I show him the outside of the science lab, then the auditorium, small in size but mighty in possibility. “That’s where Haven did her first musical. Beauty and the Beast.”

  He turns to me, brown eyes widening with questions. “Tell me. How did the Beast transform at the end?”

  I flinch. Rub my ear. “Wait…did you just⁠—”

  “Ask you how the beast became the prince,” he says quickly, making a rolling gesture with his hands, speed-it-up style. “Yes, I’ve been dying to know ever since I saw it.”

  “You saw Beauty and the Beast?”

  He gives me a look. “Does this surprise you? I listen to classical music. I bake. I have a sister.”

  “And she didn’t take you? You took her?” I ask, processing this new Banks detail.

  “For your information, the three of us all like musicals and theater. And yes, I took my mom and my sister. So…how did it happen?”

  My heart gallops. This man is so tough and so tender at the same time. I step closer, curl a hand around his ear, and lean close to whisper, “Magic.”

  He sighs heavily. “Ripley.”

  I pull back. “You really want to know?”

  “I do.”

  “Spoiler and all?”

  “Bring it on.”

  I lean in and lower my voice again. “Double cast.”

  When I step back, the look in his eyes is magic. Then, he shakes his head in disbelief. “Another actor must play him in the Gaston battle scene.”

  I tap his nose. “Exactly.”

  “I’m a fool,” he says, then smacks his forehead. “I can’t believe I missed something so obvious.”

  “Or maybe the magic worked,” I say.

  He flashes me a warm smile, holding my gaze meaningfully. “It did.”

  My heart speeds even faster, and I’m not sure we’re talking about stage magic anymore.

  Banks swings his gaze around and reaches for my hand, clasping our fingers together as we walk through the quad. As we’re leaving it, we pass a bench in the corner, set away from others. I stop, my chest squeezing with painful memories. Banks has opened up to me, so it’s fair I do the same. But it’s not just about fairness. There’s something else, something new—an insistent need to let him in. I haven’t felt like this before with a man, and I don’t know what to make of these new emotions. Still, I forge ahead into the unknown.

  “That’s why I don’t like having my picture taken,” I say, pointing toward the seat.

  He tilts his head. “The bench? What happened?”

  We sit, and I begin the story that I haven’t shared with any other man. “There was one day in our sophomore year, a few weeks after our parents died, when Haven was having a really rough time. It was after school, and she was crying.” I pat the wood of the bench, feeling like it was just yesterday. “We sat here, and I hugged her as she cried. A girl we both knew—Katrina, she’s a friend and she runs The Sweet Spot now—was working for the yearbook and was going around doing slice-of-life pics, and she snapped a bunch of pictures of students doing their thing at the end of the school day. I don’t think she fully realized what was going on till the next day in yearbook class.”

  Heavy-hearted, I remember that photo. A portrait of grief. My baby sister sobbing in my arms. Me, holding her tight. Us, clinging to each other as our life capsized.

  I push past the hurt and finish the story that the town knows, my friends know, my grandma knows. But I haven’t told anyone else. I’ve never shared this with a soul who wasn’t there at the time. “But the pictures were up on the computer and that one was there. As soon as she realized it, she deleted it. But people had seen it. Even so, she and the teacher and the other students all said, We shouldn’t run that one. They were so lovely. They knew it was private. They knew Katrina hadn’t meant to take it. And she felt terrible, but in the end, she’d actually protected us.” My eyes well with tears.

  “Sweetheart,” Banks, says softly, then tugs me close, wraps his arms around me, and shields me. No one’s here. No one can see us, and yet he knows without me saying it that I don’t want anyone to see me cry.

  I nestle against his chest as a few rebel tears stream down my cheeks till I wipe them away. I feel lighter. I feel like I let go of something I was holding on to for too long. Something that maybe has held me back.

  Deep breath. Then I pull back. He runs a hand down my hair. “I get it. I do.”

  “Why I don’t love having my picture taken without knowing it’s happening?” I ask in a broken voice.

  “Yes, but also, why you love it here. You all look out for each other.”

  “We do,” I say.

  I set my head on his shoulder. We sit quietly for a while, and it’s nice not to say a word but still feel so connected.

  Later, we visit The Sweet Spot, and I buy banana bread from Katrina, who’s dolled up again today. As she hands me the bread, her smile grows bigger with hope. “Would you take some cookies to Chris?”

  “I’m not sure I’ll see him,” I admit.

  “Or maybe the whole crew,” she says, then reaches under the counter and thrusts a white box of a dozen cookies at me.

  Banks takes it before I can, saying a heartfelt, “Thank you.”

  I don’t think he’s thanking her for the baked goods.

  We leave the shop and continue our ride. When we reach Prohibition Spirit, I stop and point it out to Banks. “I love that place. I go there with Chloe and Bridget, and Haven when she’s in town. That’s the place that my ex wants,” I say, nodding to the expanded section with the for-lease sign in the window. “For a restaurant.”

  Banks growls. “He won’t get it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’ll stop him,” he says.

  I’m not sure he can, but I love that he wants to. His possessiveness makes my chest flip. “How would you do that?” I ask.

  It feels a little like foreplay, this question.

  His eyes travel up and down me, heating me up. “However I need to do it, Ripley.”

  I can’t stop playing this game. “Why?”

  “Don’t want him near you. At all.”

  I nibble the corner of my lips. “Then I hope you stop him.”

  “Me fucking too,” he says, and I blink off the fog of lust as I push my sneakered feet on the pedals, riding again.

  Once we’re past Prohibition Spirit, Banks says into the faint breeze blowing past us, “I like that place, but I like Mister Fox too.”

  “You’ve been there?”

  “A couple of times. That’s where I met Monroe last year.”

  “You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “I was there the other night, debating what to do about you.”

  At the stop sign, I give him a coy look. “And what did you decide?”

  “That you’re impossible to resist.”

  I smile. “That bar is the best place for decisions.”

  When we stop at the hardware store, Banks brings in the box of baked goods for the crew but makes sure Chris gets a cookie when there’s a break in action. “It’s from The Sweet Spot,” he says. “Katrina is a big fan of yours and wanted you to have one.”

  The movie star pumps Banks’s hand, giving him a heartfelt thank you, then takes a cookie. I figure he’ll set it aside or give it away since he’s probably on a kale-and-boiled-chicken-only diet. Instead, he takes a bite and then moans. When he’s done chewing, he asks, “Where did you say these are from?”

  “The Sweet Spot,” Banks answers, and Chris looks like he’s filing that data in a very special drawer in his head.

  Later that night, Banks tells me again I’m impossible to resist as he lies down on the bed.

  “Is that so?” I ask from across the room.

  “Yep.” He pats the mattress. “Get over here.”

  “So bossy.”

  “And you like it.”

  “I do,” I say, joining him.

  He sits up and strips me in seconds, then tugs off his own shirt in one smooth, sexy motion. “Want you to ride me, sweetheart. Want to watch you bouncing up and down on my dick.”

  Well then. “I believe that can be arranged.” I undo his shorts, find a condom, and cover him.

  As midnight settles over Lavender Bliss Farms, I lower myself onto him, gasping and sighing as he fills me up, arching into the sensations racing through me—the pressure, the sparks, the heat. There are no DIY toys this time. No headbands. No flowers. Nor any hands holding my wrists. This time I press my palms to his chest, bracing myself on him as I set the pace. He grips my hips, and we move together, unbound.

  Me over him.

  Him under me.

  Giving and taking. Till we’re both chasing the edge, then falling off it together.

  Funny how a week ago he was arriving in town, and I was trying to ditch him. Now I’m trying to soak up as much time as I can get before he leaves.

  Since he will.

  The shoot the next day is here on the farm. I’m showered and dressed and making coffee in the farmhouse kitchen when an image of last night flashes vividly through my mind.

  I shiver just as Tabitha walks into the kitchen. I straighten, shaking off the lingering lust. “Good morning. Want some coffee?”

  “I’m going to need it. Haven’s in makeup right now, but I just got a call that her stand-in is sick. Any chance you could help us out for an hour?”

  Well, I guess you can’t get a better stand-in than a twin sister.

  34

  SO VERY META

  RIPLEY

  I don’t know what to do with my face.

  I stand on a stone pathway edged by Hidcote plants, wearing a wide-brimmed hat like the heroine in Someone Else’s Ring wears in this scene. Sam and some of the other guys are holding up light meters and diffusers as they check the lighting. Meanwhile, I’m smiling like my cheeks are held up by clothespins.

  “Whoa. Are you in the pic now, boss?”

  Cyrus walks among the bushes, heading my way, shielding his eyes from the morning sun, his floppy hair falling on his hand.

  “No. God no,” I say. Do my words sound as awkward as my body looks?

  “You sure? Because it looks like you’re doing a movie.” His tone is playful.

  “I am not in the movie,” I say crisply.

  Sam looks at Cyrus with surprised curiosity. “How did you know it was her and not Haven?”

  Cyrus frowns at the AD like are you really asking the question. “Dude.”

  “I mean it, mate,” says Sam. “You can’t see her tats from where you are.”

  Cyrus chuckles. “I mean, it’s not hard. She looks like the one in awkward family photos who doesn’t know how to pose.”

  I seethe at my employee. “Cyrus, you want to keep your job, I presume?”

  He laughs harder. “You like me too much to fire me, Rips. I make you laugh,” he says, but then turns serious. “Also, idea. It just came to me. I’m going to need your autograph now, ’kay? Damien can make a screen print of it and put it on a T-shirt. He’s gonna start making a new line of tees. Darling Springs—the Canada of California shirts.”

  I blink. “Really?”

  “No lie. Because a lot of films are shot in Canada,” he says helpfully, but I knew that.

  “Right. That’s just very, very meta.”

  Cyrus shrugs, smiling. “That’s us. My dude and I are very meta. Anyway, you game for it?”

  “Maybe.” I can’t focus on potential T-shirt fame while I’m sweating. Is it the lights making me hot? The sun? The attention? How does Haven handle this? The spotlight is too much. I want to hide in the lavender maze.

  I stand like a newborn foal for another few minutes as they check settings on meters and cameras and Banks watches from a distance. When Tabitha heads down the pathway to the cluster of crew members, I jump on the chance of freedom. “Is Haven’s stand-in coming back tomorrow?”

  “Let’s hope it’s only a twenty-four-hour stomach bug,” she says.

  Uh-oh. That’s not good. I steal a glance at the edge of the Hidcote where Banks is watching the scene with some amusement.

  But mostly intensity. He keeps turning his focus back to the gates of the farm. Several of his security guys are working. A couple of trailers are set up by the white picket fence—including Chris’s, though he’s in makeup too. The street is closed today for the shoot, so there aren’t any photographers here. At least, none I can see.

  This also means my shop is closed to the public for the next little while when they shoot scenes at the farm, but I’ve still got deliveries going out, and Cyrus and Ramona have plenty to do around the farm. I just have to hope that online interest continues to grow thanks to the buzz from the film.

  My gaze lands on Banks again. His arms are crossed. He’s wearing aviator shades. His black polo is nice and snug against his chest and abs. Bodyguard couture is seriously hot. Good thing he’s twenty feet away. This way, I can ogle him, but the distance makes keeping this secret thing between us pretty easy.

  “Almost done,” Sam says reassuringly as he adjusts another setting on a camera.

  “Happy to help,” I say, though what I mean is thank god.

  “You’re a trouper,” he says, laid-back and chill until Vega, the director, strides over a few seconds later, her phone pressed to her ear.

  “Tell me something. Why on god’s great green earth would Carlisle’s stand-in have the stomach bug too?” A pause as she holds up a stop-sign hand. “Wait. I don’t even want to know. We’ll find someone else.”

  Vega ends the call and scans the group, presumably hunting for a suitable stand-in. She moves past Sam, then Arjun, the guy from New Jersey with the undercut, then a gaffer who’s on the short side. She spins in slo-mo, finally finding Banks at the outskirts of the fields.

  She cups her hands around her mouth. “You. You’re tall,” she says. “You’re big. You look like you work out too. Can you be our stand-in for five minutes?”

  He clears his throat. “I’m security, ma’am.”

  She gestures wildly to the gates. “And your team is doing a great job, including Wanda,” she says, since Haven’s bodyguard is patrolling the grounds today as well.

  With a reluctant sigh, Banks walks over to me.

  So much for keeping our distance in public. My too-sexy bodyguard is standing inches from me. Close enough that the aftershave he wears, soapy and woodsy, is going to my head.

  “Next to her. Put an arm around her,” Vega says, taking my focus from the scent.

  Nope. That’s a lie. That scent is going to my panties. So much for not touching. Or letting on. Since the second his arm slides around my waist, I’m trembling. I swear, I need to stop being Silly Putty in his hands.

  “Closer,” she says. “This is a kissing scene.”

  I blink. “W-what?”

  Vega must realize she sounds pushy since she changes her tune. “Don’t worry. You don’t have to kiss. We don’t make stand-ins kiss.”

  That’s not even the issue, but I can’t think about issues when Banks curls his fingers around my waist like he’s claiming me. My skin heats up. My shoulders rise and fall. I’m dying here as the man I’m pretending I’m not having a secret, stolen romance with isn’t turning me on in front of a whole camera crew.

  As they hustle around the lawn, Banks’s fingers tease at my waist.

  “You’re impossible,” I mutter out of the side of my mouth, but it’s more like a murmur.

  “Did you say irresistible?”

  “Now just turn toward each other,” Vega says.

  I gulp.

  We shift, and those dark-chocolate eyes hold my gaze as he tosses a casual question the director’s way. “Like I’m going to kiss her, right?”

  “Yes, exactly,” she says as Banks leans the slightest bit closer, earning some praise. “You’re a natural. You really look like you’re about to kiss her.”

  The corner of his lip twitches. “Guess I’m a good actor.”

  It’s said to her, but he’s looking at me with such passion we know he’s not taking home the statuette tonight. And we shouldn’t be doing this—we are playing with fire—but not being with him while pressing so tightly against him feels impossible.

  “Now, can you wrap your arms around his neck?” Vega asks in her good cop voice.

  I comply, my hands circling Banks, my fingers brushing against the ends of his hair. A whimper falls from my lips as I touch the man I want. It’s like the rest of the crew disappears, and it’s us in the lavender fields, escaping for a stolen kiss—since I’m rising on my tiptoes and brushing my lips to his.

  When I let go, everyone’s clapping. “That was perfect,” Vega says, with a quick clap. “You went the distance, and I’m so appreciative. We have what we need.”

  They let us go, and I hastily excuse myself, beelining for the cottage, away from everyone.

  I shut the door and move to the wall next to it. I try to catch my breath, waving a hand in front of me to cool off. A minute later, Banks is here, opening the door. He doesn’t say a word—just hauls me against him and devours my lips.

  It’s a wild, frantic kiss that will lead to one place only.

  Before I know it, I’m up against the wall, shorts off, panties gone. After he grabs a condom, Banks is thrusting into me, fucking me hard and mercilessly, just the way I like it with him.

  I’m panting and moaning, my noises growing louder with each pump of his hips.

  “Banks,” I murmur.

  “Quiet, sweetheart. Don’t want everyone to know you’re fucking the stand-in.”

  “No. The stand-in is fucking me,” I correct.

  “Damn right he is,” Banks says, then covers my mouth with his big hand. “Quiet.”

  My eyes widen as I nod, urging him to clamp his hand tighter.

  He holds my hip tight, too, his fingers leaving marks as he drives into me until I lose my mind, falling apart in his arms. A few seconds later, he follows me there with a bitten-off groan.

  We slump against the wall, sweaty and panting.