respect the boundary he’s created and move on. “This is really your first pedicure?”

  His laugh is instant. “Do I seem like a natural or something?”

  “Sort of.”

  “You’re my first, Ripley,” Banks reassures me, putting a little extra whiskey and seduction in his voice. It’s intended to be playful, I’m sure. But it still sends a zing through me. “But my sister’s tried to get me to go many times. I used to drop her and her friends off when she was younger before she could drive. And it became this thing Emily did—trying to convince me to join them.”

  “She’s the one who taught you origami?”

  “Good memory.”

  “I remember a lot of things from that night.”

  Banks holds my gaze, leveling me with a hot stare that nearly burns my T-shirt from the intensity. “I remember everything.”

  Lust holds me in its grip for several long seconds before I manage to form words rather than sighs. “Anyway…how old is your sister?”

  He reorients to the conversation too. “Twenty-seven. Seven years younger,” he says as the tech tells me to put my feet on the towel.

  I comply as she grabs some polish. “And you never joined her?”

  “Nope. Just stood outside the salon. Read a book. Went for a walk.”

  “A bodyguard in the making,” I tease.

  He gives me a stern look. “You don’t see me walking around the block here.”

  “Yes, you’re protecting me from the perils of pedicures so well,” I say, then return to the why. “Why did you say no to her? You obviously adore her.”

  “Yeah, I do. Good observation.” He sighs deeply, like he’s giving the question real thought.

  “Is it because you don’t like relaxing?”

  “Maybe I thought I was too tough for pampering,” he says, a little sheepish.

  I can see that in him. He has to spend his days being badass. It can be hard to let go. “Big, tough Marine and all?”

  “Something like that,” he says, and his smile is self-deprecating. “Kind of ridiculous now that I think about it.”

  “Or maybe you’d always wanted one and you finally gave yourself permission to get one with me. Since you had no choice but to follow me into the salon to save me from all the dangers in Darling Springs.”

  “Damn, look at you psychoanalyzing me.”

  “Am I wrong? You seem to be enjoying it,” I say, gesturing to him relaxing in the chair, resting comfortably, looking like he’s having a good time as he gets his feet buffed and beautified. “Just like I unexpectedly enjoyed yoga yesterday,” I add.

  He studies my face, like he’s looking for the answer in my eyes. Then he sighs thoughtfully. “You might not be wrong.”