“Oh fun!”

  A note slips out. It’s folded in half so I can’t see it, but I grab it before it falls to the floor. I hand the piece of paper to her, along with the book. “What’s up with the note?”

  “I bet he marked his favorite pages,” she says with a friendly smile.

  “Does he normally?” I ask. “And do you normally get books from him?”

  “I do. I always try to order from the hometown store. You know how it goes. Support a local business and all. So he leaves notes on his favorite scenes. Such a book guy,” she says with a shrug, then takes the note and the book.

  I arch a brow. That sounds like more than bookishness. “He probably has a crush on you.”

  She scoffs. “Doubtful.”

  “Not doubtful. You’re kind of a movie star,” I stage whisper. “Also, look at you. You’re gorgeous.”

  She stares right back at me, then clears her throat. “Ahem. Pot. Kettle. Literally.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “And speaking of crushes, is your bodyguard hot for you?” she whispers.

  A flush spreads like wildfire up my chest. “No,” I say immediately. “He just stays close to me.”

  “That’s not what I meant, Ripley.”

  But I don’t want to talk about Banks with her. Because nothing more can happen with him, and she doesn’t need to worry about me. She especially doesn’t need to play matchmaker when she should be playing Lucy Snow, the heroine in Someone Else’s Ring.

  “Enjoy the book from the not-crush,” I say.

  “Enjoy the cottage with the not-crush.”

  We leave together, with Wanda mentioning that her son thinks there’s a dinosaur named Asparagus Rex.

  “Honestly, that’d be a good name for a dino,” I admit.

  “Or a new variety of asparagus,” she says.

  “I’d eat that asparagus,” Haven puts in.

  “Just grill it with a little olive oil and it’ll be delish,” Wanda says as they head to the car.

  A few minutes later, Hudson and I are back at the cottage. I knock on the door, and Banks swings it open.

  “You didn’t follow me to the house,” I point out.

  “I figured you weren’t going to run tonight. Plus, I was holding your origami menagerie hostage.”

  He’s set the bird and the fox on the coffee table. The damning evidence is now home decor. He must have snuck the fox out of my room without me noticing. He is stealthy. I head inside, Hudson trotting behind me, giving a lick hello to his new friend.

  In the few minutes I’ve been gone, Banks has already set a pillow on the couch and spread out the blanket that had been on the foot of the bed.

  Shame. I was hoping he’d talked himself into sharing.

  The pillows are stacked against the headboard, and I’m under the covers in my cami and sleep shorts, the dog snoozing at my feet, Banks reading on the couch. He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, the ink on his arms on full display. His knees are tucked up.

  Since he doesn’t fit.

  I sigh from the bed.

  He turns a page.

  I flip another page in my book.

  He slides a little lower on the couch, knees jutting higher.

  I read another page.

  He flips to the next one in his book.

  I slap my book down on the cover. “This is stupid. If you’re not going to sleep with the gardening equipment, just share the bed.”

  Slowly, he turns his head, meeting my gaze, his lips quirking up. “Is that your way of telling me to hit the shed?”

  “No. Just come here. I won’t bite.”

  He puts the book down on the coffee table. “What if I like biting?”

  A whoosh of heat rushes through me. “Do you?” I ask in a low voice, then shake my head. I don’t want to know. Only because I do want to know. “Forget I asked.”

  “Okay.”

  “Banks,” I say with a sigh.

  “Yes, Ripley?”

  “We can handle this,” I say.

  His stoic expression fades. There’s real concern in his eyes. “You think so?”

  “Yes,” I say, emphatic. “I have faith in us.”

  With a heavy sigh, he stares back at the couch with disdain. “Good, because this couch sucks.”

  He grabs his pillow, comes around to the bed, and sets it down. Then he slides under the covers, patting them on his chest.

  We’re like two sticks in a bed.

  I try to come up with a topic to relieve the tension, when he says, “Sam wants you.”

  I scoff. “He does not.”

  Banks shifts to his side, giving me a look. “He was checking you out.”

  “Then he wants Haven too,” I say.

  His brow knits. “Just because you look alike doesn’t mean someone is attracted to both of you.”

  I know this to be true, but it’s rare to hear from someone else. “You think so?”

  “Yes. I know so,” he says. “Case in point—me.”

  My chest warms dangerously, so naturally I push back. “But you thought I was Haven the night we met.”

  “Correction: I thought you were Ripley, then I thought you were Haven pretending to be Ripley. Then I met you again. It was always Ripley I was attracted to.”

  The temperature in me shoots up. I should leave this topic alone, but I don’t. “Glad you’re not into both twins.”

  “I can tell you apart.”

  “You couldn’t at first.”

  He levels me with a dark gaze. “I can now. I can tell here,” he says, tapping his chest. “Only one of you turns me on.”

  It’s official—I’m on fire. I can’t even speak.

  “And Sam was definitely flirting with you,” he says, a little irked.

  I can’t resist. “Did that bother you?”

  The tension in his forehead says it did. The tightness in his jaw is another sign. “What do you think?”

  “A little,” I say, smiling.

  A laugh bursts from him. “You love to fuck with me.”

  “You love to fuck with me.”

  There’s a weighted pause, then Banks nods at the book I brought. The cover is midnight blue, with a stark-white serif font for the title. “That bookstore guy brought that for you.” There’s still some jealousy in his tone.

  “I ordered it from his store.”

  “Does he hand-deliver books to all his customers?”

  “He’s one of my customers! He has lavender bouquets at the counter in A Likely Story.” I take a moment, then add, “And when he brought the book I purchased, he brought one for Haven too. It was marked up with favorite lines and stuff.”

  “Ah.” Banks nods, his shoulders relaxing like that settles that issue for him.

  “I guess they’re friends,” I add. But I don’t want to talk about my sister or other guys. I glance around the cottage. “You don’t like messes, do you?”

  “I hate them,” he says, then scrubs a hand through his hair, messing it up—an incongruous move.

  “Why?” I ask softly.

  “I just like order. I like things the way I like them. I like to be able to control my environment.”

  Earlier he said the situation with his parents splitting up was messy. That he had to step up. “Is that because there was a time when you couldn’t?”

  He’s quiet at first, then sighs. But it’s not a frustrated sound. It’s more thoughtful, and so is his gaze as he says, “Definitely. The thing I told you earlier? In your truck?”

  “Yes?”

  “We had to move. Well, my mom wanted to, as well. But she definitely felt like she had to—to start over.”

  “That must have been hard.”

  “It was. For her.”

  “And for you and your sister.”

  Silence fills the space, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s necessary. He nods. “Yeah, for everyone. Guess that’s why I like things the way I like them.”

  “I won’t tease you about being a neat freak then,” I say genuinely.

  He stares me down. “But if you didn’t tease me, maybe I wouldn’t know it was you.”

  There’s nowhere for this fizzy feeling to go, so I bottle it up. “What’s the eye mask for?”

  “Tension,” he says with some vulnerability. “I was feeling it the other day.”’

  “With me?”

  He’s quiet for a beat, then sighs and nods. “Yeah. I was.”

  That makes me happy, but it’s a futile happiness. “Did it help?”

  “It did.” A pause. “Be sure to tell the owner that lavender works.”

  “I’ll let her know,” I say, but I don’t want him to feel more tense. He already seems to carry a lot on his shoulders. “Good night, Banks. Don’t try to cuddle me while we sleep.”

  “Don’t you try to cuddle me,” he fires back.

  “I mean it.”

  “You mean it like a challenge?”

  “I dare you not to cuddle me.”

  After he sheds his shorts, so he’s down to boxer briefs and a T-shirt, he flips to his other side, his big back to me. “Done.”

  We turn off our bedside lamps. The cottage goes dark. Eventually, sometime later, we fall asleep.

  I wake to his arms wrapped around me, his breathing steady against my neck, his body unbearably close to mine.

  26

  THE BIG, EXUBERANT SPOON

  BANKS

  Mmm, this is nice. Soft, warm skin. Sheets of silky hair. The first rays of sunlight drifting over our bodies. The last remnants of sleep fading away. Before I open my eyes, I drink in this floaty moment one more time. I breathe in—long and leisurely.

  Yeah, this is better than nice. She smells like lavender and vanilla, and fresh laundry, and all my dirty dreams. There were a lot of them. A round-the-clock movie house playing in my brain all night long as she snuggled up against me. Wedged her body to mine. Murmured in the dark.

  I burrow my face in the crook of her neck and wrap my arms a little tighter around her. This lovely, sexy, feisty woman is in my bed, out here in a cottage, far away from everyone else. Just us.

  Except…whoa.

  There’s a tongue on my face.

  Lapping me from chin to cheekbone. Then a rattle of tags, and a needy whimper. A thumping tail, a rustle of sheets, then a quiet, “Good morning.”

  My eyes fly open.

  Fuckity, fuck, fuck, double fuck! I wrench away from Ripley and Hudson. Goddamn bed, goddamn dreams, goddamn hazy morning with this woman too close to me.

  “I’ll take the dog out,” I blurt, then bolt out of bed in my boxer briefs and T-shirt and hustle to the door, the dog at my side, and my…

  Great. Just great.

  My morning wood is pointing the way.

  Ripley chuckles from the bed. “Have fun walking him like that.”

  “It’s fine,” I mumble, then spin around and head to my suitcase to grab a pair of workout shorts. I tug them on at the speed of sound as Ripley pushes herself up to her elbows, eyeing me with too much amusement.

  “You sure it won’t be too hard?” she deadpans. “Walking him and all, I mean?”

  “Won’t be,” I say but my dick is a traitor. He won’t stand down. Rude.

  “True. If you get lost, though, just use your internal compass. Looks like it’ll point you back.”

  I grit my teeth. “Built-in GPS.”

  “Handy,” she says with a smile like she’s eating this up. “Just don’t bump into anything. You might break it.”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “You do that. Flagpoles can be seriously dangerous.”

  “Thanks for the warning.”

  I grab the leash from the floor, then open the door. Hudson bounds ahead of me. As he waters a nearby patch of grass, I close my eyes, pretend I’m in yoga class, and find a mantra to deal with this situation.

  I am letting go of the things that don’t serve me.

  Like this annoying erection. Which, finally, after a few deep breaths, settles the fuck down.

  With that matter settled, I leash up the dog and take him for a walk around the property, passing the maze that looks perfect for kids to play in. “You like that maze?”

  He pants.

  “Bet you know it perfectly,” I say.

  As we walk, I flash back to last night in bed with Ripley. Sometime in the middle of the night, I must have curled up next to her. Tugged her close. Held her tight. An image flickers before my eyes. Me roping an arm around her stomach. Her wriggling near to me, her sweet ass pressed against my dick.

  I groan audibly as I replay the moment. We can’t keep cuddling each other in our sleep. Cuddling leads to morning wood that needs to be talked down.

  I’ll apologize to Ripley when I return, and we’ll agree to move on. I’ll do better tonight. Hell, that shed sounds good right about now.

  I reach for my phone to turn on some Brahms to distract me but come up empty in my pocket. Right. I’m the idiot who ran out the door without a phone, without even brushing my teeth.

  Gross. Morning breath sucks. I hope I don’t run into anyone I need to talk to.

  Like I’ve summoned her, there’s Tabitha coming my way wearing a baseball cap, a tank top, and a pair of running shorts. She’s racing toward me, arms tucked by her sides in a runner’s stride, legs moving fast. When she nears me, she slows and pops out an earbud. “How’s it going, Banks? Did you sleep well?”

  Like I was in an OnlyFans waiting room all night long. “Great,” I say, making sure I don’t expose my dragon breath to her.

  With a deep sigh, she glances around, gesturing to the long country road stretching in front of her, then to the violet blooms forming a blanket across the property beside me. “I haven’t slept that well in ages. It must be the quiet out here in a small town. Not a single siren, or argument on the street, or even traffic at three in the morning. You know how it is in Los Angeles. There’s always traffic.”

  “Sure is,” I say.

  She points toward the fields just past me. “That’s pretty, whatever it is.”

  “Grosso,” I say immediately.

  She shoots me a quizzical look. “You know the kind of lavender?”

  “Well, I’ve been here a few days,” I say, nonchalant. “I picked up a few things.”

  Which is true, but I also researched varieties of lavender after Ripley said these were one of her customers’ favorites. I was curious. Or, okay, fine. Maybe I wanted to know more about Ripley and her business. “It’s used for drying and in cooking,” I add.

  An eyebrow arches. “Well, if a scene calls for a lavender expert and I can’t find Ripley, I’ll look for you.”

  Note to self: shut the fuck up. I don’t want to let on to the producer that I’m too interested in all things related to my client.

  “I was just…curious,” I add. I can’t follow my own orders this morning. Jesus, if sleeping next to a beautiful woman turns me into a blabbermouth, that shed is looking better by the minute. “Anyway,” I say, suddenly at a loss for words.

  Tabitha’s wristwatch beeps a warning, and she snaps her gaze to it, then closes the alert.

  “I’d ask about the other varieties, but I’ll lose my cardio bennies if I don’t take off,” she says, tapping her device.

  “Don’t want to lose those bennies. Have a good run,” I say.

  She gives a wave, then trots off.

  Relieved to see her go, I circle the farm, giving the dog a chance to stretch his morning legs and myself some space from an unexpectedly spoon-y kind of night.

  Fifteen or so minutes later, I return to the cottage, the dog bounding to the door. As I follow, I review the plan. I’ll apologize for my overexuberant spooning, and then we’ll move on. At least I have the day off, since Marcus, one of my backups, will look out for Ripley. The space will be good. Hell, it’s necessary.

  I jerk open the door and Hudson rushes inside, racing to his favorite person, who’s coming around the corner from the bathroom.

  She’s wearing only a towel cinched around her breasts and coming down to her mid-thighs. Her wet hair is sleek against her shoulders, and a drop of water slides down her chest between the valley of her breasts.

  So much for the disappearance of my hard-on.

  “Oh. I just got out of the shower,” she says, a little flustered.

  “I figured as much,” I say dryly. Mostly to cover up the heat flaring in my bones.

  “I’ll get out of your way.” She gestures to the bathroom.

  I shake my head, waving to the door I just walked through. “No, I’ll get out of your way.”

  “Banks, I really don’t want to put you out. You’re my guest. Let me grab my clothes and I’ll change in there.” She scurries over to her suitcase, and I stand stock-still by the door. If I leave, I’ll look like I can’t handle this close proximity.

  If I can’t handle this, I can’t handle the job. I’m only three days in. I’ve got to get a handle on this…lust.

  “Yeah, no problem,” I say, all cool and casual as I finally move, heading to the couch, looking elsewhere. Looking anywhere but at Ripley. Even when she walks past me again, clutching some clothes to her chest. Those lucky clothes.

  Fine, I looked.

  Once she’s snicked the door shut to the bathroom, I sink down on the couch, drop my head in my hands, and sigh heavily. “How the hell am I going to make it through the next few weeks?”

  The universe doesn’t answer. Nor do I.

  A couple minutes later, she emerges, fresh-faced and dressed in a…kill me now.

  She’s wearing a sundress.

  Also known as the world’s most appealing item of clothing a woman can wear. It’s peach and it swishes against her tanned legs, with little straps that hug her bare shoulders.

  “Thanks for taking out the dog,” she says, then heads to the coffeepot, waggling it. “Want coffee?”

  “Always,” I say, and as she brews it, I dart into the bathroom to brush my teeth. As I brush, I check out the vanity. She’s set a few items on it—a vanilla and lavender body mist, a lotion that purportedly smells like satsuma oranges, a small makeup bag with cartoon dogs on it and the words Sorry I’m late, I saw a dog, then a toothbrush.