With my free hand, my fingers coast down her throat, and I cover the hollow of it with my palm. “You like this?”

  I’m pretty sure she does, but I want to hear it from her. “I do,” she murmurs, sounding a little lost in the moment.

  “Then show me. Use me,” I command.

  With a grateful moan, Ripley rocks against my dick. Seeking out friction, she rides my erection as I keep her wrists bound behind her back, my hand gripping her face, her body under my control.

  A rumble works its way up my chest as I stare at the gorgeous sight in front of me. On me. “You look good like this,” I say.

  “When I can’t move?”

  I glance down at her hips, swaying. “You’re moving.”

  “You know what I mean,” she pants out.

  “Do I?” I ask, goading her to say it. To acknowledge that she likes being restrained.

  “Banks,” she grumbles, annoyed but aroused, as she grinds down against my hard length.

  “Answer me, Ripley. What do I mean?” I repeat.

  “You’re such a dick,” she bites out.

  I laugh, then bring my mouth down on her collarbone, nipping her there. She tastes so good. The scent goes to my head, fries a few more brain cells, and makes it harder for me to tease the hell out of her. “You taste like lavender.”

  “What a surprise,” she deadpans, but then her retort fades, turning into a sharp hitch in her breath.

  I grip her wrists tighter. She moves faster. “Tell me what you like about this,” I demand.

  “You ass,” she mutters.

  Fine, she’s not too soft when lust takes the wheel. Guess I was a little wrong. She’s still all fire. But the thing is, she’s also not in control. I am. I let go of her face to grab her hip and lift her off my dick, breaking the contact. “Tell me,” I say again, sternly, meeting her eyes.

  “Fine. I like where your hands are,” she says, a needy admission.

  Because I know that was hard for her, I reward her, yanking her back down on my hard-on. Then I punch up my hips, giving her more of what she wants.

  “Use me, sweetheart,” I say.

  She rocks against me faster, her mouth falling open, her eyes squeezing shut. It’s so fucking beautiful the way she’s chasing release on the side of the road.

  I give her what she needs. My lips on her neck, my fingers curled around her wrists, my hand caressing her breast, squeezing a nipple through her shirt and her bra.

  “Ohhh,” she murmurs, then her head falls forward, resting against the side of my face, giving me another hit of her sweet scent. Maybe it’s lavender shampoo.

  She’s too pretty, too aroused, too needy. And I just can’t resist her. “Can you come like this?” I ask, and I’m the desperate one now. I need her orgasm more than anything. “Or do you want fingers?”

  “Yes,” she says on a staggered breath.

  “Which one?” I demand since I may be desperate, but I fucking love to play.

  She grinds hard against me. “Fingers. Now.”

  “Say please.”

  “Fuck you. Give me your fingers,” she says.

  “Since you asked so nicely.” I let go of her breast, unzip her shorts, and thrust my fingers inside her panties.

  She’s slick and hot, and her needy clit is so damn eager for attention. The second I touch her, she’s shuddering. Then gasping, arching, and falling apart with a long, gorgeous cry that I cover with my mouth. You never know who might hear.

  As I kiss her tenderly through her release, a healthy dose of pride floods me from the instant O, just add fingers.

  When I let go of her lips, she’s breathing hard, her shoulders heaving. And I catch the far-off sound of an engine.

  Or maybe not so far off after all. I jerk my gaze behind us.

  Holy shit.

  Coming our way on this winding, supposedly quiet road is a black town car. There’s another one behind it. Then an SUV. Just what I need—a goddamn caravan.

  I don’t think they belong to photographers. But I can’t know for sure. Besides, it could be anyone. Someone she knows. A customer.

  Think fast.

  “Ripley, get down on your knees.”

  She blinks, but she’s obedient as she slides off me to the floor of the car, her hands reaching for my jeans.

  I stifle a laugh as I cover her wrists, stopping her unzip as I lean my head back against the headrest, then close my eyes. “Quiet,” I hiss out.

  “Are you serious?”

  “Shh,” I say as the engines rumble louder.

  “You’re really shushing me after you’ve asked for a BJ? My mouth would be full anyway.”

  I laugh harder. I’m not sure I can survive this woman. “Ripley, there’s a car coming.”

  “And you’re pretending you’re asleep?”

  “Yes,” I mutter. “So no one thinks twice of me being parked and stops to try to help. No one can see you. I’m protecting you.”

  A laugh bursts from her. “This better be a bodyguard first.”

  “Trust me. It is.”

  As the head of the convoy passes, I peek open an eye. I had a feeling. The woman in the passenger seat sports shaggy brown hair and big glasses—Vega, the director. The car whooshes by. The next car includes someone else I know—Wanda, our expert security hire.

  A new, damning thought touches down in my head. What would she think if she knew what I’d done?

  As the last vehicle passes, I catch a glimpse of a woman who looks just like the woman on the floor.

  When they’re gone, I finally turn my gaze back to her mirror. Ripley’s cheeks are still pinkened, her lips still bruised, her hair a gorgeous, wild mess.

  I’m keenly aware of just how far I’ve crossed the line, and just how close I came to getting caught because my steady pulse is beating out of control.

  Guess I’m not so unflappable after all.

  22

  NO BIG DEAL

  BANKS

  When the coast is officially clear a few seconds later, I offer Ripley a hand. She doesn’t take it. Just climbs back up to the passenger seat as I move over to the driver’s side.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, guilt twisting my gut as she settles in. But do I tell her I feel guilty? Do I tell her I shouldn’t have done that?

  “It’s fine. You just caught me off-guard. I thought you wanted me to blow you,” she says.

  Oh, right. She thinks I feel bad about the blow job misunderstanding when that’s the least of my worries. But it lightens the mood for a second. “And that bothered you?” I ask her.

  She rolls her eyes. “I got down on my knees. Obviously, it didn’t bother me until I thought you were trying to shut me up with your dick.”

  She’s so compliant and sassy at the same time. It’s too heady. Too tantalizing. I’ve got to get my act together. I resist playing verbal volleyball with her this time, instead saying, “That was the crew. Everyone’s in town now.”

  She sits ramrod straight. “Haven,” she says, as if she’s seen a ghost.

  “She was in one of the cars.”

  Ripley yanks the seat belt across her chest, nodding to the road, like we need to step on it. “I thought she was going to the inn. But I should be there when she arrives.”

  “Why? I mean, I know we were heading there anyway, but…”

  “Because I want to see her,” she says, like it’s obvious. Still, she adds, “She’s probably coming to see me and Grandma before she checks into her hotel.”

  Oh. Right. “Of course,” I say, then turn the keys in the ignition.

  Why was I ever arguing with her over seeing her sister? Maybe because her sister’s arrival is the reminder that I need to stay focused on why I was hired. Because paparazzi are in town. More have probably descended already. No doubt other photogs have figured out that the shot of the pretty blond dismounting a bicycle from two days ago was the twin, even though Page Six didn’t care. That means more are likely swarming the town. All with the same goal—to catch the big fish: a photo of Chris Carlisle and Haven. Which is why I’m here—to personally protect the woman who looks just like the rising star.

  I can’t do that if I’m trying to tie her up and drive her to the edge of pleasure.

  “Ripley,” I say, shoving my desire to the side. There’s no room for it. “That was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have done that.”

  For a hot second, her eyes flash with something like hurt. But maybe I’m imagining it because a moment later, it’s gone. “Agreed,” she says, clipped.

  I should drive to the farm. Deal with work. Greet the crew. But I failed that first night with Ripley, running off with barely a word. I could have gone to her hotel room. Said something then, like she pointed out in her kitchen the other day.

  I can’t redo the night we met, but I can give her the full truth now. She deserves it. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” I say, a little desperate. “It’ll compromise my ability to do my job.”

  Her lips are a ruler, but she nods. “Sure.”

  Is that a doubtful sure or a genuine one? “I need to protect you,” I add. “I can’t do that if I’m distracted.”

  “And I’m a distraction?”

  “Yes. A huge one,” I say.

  She draws a sharp breath, nodding a few times. “I need to focus on the movie—it’s a big break for my sister. And it’s a huge opportunity for the farm. If it goes well, I can send my grandma to Paris to see her boyfriend. She deserves it. She’ll miss the bees, but I can take care of them.”

  My heart warms, hearing her plans. Of course they involve others, even bees. “Lila definitely deserves it.”

  “So, it’s fine,” she says, raising her chin, being all tough-girl.

  “Good. Then, it won’t happen a second time,” I say, hating those words but needing to say them. Especially since I’m wrong. “A third time,” I correct.

  She smiles mirthlessly, then it fades. “It definitely won’t,” she says as I start the truck.

  “We were just getting it out of our systems.”

  “Exactly,” she echoes as I drive toward the lavender fields, the golden glow of the late-afternoon sun making them shimmer.

  “And it’s in the past,” I add, hammering home the point. “We won’t do it again.”

  “We definitely won’t,” she says as we reach the farm.

  Maybe because I need a final reminder I say, “Good. That’s good.”

  She gives me a big smile, then waves her hand in front of her like she’s making it disappear. “I’ve already forgotten all about it.”

  Then she jumps out of the car, rushes across the front lawn, and throws her arms around her sister.

  Yup. She’s forgotten it all right.

  I wish I could do the same.

  23

  JUST MATH

  RIPLEY

  It’s like a clown car.

  Or three clown cars, to be precise. The number of people grabbing bags and gear from the two town cars and the SUV is a little overwhelming.

  A lanky guy with a freshly shaven bald head and a long beard slings a black bag on his shoulder. He’s chatting with a shorter man sporting an undercut and a goatee. They’re giving artsy movie vibes. Betting one’s the director of photography and the other’s an AD—assistant director. More guys lug boom mics while some women grab what I think are light diffusers from the big SUV.

  “Did they multiply?” I ask Haven once I finally let go of my baby sister.

  “Yes. Right before my eyes on the plane. It was like mitosis in biology class,” she says.

  I swat her. “You nerd.”

  She juts out her hip, like she’s owning the moment. “Once a nerd, always a nerd.”

  I drape an arm around her again. “And you’re my nerd,” I say, breathing in happiness and contentment. It’s so good to see her again, even in spite of that totally awkward conversation with Banks moments ago. Banks, who’s chatting with someone who just arrived. Come to think of it, I should probably freshen up post O. Change the panties and all. Might as well erase the evidence, just like we’re forgetting that tryst in the truck ever happened.

  “I’ll be⁠—”

  But before I can say right back, a woman with sleek black hair hidden under a fabulous pink sun hat strides over to us across the emerald-green lawn.

  “Cute hat,” I say to her, and it seems to be doing the trick at keeping the sun far, far away from her.

  “Thanks. It doubles as an umbrella,” she says, then sticks out a hand. “I’m Tabitha Zhao. Juniper has told me so much about you.”

  “And I’m sure it’s all fabulous,” Haven puts in, squeezing my shoulder. It’s cute how she’s protective of me. I’m the same with her.

  Tabitha smiles at Haven. “Yes, all fabulous.” Then to me, she says, “And we appreciate you opening your home to the crew. I’m seriously grateful. Everything happened so quickly with the film and the financing. But your flexibility is not going unnoted by my bosses.”

  It takes me a second to process the double negative, but I nod, and say, “Anything for Haven.”

  Maybe I should make it seem like I’m doing all this for Ruby Horizons, but what’s the point? All this—the invasion of the crew—is for my sister. And I’m thrilled I can do it for her.

  Bonus that this interaction with Tabitha is taking my mind and focus off the awkward end to that side-of-the-road session.

  Tabitha looks from Haven to me and back, then shakes her head in a familiar kind of amazement. She’s processing the matching blond hair, the identical straight nose, the exact same spray of freckles. “It’s uncanny.” She holds up a hand in apology. “Sorry, I’m sure you get that all the time.”

  “We do,” Haven and I say in unison.

  “Which is why we used to play tricks on our parents and grandparents,” Haven adds.

  “Could they tell you apart?” Tabitha asks with the kind of curiosity that’s pretty natural when you meet identical twins.

  Haven grabs my right arm, showing off the sparrows that fly across my skin. Then, the one bird she has on her shoulder. “We didn’t have these then. So it was seriously hard for them.”

  Tabitha taps her temple under her hat. “I’ll be looking for Ripley’s sparrows then.” To Haven, she adds, “And yours is being covered up by makeup. I’ve told the makeup artist—she’s local—to bring tattoo cover-up.”

  “I know, Tabby,” Haven says.

  “And don’t forget your call time,” Tabitha says. But Haven’s eyes sparkle like she just saw something exciting, and in a second, she’s off, rushing over to tackle-hug Hudson, who’s racing up the hill with Cyrus, who must have taken my pup for a walk.

  I take the moment to say to Tabitha, “When is her call time?”

  Tabitha taps her tablet, then tells me it’s 7:00 a.m. the day after tomorrow. “She needs to be in makeup then.”

  I lean in close and whisper, “Why don’t you just tell her she has a six thirty call time? It’ll be easier to get what you want that way, if you know what I mean. Especially since she needs to come over from the inn.” Haven’s staying at The BookHouse, Bridget’s inn. She and New Chris are deliberately not staying at the same hotel. When we last chatted, my sister said it made more sense as they’re trying to defuse the rumors.

  Tabitha gives a grateful nod. “I do. And thanks for the tip.”

  Peering beyond her, I take in the sheer number of people dotting my lawn, which seems more than I’d expected. My chest tightens, and my heart beats a little faster, my thoughts racing.

  This is a lot. For bee’s sake, what have I signed up for? I feel like I did when Haven first told me about the flick.

  How am I going to fit all these people in? Vega’s staying at the hotel, along with Haven and some others. But there are still so many people here. I scan the lawn again, catching a glimpse of Banks chatting with a serious-looking woman close to his height. That must be Haven’s bodyguard. Wanda Rodriguez, I think he said. She won’t stay here. The lighting guys will though. Some added security too. Some PAs, the camera crew…

  “Actually, how many are here?” I ask. “I was expecting five crew members staying at the homestead. Though I know The BookHouse and The Ladybug Inn have a lot of rooms reserved for the cast and others.”

  I mean, I’m good at math. But I’m pretty sure no matter how you add it up, there aren’t enough rooms for everyone.

  Tabitha tilts her head, that huge hat tilting with her as she taps her chin. “Well, with the added security and some additional crew, we need as many rooms as you have.”

  Haven returns to my side with Hudson at her heels. She must read the concern in my eyes since she says, “What’s wrong, Rip?”

  “Nothing.” I fasten on a smile. I don’t want to worry her.

  “Liar.” She stares me down as Tabitha takes off to help the guy with the undercut. “What is it?” Haven asks when Tabitha’s out of earshot.

  “There aren’t enough rooms,” I whisper.

  Haven shrugs happily, then squeezes my hands. “You can stay with me. We’ll have sleepovers like we used to. It’ll be so fun. We can eat popcorn and watch movies.”

  And she’ll have to get up early. And she’ll need her beauty sleep. And my sister has struggled with sleep since our parents died. In the aftermath of her grief, she battled insomnia and depression. The worse she slept, the worse her depression became. We tried everything to help her, from meds to therapy, but it wasn’t till we found a combination of meditation and the right therapist that she was able to finally sleep through the night again.

  That was the first step on her road to recovery from the depression.

  She needs her rest. And I also need to be here to take care of the farm. “No, you need your sleep.”

  “Ripley,” she says, but there’s resignation in her voice. She knows I’m right. She sighs but then brightens in excitement. As the sound of shoes crunching on gravel grows louder, she says cheerily, “You can stay with grandma though.”