She sets a hand on my chest. “You’re all good, Banks. And don’t worry. I don’t want to let on about this thing either. To Tabitha. The crew. Everyone. I don’t want to become a distraction for anyone. I want the film to go smoothly. The town is benefiting from the tourism. We’re going to benefit at the farm. A lot is riding on this.”

  And everyone includes someone in particular. “And everyone includes Haven, I’m guessing?”

  With a wince, she nods. “I don’t like to keep secrets from her, but I don’t want her to be distracted. She worries about me already. But I only want her to focus on the job.”

  Pretty sure it’s the other way around—Ripley worries about Haven. But it’s not my place to point that out. “I understand.”

  “She worked so hard for this her whole life,” she says, her voice tightening as she shifts closer to me. “I think acting was what got her through the death of our parents.”

  My heart squeezes again. “I completely get it.” I run my knuckles down her cheek. “But I bet you got her through it too, Ripley,” I say gently.

  She shrugs, maybe not wanting to take credit for it.

  “You said you helped her through the dark days. I think it was you, not just acting.”

  She blows out a breath. “Maybe. But the point is—I want this for her. I want her to have her dreams. I want Grandma to have her dreams.”

  Impulsively, I say, “What about your dreams?”

  She blinks, surprised. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, what are yours? Is it this farm?”

  She smiles. “It’s home. I love it. I want it to be the best it can be. I want families to come here and have picnics, to play in the lavender maze, or couples to go on dates here since I finally set up fairy lights at night.”

  “That sounds very romantic.”

  “It is. I just want others to enjoy it too. To fill their homes with flowers, to open a bottle of lotion, or oil, or soap, and inhale it and feel…calm and happy.”

  “You’re doing that, Ripley,” I say.

  “Some more attention from the film would be nice. More tourists, more business—you know what I mean?”

  I nod. “I do.”

  “That’s why I said it—we should keep this on the down-low.”

  I reach for her, press a kiss to her nose. “I like secrets. You’re the best kind of secret there is.”

  She sighs happily, flips to her side, then closes her eyes.

  I don’t fall asleep as fast as she does.

  My mind is racing forward, thinking about tomorrow, and the next day, and the next week.

  When this ends.

  33

  THEATER MAGIC

  RIPLEY

  The picture racks up views overnight, but I do my best to ignore it, and honestly, it’s not that hard.

  Since, well, it’s not really me people are seeing in the picture. Besides, it’s not the only picture circulating of “Haven and Chris.” The film’s PR team releases actual pics of the stars too. Posed ones, outside a trailer, with the caption First day on set for Someone Else’s Ring!

  That’s a relief, to see a strategy from the producers. I’m grateful they aren’t letting the paparazzi and random fans dictate the story; they’re telling one as well—the story of the movie.

  I’d like to ignore Eric Patrick’s new message, too, since one lands in the morning as I’m downing my coffee in the kitchen while Banks is busy on his phone. I read the message again, though, because I can’t really believe my ex is sending this: I’m thinking the space at Prohibition Spirit would be perf for my new fusion café. What do you think? Can you picture it?

  I can hear Haven’s voice saying don’t feed a troll. But sometimes I don’t do the right thing. I fire off a quick reply. Nope.

  I must be making a sour face, though, because as I pocket my phone and set the mug in the sink, Banks gives me a curious look. “Everything okay?”

  “Just my ex,” I say, my tone making my feelings about him clear.

  In a nanosecond, Banks goes from relaxed to ready to rumble. “What does he want?”

  “Pretty sure he’s trying to get me to put in a good word so he can lease the restaurant that Esmeralda is leasing at Prohibition Spirit.”

  He nods, eyes saying go on. I give Banks the brief overview of that failed romance. “And then he left for New York because Darling Springs just wasn’t his scene.”

  “Hypocrite.” It’s said with acid.

  “Seems that way.”

  “He’s insulting you too. And then buttering you up. Like he thinks you can’t figure out why he’s texting,” Banks bites out.

  Hmm. He has a good point there. “But then again, if he asked directly, it’s not like I’d help.”

  “Good,” Banks says, glancing around the empty kitchen before he steps closer. “You deserve someone who appreciates every single thing about you and the place you love.”

  My heart spins a little faster. Like it did when someone walked my dog again this morning. Then, my brain blurs into a hazy shade of summer as Banks loops an arm around my waist and drops a long, slow, passionate kiss to my lips.

  When he breaks it, my head’s still a little dizzy, so I blame the endorphins for the next thing I say: “Tell me you’re possessive without telling me you’re possessive.”

  He smirks. “I believe I just did.”

  We take off for Haven’s hotel, so I can hang out with her in her room as she gets ready for her afternoon shoot.

  “I’m so sorry,” Haven says as she’s putting lotion on her bare legs. “I know you don’t like your pic being taken.”

  I wave a hand as I sit on the bed. “It’s fine.”

  Really it is. The picture’s been taken. It’s out there. But one thing nags at me. “You really don’t mind that people are this obsessed with you?”

  “It’s not me. It’s all about Chris,” she says, deflecting.

  But that’s not entirely true. “Haven. You’re not a nobody. The Dating Games did pretty well. Do I need to remind you?”

  She smiles kindly, and I flash back to the night I met Banks at the San Francisco hotel, when that rando guy who looked like a douchey boss in a Christmas rom-com hit on me. He couldn’t quite place her at the time, but he was getting close to her name. That was one of the first times I was confused for her, but I bet it’ll happen more for me soon, and a million times more for her. Which means…the attention’s not at all only about New Chris. It’s about Haven too. “Remember that night in San Francisco when you found out about the film and had to leave early?”

  “Of course,” she says as she caps the lotion and sets it down.

  “I went to the bar to have a drink and to try to plan everything I’d need to do. To write a to-do list.”

  “That’s very you,” she says as she twists her hair up into a knot.

  “It is. Anyway, some guy hit on me then. He had this very slick look to him, like he expected women to fall at his feet. Anyway, he said something like Haven’t I seen you in a movie? But he couldn’t figure out what,” I say, then shudder. “He was so sleazy. And that’s only happened to me once. It’s going to happen to you a lot,” I say. It’s a whole new world she’s stepping into with this movie. I worry about her.

  “I try not to think about it. And just focus on the work,” she says.

  “Right. But you never know what might happen. I mean, that guy at the bar was a creep, but what if I’d run into him in a parking lot? What if you run into a guy like that?”

  “Hello! I was raised by Grandma too. I can throw a punch.”

  “Me too,” I say, but it’s a little scary to think about—what her life might be like. “Maybe you’ll need more security when you get back to LA. I could talk to Banks about that for you.”

  “Maybe. That’s not a bad idea.”

  I’m glad she’s open to it, but it’s not just the security issue. It’s the fame issue. “People are going to be obsessed with you.”

  She comes over to me, takes my hands. “Which is why I’m so glad I have you and Grandma and our friends from here. Chloe and Bridget. Because at the end of the day, I’m just me. I’m just a girl from Darling Springs.”

  “You sound pretty grounded about it.”

  “Well, you did make sure I saw a therapist way back when. Years of therapy since then have helped,” she says as she pulls on a tank top over her sports bra. She’ll change into costume on set, she said. They’re shooting outside The Slippery Dipper today.

  “Yay, therapy,” I say, upbeat and meaning it, because I’ve gone too. But something else, besides security and fame, keeps sticking in my brain. “For a while I thought maybe you were seeing New Chris.”

  Her brow pinches. “And keeping it from you?” She sounds aghast at the suggestion she’d do that.

  I shrug, a little embarrassed. “I believed you when you told me you weren’t involved with him, but I did wonder if you were just keeping it close to the vest.”

  “I would tell you.”

  “I know,” I say, chagrined. “But now that I’ve met him, I can see why you’re not dating him.”

  She jerks her gaze back. “What do you mean?”

  “He’s not really your type,” I say, trying to come up with the words to describe the movie star. “He’s very…intense. He’s all about eye contact and listening and gratitude.”

  “Are you saying I don’t like nice guys who are grateful, or that I’m not?” she asks, but not meanly. Just curiously.

  “Nah. He’s nice, but almost unreal.”

  She nods as she grabs a hair tie from the bureau. “I hear you.”

  “He seems very…actorly. Nice actorly, but actorly nonetheless.”

  As she loops her hair into a bun, she asks with some concern, “Am I like that?”

  I flash back to the way she squealed yesterday when I met her on set. “I don’t think so. I hope you keep that genuine enthusiasm for work. I hope it never gets old for you. I hope it’s always magical.”

  “Me too. But I think it will be, Ripley. I do. I love acting in the way you love the farm.”

  My heart floods with a burst of happiness. “I do love the farm.”

  “And I want everyone to come to it after the movie,” she says.

  “Me too.”

  She flops next to me. “Ripley,” she whispers in a confessional tone, shifting gears.

  “Yes?”

  She reaches into her canvas bag on the bed and fishes out a lavender envelope, a nervous smile spreading on her face as she hands it to me. “Can you take this to William today? At the bookstore?”

  I sit up straight as I take it. “Are you and William together?”

  She brings her finger to her lips but doesn’t hide the smile that seems to take over her soul. “We’re…seeing each other.”

  I’m giddy with excitement. “You and the bookstore owner?”

  “Yes,” she says, drawing a deep, hopeful breath, but then shaking off her excitement. “But it’s new. It’s early. We’ve mostly written letters and talked on the phone while I was in LA. We’ve only been able to have a couple secret dates while I’ve been in town.”

  I punch the air. “Knew it. Called it.”

  She sets her head on my shoulder, sighing happily. “You did. You always know. And I know you’re hot for your bodyguard.”

  I tense. Should I tell her the truth? That we’re involved? But I promised Banks I’d keep us a secret. Then again, she didn’t ask if I was involved with him. Only if I was into him. It’s not truly a denial then when I say, “Yes, but it could never go anywhere,” then hop up and check the time. “I need to go. I have a to-do list ten miles long.”

  As I leave, the guilt intensifies. My sister’s sharing her heart with me, but I’m lying to her by omission.

  Still, it’s for the best. My job is to protect her. It always has been.

  I find Banks in the lobby, and we head over to A Likely Story. William’s chatting with a customer in the celebrity memoirs section. “From the second she tells the story of her early life, it’s utterly unputdownable,” he says to the man in his soft Irish lilt.

  “Then I’d better get it.”

  “Excellent,” he says, and after William rings up the customer, he meets my gaze, his brown eyes hopeful. “Hello, Ripley. What brings you to A Likely Story?”

  Like he doesn’t know. I do my best to rein in a grin as I say, “Just a little epistolary delivery.”

  His eyes twinkle more. “You don’t say?”

  “I do say,” I add, then thrust the letter at him. He grabs it, clutching it like a precious thing.

  Having finished that task, I’m about to leave when I glance around, then lean closer. “You’d better be good to my sister,” I whisper-hiss.

  Banks flinches.

  William holds up his hands in surrender. “That’s all I want to be.”

  “Good,” I say, then drop the mama bear act. For now.

  I wave goodbye, and once we leave, Banks whistles low and approvingly. “You’re fierce.”

  I square my shoulders. “I know.”

  “And if it’s any consolation, he seems quite taken with her.”

  “He’d better be.”

  “Remind me never to cross you two.”

  “Don’t ever cross us,” I say with a smile as we walk along the block to my truck.

  “Where to next?” Banks asks as we pass the tattoo shop.

  “You said you never went back to Lucky Falls.”

  He tenses. “Right. But I don’t want to go there.”

  “I get that, but Darling Springs is cool. Can I show you around my town?” My voice pitches up.

  His shoulders relax, then his eyes twinkle. “You’ve shown me a lot of it. Did you forget our yoga and nail salon escapades?”

  “The local coffee shop too,” I add.

  “And the fuel at Pick Me Up is top-notch.”

  “But there’s more to Darling Springs,” I say, stopping on the sidewalk. “Want to see it?” I feel like I’m on the edge of my seat waiting for an answer, even though he hardly makes me wait.

  “I do.” He leans forward on his boots, like he’s coming in for a kiss. But he stops short, smirking instead. “Can you show me where you Saran Wrapped Scott Nelson’s truck back in twelfth grade?”

  My mouth falls open. “You jackass.”

  The smirk spreads. “So that’s a yes?”

  “A yes to showing you where Bridget did it,” I say.

  “After you,” he says, and gestures toward the truck several feet away.

  As we resume walking, I’m so tempted to reach for his hand. Maybe he senses it. Or maybe this is just part of the perks of having a secret romance with a bodyguard, but when he puts his palm on the small of my back, he presses harder, spreads his fingers wider, runs his fingertips across my shirt.

  It’s like a private gesture in public, and I don’t mind at all showing him the site of the Saran Wrapping.

  We drive to the beach nearby, the scene of the so-called crime. We hop out of the truck, and I take him to the edge of the dunes, where Scott parked his vehicle one fine day.

  “Tomorrow, can you show me where you removed the door from the science lab?”

  I roll my eyes. “Chloe did it.”

  “Right, right.” He sketches air quotes. “Where Chloe removed it.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  But we both know I’m showing him my high school.

  Clearly, I’ll have to revise my earlier statement that hardly anyone gets up earlier than a farmer to include bodyguards. Mine is killing it in the up-at-the-crack-of-dawn department. The next morning as the sun peeks above the horizon, I wake to a walked and fed dog, and a fresh vase of flowers on the table. Melissa, of course. My heart clatters happily.

  But there’s no bodyguard. “Where did Banks go?” I ask Hudson.

  My boy just tilts his snout in question. If a dog could shrug, this guy does. “But you know all his secrets,” I say, trying to goad the pup.

  He settles his snout back onto the rug with a sigh. I scratch his head. “Fine, fine. You are my favorite person.”

  He leans into the petting, and as I give him all the scratches and love he deserves, my gaze strays to the deck, then beyond. Is Banks jumping rope?

  I stand and head to the glass. He’s outside, on the path, working out. He has earbuds in, and after a few minutes of jumping, he drops down to a plank then executes more push-ups than I can count.

  When he comes back into the cottage—a fine sheen of sweat on his brow, his arms, his chest—I postpone the start of my farm chores and show him just how much I appreciate his workout.

  After, we’re both sweaty and tangled together in bed. “Thanks for walking my dog,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “And for feeding him.”

  “Well, he is your favorite person.”

  “He is. And for the fresh-cut flowers,” I add.

  “That was easy, seeing as we’re on a flower farm.”

  I swat his chest. “Don’t make a gift seem like it was nothing. It’s perfect for me.”

  He turns to me, runs a finger gently down my nose. “You like your dog, and you like lavender.”

  That wasn’t hard to figure out, but no one else has done a thing about those two very obvious facts.

  Until him.

  As the crew shoots at the hardware store that day, between my deliveries, we steal away on our bikes to Sunflower Ridge High School, home of the Wildcats of Darling Springs. We cruise past a colorful array of bungalows with red, purple, and peach front doors till we reach the school at the end of a winding street. We rest our bikes against the bike rack, then wander around the grounds. It’s summer and the morning sessions must be finished, because we’re the only ones here.

  “Did you like high school?” Banks asks.

  “Does anyone like high school?” I counter.

  He taps his chin. “Fair point.”