There’s a couch in my grandma’s garden suite, true. But I won’t use it. I shake my head. “I don’t want to bother her,” I say, then screw up the corner of my lips, thinking. How can I fix this problem quickly? That’s what I do. Solve problems.

  And…I know. It’s obvious and easy enough. “I’ll just sleep on the couch in the living room. Someone else can have my room. It’s fine.”

  “Are you sure?” Haven asks with a frown as the sound of footsteps grows louder.

  In seconds, Banks appears by my side. “I couldn’t help but overhear. You can stay in the cottage.”

  His deep, commanding voice sends a hot shiver down my spine.

  Or maybe it’s the thought of being close to him in such a tiny space that’s lighting me up.

  24

  ALL MY FRIENDS ARE ASSHOLES

  RIPLEY

  My stomach is flipping with nerves. This is bad. So bad I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but I duck into my en suite bathroom a little later that evening, shut the door, and emergency text Chief Troublemaker and Number One Pain in the Ass.

  Ripley: I need to talk, stat. For real.

  Bridget: I’m on it. My assistant manager just arrived. Give me one minute to go to my office.

  Chloe: I just finished a dog bath! I’m ready, wet shirt and all.

  A minute later, we’re on a three-way video call, Bridget in her tiny office at the inn, Chloe walking down the quiet alley behind the doggie daycare, hair swept up in a high pony.

  “Listen,” I say, cutting to the chase. “I need to tell you something, and don’t be assholes.”

  Bridget straightens her shoulders. “Us, assholes? Never.”

  “Shocking that I’d think you might be.”

  Chloe adopts a robotic voice to match her robotic arm movements. “Anti-asshole mode activated.”

  I breathe out, then begin my full confession. “That weekend I went to San Francisco with Haven? A month ago?” They nod. “I almost hooked up with Banks.”

  Two pairs of eyes widen on the phone screen. I go on to explain what went down in painstaking detail. “And I didn’t tell you because…I felt stupid. Because…boys suck and all.”

  “They can,” Bridget says, but she’s the diplomatic one, so she adds, “And so can girls.”

  “But we’re talking about boys,” Chloe points out.

  “Fine. They can suck,” Bridget acknowledges, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear.

  “And I thought he was a jerk at first, so when it turned out he was my bodyguard, I was pissed. But he explained why he ran, and I got it. I did. And now it’s just…complicated,” I say, wincing because this afternoon made everything more complicated again.

  To their credit, they don’t tease me this time. “Sounds like it,” Bridget says thoughtfully.

  I release another big breath. This is hard for me. It’s so much easier to focus on someone else, but I feel untethered right now. “And then this afternoon when he drove me home—well, there was a dare, and we made out on the side of the road, and blah, blah, blah.”

  Chloe holds up a hand. “Do not blah, blah, blah the orgasm.”

  “Wait,” Bridget says, with fresh worry in her tone. “Did you not come? Is that why you’re calling? I’m sorry he didn’t give you an O, hon.”

  “He gave me an O,” I say, heat racing all over me again as I picture the scene a few hours ago—my hands pinned behind me, Banks controlling my pleasure. “A fantastic one. But we agreed it was a mistake. He has to focus on his job and honestly, so do I. My job being making sure this shoot happens without a problem. But now there’s no room at the house, and he’s offered to let me stay in the cottage where he’s been staying, and I don’t know if I can handle it.”

  Chloe squeals, then quickly rearranges her expression to a more serious one. “Sorry. I’m totally not excited for you. Why do you think you can’t handle it?”

  Because I pride myself on handling anything and everything, but this is uncharted terrain. “I don’t know what to do. Do I stay with him or sleep on the floor or stay with you?” Escape has its appeal—as in, I need an escape from my libido.

  “But if you stay with us, he’ll be here too. With you,” Bridget points out.

  “True, true.”

  “Also, don’t you want and need to be at the farmhouse?” Chloe asks, a helpful reminder.

  I drop my head in my hand. “I do.” Then I draw a deep breath and raise my face. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I can handle some weird sexual tension. It’s no big deal. We’re adults sharing a small space. It happens all the time. It doesn’t mean we’re going to sleep together. We made a pact.”

  “Yes, and pacts were made to be broken,” Chloe says, then shakes her head. “I meant honored. No-sex pacts were made to be honored.”

  “Chloe,” I warn her.

  She tilts her head, giving me a soft and genuine smile. “I’m teasing. But I know you’re going to be able to handle this, Ripley. That’s what you do. Even if it’s hard, you always find a way.”

  “And I bet it’s going to be very, very hard,” Bridget deadpans.

  Narrowing my eyes, I lift a finger. “Hey, you promised you wouldn’t be assholes.”

  Bridget arches a brow. “You were an asshole first. You didn’t tell us.”

  “I guess we’re all assholes then, so we’re even,” I say, leaning against the vanity.

  “And call us if you feel like you’re about to cave,” Chloe offers.

  “And you’ll give me a pep talk?” I ask, hopeful, grateful for this lifeline.

  “Or encourage you to ride his big D,” she says.

  I growl. “You’re definitely assholes.”

  “And you love us,” Bridget says.

  “I really do,” I say, and I feel better from talking to them. I needed to get that off my chest.

  Now that I have, I’m confident I can do this. They’re right. I can handle this new level of awkward. I can manage the sexual tension. It won’t be a problem at all.

  I say goodbye, then leave the bathroom, and I survey my bedroom. Guess it’s time to pack an overnight bag for a few—gulp—tempting weeks.

  There’s a knock on the door. I head over and open it, then startle. It’s the sexy man I need to resist. And my pulse is surging.

  “I came to help you pack,” he says, and it’s a thoughtful gesture. Like something a boyfriend would do rather than a bodyguard.

  But I can’t linger on that thought so I say, “Let’s do it.”

  His gaze snaps to my nightstand, and I follow it. The fox he made at Pick Me Up sits atop my paperback. A smile curves his lips, but he says nothing.

  I don’t either as I drop two books from my nightstand into a canvas bag, then head to the closet and grab my overnight bag—the one I used when I visited my sister in San Francisco last month. I bring it to the bed and unzip it. “I’ll grab some clothes and toiletries,” I say, then head to the bathroom again to gather some things.

  When I return with a bag of lotions and potions, Banks is staring at me like a cat who’s just finished eating a very delicious trout.

  “What is it?” I ask, unsure what that wicked grin is about.

  His gaze drifts to my bag. Inside it is a small box. I left it open when I put the bag away because I didn’t want to throw out the contents.

  One origami bird.

  “You kept that too.”

  “It’s a nice bird,” I say defensively.

  “It really is.” A pause. A nod of his head toward the nightstand. “So’s the fox.”

  “Oh, shut up.”

  “It’s quite a collection.”

  “Banks,” I warn.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll forget all about it,” he says, turning my words back on me. But he’s smiling, like he’s deliciously pleased with the twin discoveries.

  I roll my eyes. “I’m sure you’ll never let me forget it.”

  “I see you understand me finally,” he says, then helps me pack.

  The thing is, I think I do understand him, and I like it too much.

  Or him.

  25

  ONE-BED-NESS

  RIPLEY

  But I don’t make it to the cottage right away because there’s too much to deal with on the farm. Finally, after I check off a few more items on my to-do list, but don’t finish it, because what even is finishing a to-do-list, I close my laptop and set it down on the couch in the living room.

  Grandma’s back from her day with Daisy and friends, but I play the toilet paper fairy anyway since she’s hanging out with Haven. While they catch up, I make sure all the bathrooms are stocked, checking with the guests to see who needs towels and who forgot toothpaste. I’ve learned the guy with the undercut is Arjun; he’s the director of photography, and he’s from New Jersey. He forgot floss, so I give him some and then give him points for excellent dental care. I have extras on hand of everything, so next up I give some of my favorite cruelty-free Tom’s toothpaste to the bearded, bald guy who said he forgot to bring some. His name is Sam, he’s Australian, and he’s the AD.

  “Thanks so much. Really appreciate this,” Sam says, standing in front of his first-floor room as he clutches the tube to his chest like it’s a prize.

  “Happy brushing.”

  “I’ll be the happiest,” he replies, but makes no move to leave.

  “Do you need a toothbrush too?”

  He taps his chin, his smile a little flirty. “Think I remembered to bring that. I’m good to go, but I’ll see if I can forget something else.”

  Okaaaay.

  “Just let me know,” I say, keeping it friendly. I point to the kitchen. “I have a few more things to do.”

  “Have fun,” he says.

  I return to the kitchen where Banks is leaning against the counter with one eyebrow raised—he likely saw that interaction. He’s finishing takeout from a cardboard bowl, something with kale and sweet potatoes and fresh chicken, as he chats with Wanda and Haven and Grandma.

  I pass them, grabbing my laptop from the sofa to finalize one more order for new pruners. They debate the best way to make macarons while Banks straightens up. When I’m done, I say good night to Grandma and Haven.

  “Don’t stay up too late chatting,” I warn, but it’s a moot point. They will. They’ve always been late-night chatters.

  “We’ll behave,” Grandma says with a smirk.

  “We’ll be sooo good,” Haven adds.

  Yup, moot point. But there’s nothing I can do about it, so I grab my phone and head over to the cottage as the stars flicker in the sky. An antsy feeling chases me as I cross the lawn with Banks. Like we’re walking toward the inevitable—the inevitable tension.

  Banks opens the door, and I go inside. He brought my shoulder bag and my overnight bag here earlier, and I stop in the doorway. I have never seen the cottage like this.

  It’s immaculate. The bed is crisply made, each corner of the white comforter smoothed over, and the blue-and-white-striped pillows arranged like the room’s going to be featured in a photo shoot.

  On the nightstand there’s just the lamp and what looks like a black eye mask, folded over. The kind we sell in the little shop.

  I pull my gaze away from the bed, taking in the rest of the room I know well as he shuts the door, sealing us into this small space. That restless feeling in me amps up.

  The one-room cottage is big enough for a king-size bed, a couch, a coffee table, a small fridge, and a little sink, as well as a bathroom. The couch looks out on the deck overlooking the lavender fields.

  On the coffee table across from the dove-gray couch is a paperback—a big book. Stephen King, I think. It sits atop a sleek silver laptop.

  That’s it.

  There’s no messy array of items strewn across the wooden tabletop. No T-shirt, no sunglasses, or lip balm, or keys. There’s not a banana left there from when someone thought they wanted a snack but never ate. There’s no water bottle. We should deal with the sleeping arrangements, but I’m too surprised by the unusually spotless state of the cottage to think about the bigger issue.

  “Have you been living here at all?” I ask, confused by the neatness. His suitcase isn’t even open. It’s closed and placed on the floor by the wardrobe beside the bed. My overnight bag is stacked neatly there too, but I forgot to bring my canvas bag with my books. I’ll grab it before bedtime though.

  “Yes,” he says, his brow pinched, perhaps confused by my question.

  I try to explain better. “It’s never looked this nice. It’s neater than when you arrived.”

  He drags a hand through his thick hair, then dips his face for a second, maybe embarrassed. When he raises it, he says, “I’m just neat.”

  “A little,” I say, then set my phone on the table. I feel instantly guilty for messing up the table’s feng shui.

  The neatness is, admittedly, taking my mind off other things. Like the one-bed-ness of it all. One bed against the wall, with a pulse, a heartbeat, and a voice whispering low and smoky, “What are you going to do about me?”

  I shift my focus back to Banks. “Is it the military training?” I ask since this is easier than dealing with the voice in my head.

  “Probably,” he says, then pauses like he’s reconsidering. “Maybe.”

  He doesn’t sound evasive so much as uncomfortable, so I say, “Well, I like what you’ve done with it. It’s hardly good enough for me now.”

  He wrinkles his nose, then groans. “You’re a slob, right?”

  “No!” I say with over-the-top indignation. But then I wince. “I mean, compared to you, yeah. I’m not like this.”

  “Admit it. You’re a pig. I’ll be cleaning up after you.”

  I arch a brow. “I believe we already established you did that this morning with the coffee cups.”

  “And I have no regrets,” he says, then stage whispers, “slob.”

  “Stop it,” I say, but the teasing is working. It’s defusing some of the obvious tension from the obvious issue. The one we can’t avoid much longer. I stroll over to his side of the bed and pick up the lavender mask—a distraction. “You like my store,” I tease.

  With a one-shouldered shrug, he says, “It’s okay.”

  “Please. It’s amazing,” I say.

  “It is,” he says from the other side of the room.

  I’m just making small talk. That’s all this is. Someone needs to deal with the bed. The space. The problem.

  But we’re both deathly silent for another long, weighty beat till Banks squares his shoulders. “I’ll take the couch.”

  He is a gentleman in a lot of ways. But there’s no way he can sleep on the couch. The sofa’s not long. But Banks is. “I can take it,” I offer.

  He shakes his head. “Nope. I’ll take it or the floor.”

  I scoff. “You can’t sleep on the floor.”

  A brow lifts in challenge. “Wanna bet, sweetheart?”

  “Sure,” I say, squaring my shoulders too.

  “Really? You really think I won’t sleep on the floor? After the yoga and the pedicure?”

  He doesn’t mention the other challenge—the try me one from earlier. I don’t want him sleeping on the floor no matter what, but I know he’d do it to prove a point. He’ll be uncomfortable, but he’s so tough he won’t let on, and he’s so stubborn he’ll do it. “Fine. You can couch it,” I say, sort of giving in, but I prefer to think I’m being strategically nice. “Unless you want to sleep in the gardening shed.”

  “Would you bring me a pillow and a blanket?”

  I cross my arms. “I would.”

  “Sounds kind of nice,” he says, then eyes the couch, lifting one palm, then the other. “Couch? Shed? Shed? Couch?”

  It’s asked like he’s on Jeopardy!, and he tilts his head back and forth, weighing the options.

  Both are ridiculous. He should just sleep in the bed. It’s big enough for two. “Banks,” I say, when my phone trills.

  I grab it from my back pocket, grateful for the distraction. It’s Haven.

  “Hey, what’s going on?” I ask. “Are you at the hotel already? Want me to virtually tuck you in and read you a book?”

  “You know I do.”

  She used to ask me to do that—read a book to her when we were much younger. She’d say, “I just like hearing the story better than reading it, and you’re so good at character voices.”

  I wasn’t good at character voices. She just liked the company.

  “But, no I’m not at the hotel. I’m still at the house and your dog is wandering around here like a lost soul.”

  “Hudson!” I shriek. “I’ll come get him. Also, you need to get to the hotel and get your sleep.”

  “I will.”

  I end the call, then meet Banks’s eyes. “Can the dog sleep here?”

  “Of course.”

  I rush across the lawn, into the house, and to the living room. Hudson leaps up from the floor, greeting me with the waggiest tail I’ve ever seen.

  “He’s been whimpering at the door,” Haven says as she stands and stretches, phone and a pair of pink heart-shaped sunglasses in hand. “He wuvs you.”

  I kneel and cup his soft snout. “I wuv him too.”

  He happy-whimpers against my face, then I stand and pat his side. “You can come with me, buddy.” Then I turn to her. “Are you taking off?”

  She nods. “Just said good night to Grandma and Wanda’s at the door.” She steps closer and flashes a smile. “She’s hilarious. She’s like a standup comic. She has the funniest stories about her kids and her wife.”

  “I’m glad your bodyguard doubles as entertainment,” I say.

  “Me too.”

  Before I say goodbye, my gaze strays to the coffee table. Ah, there’s the canvas bag with my books, one of which is for Haven. I grab it and reach inside for the one William brought over the other day for her. The cover is light blue with a photo of an inviting beach house overlooking the ocean. That Summer with You is the title. “I almost forgot. William brought this over for you when he brought my book,” I say, then hand her the paperback.