Her brow knits, but she shrugs, buying my excuse. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you when you’re sweating.”

  “I won’t curse you when I melt on the streets of Darling Springs today,” I say, but then I gesture to my shorts. “I’ll be fine. Plus, I have a lot of flowers to deliver, so this way my arms won’t get as scratched up.”

  Her brows arch higher.

  Oops.

  The more you say, the more obvious it is you’re hiding something. Like a short-sleeve shirt will save me from scratches. “Let me help you with coffee and stuff for the crew,” I say, trying to steer the conversation anywhere else. But seriously, the hard time she’ll give me for a hickey. I still remember when Haven was seventeen and came home with a purple splotch on her neck, then tried to finesse her way out of it with a tale about a new moisturizer she’d picked up from The Slippery Dipper, and how eager she’d been to try it out as part of this amazing new skin care routine, but oh my god can you believe it left this purple mark?

  We teased her for days about her allegedly amazing skin care routine.

  “I made croissants too,” she adds, then taps me on the nose. “Because⁠—”

  We both pause, like, wait for it, then say in unison, “Muffins suck.”

  “Seriously, muffins should be abolished,” I add, grateful we’ve moved on to baked goods and away from my cover-up-a-silly-punishment-for-my-sass attire.

  As I help her in the kitchen, images of last night flicker before my eyes, and my stomach flips. I really need to stop thinking about what he did to me in bed. Since it can’t happen again.

  Then, there’s the clearing of a throat, the sound of shoes on hardwood floor, and my body reacts instantly as Banks walks into the kitchen.

  “Morning, Lila. Morning, Ripley. Hope you didn’t think you could give me the slip,” he teases.

  I don’t even look at him. If I do, the desire will be written on my face for my grandma to see. She already knows I like him. She already knows I’m wildly attracted to him. She’ll be able to put two and two together and add it up to you enjoyed hot sex and naughty uses for lavender with your bodyguard last night, didn’t you?

  “I didn’t know you were my shadow on the farm too?” I toss out.

  “I’m not. You’re safe here. But I’m good at finding you,” Banks says, and something about the confidence in his words makes me nearly swoon.

  I grab the coffee bag instead and shake it for no good reason. “Thanks for walking the dog.”

  “Anytime,” he says.

  Grandma arches a curious brow, like walking the dog is the only proof she needs to know something’s going on between us.

  “I’ll make more coffee,” I quickly add.

  My grandma gives me the most side-eye of all side-eyes ever, then says playfully and pointedly to Banks, “Yes, thank you so much for walking my granddaughter’s most favorite person.”

  “You’re my favorite person,” I counter quickly, speaking to her.

  Grandma scoffs. “You can’t fool me. That dog has ranked top since you adopted him.”

  “He’s a good dog,” Banks says evenly.

  “Ripley is crazy about him,” Grandma says, and that’s true, but I’m not entirely sure she’s talking about Hudson.

  Still, I’m the woman wearing a mock turtleneck in eighty-degree weather, so I shut the hell up and focus so hard on making coffee.

  After the crew leaves bright and early to shoot at The Slippery Dipper today, I work on my usual tasks around the farm until it’s time to swing by the art museum to pick up the flowers from last night’s event. Banks helps me collect them and put them in the bed of the truck. “What will you do with them now?”

  “Take them back to the farm and turn them into soil compost,” I say.

  Under the sun in the museum parking lot, he stares at me for a beat, his lips curving up.

  “What?” I ask breathily.

  “That’s hot.”

  “Composting my flowers?”

  “Yeah. Being good to the earth.”

  I laugh. “Makes it even harder to resist me, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he says, and he’s intensely serious. He heads over to the passenger door and opens it. The man loves driving.

  “You and your control,” I mutter.

  But before I can get in, he ropes an arm around my waist and jerks me against him, my back to his front, his hand coming down on the thin, crocheted floral belt I’m wearing since I’m in my vintage ’90s era today, it seems, with my jean shorts too. “And you like it,” he rasps out.

  “I do.”

  His arm cinches tighter. I melt more. He slides his other hand up my neck and into my hair. “Me too.”

  “Is anyone watching?” I whisper, but I know the answer. With the movie shooting in town today, no one’s really following me. The photographers—from the Hollywood trade press to the paparazzi—are all on Main Street, hunting for the real action.

  “I looked around. We’re good,” he says huskily, then runs his fingers up and into my hair. “Does your neck hurt today?”

  “A little.”

  “Want me to rub it?”

  I want him to rub everything. “Yes.”

  In the parking lot, with his arm locking me in place at the waist, he rubs my neck. It’s a better neck massage than the first one, especially since he sighs, and murmurs, and kisses the shell of my ear.

  Eventually, when I’ve turned into a liquid state, I say, “So we’re forgetting last night?”

  “Yes, this is forgetting.” He kisses my neck once—no hickey this time—and lets go.

  Back at the farm, Haven texts me a few times during the shoot, sending little updates like this one.

  Haven: OMG, I am pretending I run The Slippery Dipper!

  Ripley: Dreams do come true.

  Haven: I know. I’ve always wanted to run a cute shop!

  Ripley: It’s not all sunshine and roses.

  Haven: It is for me!

  Ripley: Glad to hear.

  After I hit Send on the last text, my phone’s quiet for a while as I check in with Ramona on the shop’s orders, then with Cyrus on his deliveries for the day. He’s bopping his head to a beat as he pushes a wheelbarrow up to the shed but stops and nods when he sees me. “What’s cooking, boss lady?”

  “Do you have the Otto Quast for Prohibition Spirit? Esmeralda has added lavender specials to her menu. Oh, and I need the delivery for the market too.”

  He flashes a toothy grin, white teeth sparkling. “Always. I’m on top of it,” he says, but as we head to the barn where we prep the flowers, my phone trills.

  That’s the ringtone I gave to Tabitha. I answer it so fast. “Hey, what’s going on?”

  “Hi, Ripley. Do you have something…purple-y?”

  I blink. “Purple-y?”

  “Yes. Vega doesn’t like the lavender on the counter here at the shop. It’s dried out lavender,” she says, her voice frayed, and it’s only day one.

  A lot of people do like dried lavender. That’s why the store sells it. But now’s not the time to educate her or anyone on the ins and outs of my business. “What would she prefer?” I ask, refraining myself from recommending Provence as a feather tickler.

  “It’s too washed out,” Tabitha says. “She wants something brighter for this scene.”

  Ah, that’s an easy fix. “I have Impress Purple and Hidcote. Let me send you pics.”

  “You’re a goddess,” she says as I find the photos I keep handy and text them.

  Seconds later, she’s asking the director who declares that one with something like utter relief.

  “The Impress Purple,” Tabitha says to me.

  “When do you need it?”

  I can hear Tabitha grimace as she answers, “Yesterday.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  After she tells me how many, I grab the bunches, plus the ones Cyrus has set aside for the market, then let Banks know I’m heading to the set.

  It’s a little thrilling to say that—set. I can’t help it. It’s exciting that a movie’s being shot in my hometown and with my sister as the star.

  “Let’s deliver this emergency lavender, stat,” Banks says.

  That giddy feeling carries over when he opens the door of the truck, casts a furtive glance around the farm, then trails his fingers down my back, whispering, “You’d look good on your knees with your hands tied behind you.”

  It’s not my shirt I’m going to need to change soon. It’s my panties.

  A security officer lets me past the cordoned-off area of the block on Main Street and ushers me inside with Banks staying outside. My heart is sprinting with excitement. I get to see my sister in her element, and when I catch the first sight of her behind the counter, her hair in braids, her eyes sparkling as she chats with Tabitha, my heart surges with joy.

  There she is. Making the art she’s always wanted.

  “It’s my heroine!” Haven calls out when she sees me, then she scurries past the cameras and lights and rushes my way.

  “Wow. You look amazing,” I say, my throat tightening as I check out her cute T-shirt and jeans, face all flawless and camera-ready, her heart-shaped sunglasses pushing back her mane of blond hair.

  “So do you,” she says.

  I laugh it off, then hand the flowers to Tabitha who joins us and says, “Thank you. You’re the goddess of goddesses.”

  Off in the corner, Vega is chatting with the lighting guy, but when she sees me, she gives a crisp, businesslike nod, calling out, “Thank you for the lavender save.”

  “Anytime,” I say, then turn back to Haven.

  “Where’s New Chris?” I whisper.

  “He’s not in this scene, but he’ll be in the next one. Want to stay and meet him?”

  I check the time. “I’ll see if I can come back. I need to bring Salma her flowers.”

  “Haven!” the director calls out, and my sister returns to the counter.

  I weave through the crew, a little overwhelmed and starry-eyed, and head back to the street where Banks is waiting for me with the lavender delivery for Salma.

  “How was it?” he asks.

  “Kind of amazing,” I whisper, then we walk along the familiar block with its Hollywood blockade.

  As we leave it, Banks scans left and right, then says, “Press over there. I’ve got you.”

  “Thanks,” I say, grateful for his presence as he ushers me past photographers. There are more than last week. So many more. Understandable since, well, the film’s actually shooting today.

  “Are they all paparazzi?” I ask, recognizing Silas from last week, and the guy Banks pointed out, Ludwig. But there are others too.

  “No. Some are with the entertainment press. They aren’t quite…hunters.”

  “Thank god,” I say, relieved for that as he whisks me into Salma’s market.

  “I’ll stay here,” he says, nodding to the doorway of the shop. “So you can see your customer by yourself.”

  I’m touched he remembered I wanted that. But not surprised. I head down the first aisle to find Salma at the florist counter, but instead I walk right toward the movie star himself.

  Chris Carlisle is in the store, and he’s holding a sandwich.

  30

  A GRATITUDE SANDWICH

  RIPLEY

  Chris Carlisle doesn’t look like everyone else in town. With his chiseled jawline, carved cheekbones, wavy golden-brown hair, and crystal-blue eyes, he looks as advertised.

  A movie star.

  He’s also got an entourage. A big, burly man walks a few feet behind him, wearing a tight black polo shirt that stretches across his chest. That must be his bodyguard. A petite woman in black pants and leopard flats is next to him, a phone, tablet, and notebook in her arms.

  They’re all heading my way when Chris’s gaze lands on mine, and instantly a smile brightens his face.

  It’s like a billboard on the side of the highway. A movie marquee you have to look at. He strides right up to me, those blue eyes locked on me. “You must be Ripley.”

  I’m not usually starstruck, only because I don’t usually meet stars, so I don’t have a second to stammer or gawk. After all, he’s the guy my sister says is so nice.

  “I am,” I say, then take a quick pause, assessing my reaction. Yes, he’s a movie star, but he also puts his pants on one leg at a time. So I treat him as I’d treat anyone. With kindness and a little humor. “And I’m guessing you’re maybe, possibly Chris Carlisle?”

  He laughs politely, his gaze staying on me the whole time. “Good guess.” Then, his expression turns more serious. “I am so grateful for you.” Sandwich in hand, he comes closer, extending his free arm. “Hug?”

  Oh.

  He’s asking for consent to hug. Okay. That’s interesting. I shift the flowers awkwardly to my other arm, saying, “Sure.”

  He wraps his arm around me in a side hug that’s quick, friendly, respectful, then he lets go. “What an honor to meet you,” he says, both earnest and intense.

  “It’s my pleasure. How are you finding Darling Springs?”

  “It’s an incredible place,” he says, telling me more about the beach, then the tapas he had at dinner last night, then the innkeeper at The Ladybug Inn. He doesn’t once look away. He’s all about the eye contact, which is nice, but a little overwhelming. Especially with that sandwich. The woman with him, an assistant I’m guessing, steps forward and takes it from him. “I’ll hold this.”

  He turns to her. “Thank you so much, Natasha,” he says in a tone full of gratitude.

  His gaze returns to mine. “And Ripley,” he says, placing his hands together as if in prayer, “I just want to thank you so much for welcoming our set onto your farm. I put you in my gratitude journal and thanked you in my morning meditation.”

  Ohhhhh. I get it now.

  He’s a gratitude guy. Which is lovely. And endearing. And also intense.

  “That means a lot to me,” I say, since I think that’s how you respond to that kind of compliment.

  “We drove past your farm earlier today. I wanted to see it from a distance, like the character does the first time he sets eyes on it. As an actor, I rely so much on my set and setting to perform, and I find the atmosphere you have created to be…” He pauses, clearly taking a moment to find just the right word. “Profound. I’m so looking forward to shooting there.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying Darling Springs.”

  “It’s extraordinary,” Chris says while his bodyguard scans the aisle. He must be satisfied that there aren’t any paparazzi nearby. “And I think we’ll do it justice in the film,” Chris adds.

  “That’s great to hear,” I say.

  With another heartfelt smile, he moves a hand to my elbow. “Permission to pat your elbow in thanks?”

  My god, he’s fucking adorable. “Absolutely.”

  He squeezes it, smiling. “Thank you, again. And I don’t want to keep you from your flower delivery.”

  “It’s no problem. I’m glad we met,” I say as Chris takes the sandwich from Natasha, thanking her as if she’s saved a kitten.

  As he turns to leave, I go the other way and hand my flowers to Salma, who’s wearing a summery scarf over her head. “No guard dog today?” she asks.

  “He’s outside.”

  “Ah, did you make sure to give him food and water?”

  I cover my mouth as if I made a horrible faux pas. “I knew there was something.”

  “Next time,” she says, then tips her forehead to the door. “Business is good today. The place is packed.”

  “With paparazzi?”

  “Probably some, but mostly tourists. Everyone wants a glimpse, and everyone wants some of my world-famous sandwiches.”

  “You do make the best sandwiches.” That gives me an idea. Banks and I do need to eat later. Maybe I’ll make a little picnic dinner in the cottage.

  I head to the deli, order some sandwiches for pickup tonight, and a few minutes later, I’m back in my truck with the bodyguard who’s worlds sexier to me than a movie star. Yet another reason someone should base the lead in a flick on this man.

  I toss him a pleased smile. “I pulled that off without any trouble from the paps.”

  “Yes, you did,” he says.

  Except…

  “I mean, we did,” I add as he pulls away from the curb and turns down a side street.

  When we’re safely away from the tourists downtown, he lifts a hand and slides a thumb down my jaw. “I’m still forgetting all about last night.”

  A shiver runs through me. “Me too. Want to forget about it over a picnic dinner?”

  His smile is smug, deservedly so. “You like me.”

  “Shut up.”

  He laughs. “You really like me.”

  “You’re just being mean now pointing that out.”

  “You really like me so fucking much.”

  “Oh my god, just play Beethoven instead,” I say.

  He hits the button on the console and blasts something with joyful piano and violins as he drives me home.

  That evening, I wash my face and scrub off my sunscreen after working on the farm all afternoon. Then, with my hair pushed back in a lavender—naturally—cotton headband, I settle onto the couch with Banks. As we’re forgetting all about last night thanks to the dinner I ordered which he picked up—a chicken sandwich for him and an artichoke and cheese for me—Haven calls.

  I lunge for it. Her tone’s an apology. “There’s a photo of you and Chris going viral.”

  “What?” I ask, sitting up straight on the couch. Hudson lifts his snout from where he’s lounging on the floor. “There weren’t photographers in the store.”

  But Banks drags a hand down his face, grumbling, “Everyone’s a photographer.”

  A minute later, I’m staring at a shot on some random person’s social media of New Chris and his “new woman.” Since the mock turtleneck with the short sleeves means that Haven doesn’t know about my allegedly amazing new skin care routine on my neck, but also that no one knows I’m not my sister. The sleeves hit at my elbow, and they hid all my birds.