Fifteen minutes later, I’m grabbing bouquets of flowers for my morning delivery. I like this stand-in life very much.

  35

  A GIRLFRIEND QUESTION

  RIPLEY

  It’s working. The number of inquiries about having picnics is up. Sales at the online store of lavender pillows, lotions, oils, and soap are slowly rising. Plus, the Darling Springs mayor herself reached out to see if the town could promote tours of the lavender farm and its maze on its site. Yes, please!

  All thanks to the advance buzz from the shoot. Several days later, on Wednesday morning, I mention all this to Grandma as we make breakfast for the crew early in the day. “I’ll be able to send you to Paris in no time,” I tell her.

  “I love that you even think about that. But you really shouldn’t worry about me. I can probably find a way to do it on my own.”

  I meet her gaze straight on, brooking no argument. “I want to. You did so much for us.”

  “And I wouldn’t have had it any other way.”

  “Which is why I want to do this,” I say.

  “So stubborn. Just like your mother.”

  I smile. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” When I leave the kitchen to tend to farm tasks, she returns to her French app, practicing how to say I would like a baguette.

  “Now that’s useful,” I call from the door.

  The next day, as the crew shoots in the lavender fields again, I tell Banks about the upticks, too, as we visit customers, then stop at Josiah’s Hardware to pick up some items I need for the farm. “I guess I don’t mind all the photos after all. Even the ones of me. They seem to be helping us. So I can’t really complain,” I say, waving to Josiah at the counter and to his fickle orange cat.

  “Good to see you, Ripley,” he says.

  “How are the fish? Were they biting this weekend?” I ask.

  “Caught a couple trout. Grilled them to perfection,” he says, and I smile, remembering the times he did that with my dad when I was younger.

  “Bet they were delish,” I say, even though I don’t eat fish or meat. But I’m glad he enjoyed his meal.

  “They were. Henry would have loved them,” he says, and I smile.

  Then Banks and I turn down an aisle of gardening supplies.

  “I’m really happy to hear it’s all working out,” Banks says as we return to our earlier convo.

  “Thanks. Me too,” I say as I hunt for a new bulb planter. “I wouldn’t exactly say the farm was struggling before, but it wasn’t a money tree either.”

  His lips quirk up. “Can you grow those?”

  “I wish,” I say, laughing as I spot the planter I want. I grab it, then set it in the red basket Banks has been holding.

  “If you find the seeds, let me know. So far, it’s hard work and hustle.”

  “Yes. Yes, it is,” I say. “Back when my parents did this, I had no idea what went into running a farm, from the insurance to the equipment, to the management, to the employees.”

  “Did you ever want to do anything else?” he asks as we turn the corner, passing potting plants and soils.

  “Briefly, I toyed with being a florist. Which I still think would be fun. Maybe being a dog trainer. When I was in my rebellious era, I thought I’d work for some corporation in human resources, so I earned a business degree with an HR focus in college. Then, when I graduated and came back to the farm for the summer, I saw how hard Grandma was working. And I knew it was time to help.”

  Tilting his head, Banks seems to give that some thought. “Did you do it out of obligation then, or did you like it?”

  “Both,” I say, answering with total honesty. “I wanted to help because it seemed the right thing to do to carry on the farm, and then the more I got to know the inner workings of Lavender Bliss Farms, the more right it seemed for me. Like maybe this is where I was supposed to be all along.”

  “I get that. It’s nice when duty and love can be one and the same.”

  I never heard it put that way, but I couldn’t agree more. “Exactly. Besides, I like being the boss and building on what my parents started. And now, I can’t imagine doing anything else.”

  “And I have to say…human resources is very you.”

  I shrug, owning it. “You’re not wrong. What about you? What did you study? You went to college before you were in the Marines, right?”

  “I did. Studied psychology,” he says as we pass the lighting aisle.

  “That tracks.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “Because you clearly like to try to understand people.”

  He eyes me up and down, like he’s enjoying the view. Then he drops his voice to a low rasp. “Like you?”

  The mood shifts instantly from the heat behind his words. “Be careful with that whole seduction in the lighting aisle thing you’re doing,” I whisper.

  He arches a playful brow. “Or you’ll throw yourself at me against the lamps?”

  “Yes,” I say emphatically, still keeping my voice low. “So behave. Anyone could take a pic and say Haven’s banging her bodyguard.”

  He smiles, his dimple popping again, looking far too pleased.

  “What’s that smile for?”

  “What can I say? I like that you’re banging your bodyguard.”

  Butterflies. A stupid flock of them takes flight inside me. I shift gears so I don’t look all hearts-and-fluttery in the store in case I run into anyone. “Anyway, I’m glad business is increasing.”

  Banks rolls with the change-up. “Can you imagine what it’ll be like when the movie’s out?”

  I’m a little giddy thinking about it. “I hope the film is great. But what about you?” The second I ask, I remember my conversation with Haven in her hotel room. “And speaking of, do you think Haven will need security when she returns to Los Angeles?”

  My cautious and protective bodyguard tilts his head, clearly giving it some thought. “It’s not a bad idea. Will she need round-the-clock? Probably not. But it’d be good for her to do a security checkup at her home. Her car. And online too. She might need a close protection officer from time to time, and even more so when she gets her Oscar.”

  I smile. “I’ll make sure she hires you.”

  “You’d better.”

  “Do you think this gig will help you grow your business? Land new contracts?”

  There’s a part of me that keeps wondering, too, what happens when the job ends in another week. We haven’t had that conversation. We haven’t even tiptoed around it. Maybe because we made the boundaries so clear from the start that this is a temporary fling. A secret romance on the job.

  Ergo—when the job ends, he says goodbye and returns to LA, and I stay here. A wave of sadness wallops me, but I try to swim out of it as he answers me with, “Tabitha has made some referrals in the entertainment business. I’m supposed to chat with Dean soon—he’s my partner—about a couple leads.”

  I’m about to ask what sort of leads when his gaze lands squarely on the shelves we’re passing. It’s the cleaning section, full of mops, brooms, and…feather dusters. I stop abruptly, eyeing a purple one with a promise on its packaging—synthetic feathers soft enough to dust the most delicate glass and porcelain! We dare you to feel anything softer!

  Banks’s lips twitch. “Should we take that dare?”

  “For all the delicate glass and porcelain you’ve been dying to clean in the farmhouse?”

  “Yes, Ripley. For that,” he deadpans.

  I reach out and touch the feathers. They’re silky. “Mmm. Very soft.”

  He steps closer, scans the aisle, then runs his fingertips down the front of my shirt, over my belly.

  My breath catches. “Are you competing with a synthetic feather duster?”

  He shakes his head. “Just thinking of all the other DIY sex toys this great, wide world has to offer.”

  But before I can say me too, the skitter of paws snags my attention. Josiah’s orange cat scurries past us, chasing something unseen, then skidding at the end of the aisle.

  A second later, Josiah calls out, “Sheldon! C’mere kitty, kitty.” Josiah rounds the corner of an aisle, shrugging an apology for…cats. “He’s in a mood today, Ripley. But can I help you with anything?”

  He flashes a warm smile at me, then at Banks.

  It takes me a second to reorient, and when I do, I just smile and shake my head. “I’m all good.”

  We leave the aisle immediately. The last thing I need is the whole town knowing this man can turn me on by talking about cleaning supplies.

  Well, I sure like not having to do it myself.

  Once we’re back in the truck, Banks’s phone rings. He checks the screen, then answers it. “Banks here.”

  There’s a pause, and I can vaguely hear a masculine voice on the other line, then Banks says, “Excellent. Any idea when they want to schedule it for?”

  Another pause, then he hums appreciatively. “Damn, that’s soon.”

  This call sounds promising, especially when he adds, “Let’s set it up. Nice work.”

  Another pause.

  “We did it together. Like a team.” A few more seconds. “Excellent. Talk soon.”

  When the call ends, I’m raring to ask, “What was that about?” But I swallow the words. That’s a girlfriend question. We’re not there. We’re not headed there.

  I fiddle with the seat belt, like that’s what I meant to be doing all along. Banks clears his throat. “That was Dean.”

  “Oh?” I try to act nonchalant, though I’m dying to know about the call.

  His brown eyes flicker with a familiar emotion—professional excitement. “Tabitha made an intro, and we have a meeting with Webflix.”

  “You do?” I ask cautiously. I don’t want to read anything into what this meeting might mean for us. Even though I really do. Webflix is based in San Francisco, but I don’t say that. The prospect is too thrilling to voice.

  “They shoot a bunch of their shows in San Francisco. They need cybersecurity and set security,” Banks says evenly.

  “That’s fantastic. See? This movie is leading to connections for you too,” I say, trying to focus purely on the professional side of this news. Then, so it’s clear I get where he’s coming from, and I support him, I add, a little jokingly, “I promise I won’t distract you anymore during the shoot.”

  But he doesn’t take the bait. He peers out the driver’s side window, then cranes his neck to check the lot behind us. Seeming satisfied, he sets a hand on my thigh. “This might sound crazy, but…”

  My heart explodes into a gallop. It’s racing like a horse. “Yes?”

  “Well, San Francisco’s pretty close,” he says, and his smile is hopeful.

  “It is. You might be working there?”

  “Yeah,” he says, squeezing my thigh, his voice pitching up. “What do you think of that, Ripley?”

  I think my chest is tingling. I think my cells are dancing. “I think San Francisco has some nice cafés, and restaurants, and nail salons, and yoga places.”

  He leans a little closer, almost like he’s going to kiss me. “Someday, I’ll be able to finish that thought in public.”

  Maybe someday soon.

  36

  TOP SECRET

  RIPLEY

  A few days later, as I’m working on the back deck and reviewing orders from plant shops in the area that carry our flowers, a voice whispers, “Psst.”

  It’s Haven, and I set the laptop down and head to the railing. She’s been shooting here all day at the farm, and there’s clearly a break right now. Most of the crew is near the rows of Impress Purple and the white bench at the top of the path. New Chris and Haven have been talking on the bench in an important scene since all Very Important Conversations are had on benches.

  “What’s going on?”

  She glances around the vast lawn, checking for eavesdroppers before she mutters, “Check your texts.”

  This is top-secret level. I spin around and grab my phone from the chair, clicking open her message sent five minutes ago.

  Haven: Remember when we played that game with Linc Turner?

  With curious eyes, I look up at my troublemaking sister, sensing where she’s going. Her eager smile gives her away. I tap out a fast reply.

  Ripley: You mean the one where I broke up with him for you because the asshole was a cheater?

  The second her phone pings, she nods excitedly. “Yes.”

  I growl. “Who hurt you and where is he?”

  Shaking her head, she replies at the speed of light.

  Haven: The opposite! Is there any chance you could, you know, leave my hotel in a sort of noticeable way tonight? So any photogs or fans will think I’ve left?

  My jaw comes unhinged, and I mouth, “You naughty minx.”

  If a shrug could say yes, I am, hers does. Without wasting a second, I write back.

  Ripley: Does this mean you want to have a date with William at your hotel or out of your hotel?

  Haven: Both, hopefully! We want to go to Duck Falls and do a bookstore blind date—it’s where you go to a bookshop and pick a book you think the other person will like. Then have dinner someplace kind of quiet and out of the way. He sent me flowers this morning to ask me if I wanted to go on a date with him.

  That sounds fantastic. I smile so big as I meet her gaze, not even waiting to text back, instead asking quietly, “Are you going to go public?”

  “It’s so early,” she says, a nervous smile twisting her lips. “But would it make it easier for you if I did?”

  My brow pinches. “What? No! What do you mean?”

  “Do you want me to go public so people know I’m not with Chris? Maybe then you won’t have to deal with all the trouble of having a bodyguard.”

  I blanch for so many reasons. First, she and William have only gone on a few actual dates. I don’t want to pressure her to go public to make my little life easier. Plus, what if she and William don’t last long? Then she’s having to acknowledge a breakup in the public eye. Best they be solid before she does announce a relationship status. Besides, the shoot’s over soon, and even if she soft-launched her romance tonight, I’d probably still need a bodyguard for the rest of the shoot given how Haven’s star has risen quickly over the last year. I also really, really like having a bodyguard, it turns out.

  I grab her wrist and squeeze it. “Nope. What I want, though, are all the details of your date with the hot Irish bookstore owner.”

  “And you’ll get them,” she says.

  Then Tabitha calls out, “Haven Addison.”

  My sister rushes back to the set, waving to me as she goes.

  That night, we prep for the full switcheroo, enlisting our bodyguards in it too, so we can sell the ruse to any photographers hanging around outside The BookHouse. Banks is off tonight, so one of his backups is covering me, a sturdy guy named Marcus who Banks knows from the Marines too.

  “This might be all for nothing,” Haven says as we settle onto her bed to polish my nails. “Sometimes the press is here at the hotel. Sometimes random tourists are, and they take pics of me.”

  “It’s definitely not for nothing. Did you see those set pics the other day?” The film’s PR department released more photos from the shoot.

  “I did. It’s so surreal,” Haven says, then shifts again to the matter at hand. “You really don’t mind?”

  I scoff. “Not only do I not mind, I insist. Because you’re never too old to play twin tricks.”

  “Truth,” she says.

  “And besides, Addison girls don’t cut corners.”

  “We go all out.”

  I paint my nails the same light-pink shade as hers, then grab one of her hoodies. But even as we’re having a blast, a kernel of guilt wedges into my chest, like a stone in a shoe. Haven’s been open with me about her budding romance. Surely I could do the same about mine. We protect each other. We don’t reveal each other’s secrets.

  On the hotel bed, as I flap my hands around to dry the polish, I weigh the possibility of telling her when her phone rings. She stretches across the mattress to grab it from the nightstand.

  “Hi, Michelle,” she says.

  Ah, it’s her agent.

  “They do?”

  A pause.

  “When?”

  Another pause.

  “Of course I can do it.”

  One more pause. This one is long and Haven nods with wide eyes, her smile growing bigger by the second. As she listens, I flash back to the last time I was in a hotel. Not with Haven, when I stopped by the other week. But more than a month ago. The night I met Banks. I picture opening the door of the room for our tryst and hoping it’d be him.

  Then, I remember my embarrassment when the hotel clerk stood there with an envelope of rejection. I can see the moment so clearly, but I don’t feel those emotions anymore. The foolishness has vanished. The shame has faded away. I’m no longer worried about my terrible track record with men and what that might mean. I don’t see myself any more as the know-it-all, the too independent one, the pushy one, like I told Grandma I feared I was.

  Sure, I am those things, but I’m okay with that, because I let Banks get to know the real me. He’s shown me who he is too. My whole heart softens as I think of him.

  I want to tell Haven about this unexpected romance. I’m desperate to tell her. Maybe I can soon, since so much has changed over the last few weeks.

  When the call ends, I shove away the memory and shelve the desire as Haven says, “First, The Madison Marlowe Show invited me as a guest when I return to LA.”

  “The late-night talk show?” I squeak out. It’s become one of the most popular interview shows on-air.

  “Yes, to talk about the movie and everything. Plus, there’s some interest in me for a lead on a TV show.”

  I gasp. TV is the golden goose. “Tell me everything.”