She shares the details, telling me Vega is writing a script for TV and potentially wants to work with Haven again. When she’s done, there’s no time for me to confess my burgeoning romance. Maybe tomorrow. Or another day. “That’s awesome,” I say.

  “I can’t wait to tell William tonight.”

  “Maybe he can go down to LA for the appearance,” I suggest, since I’m helpful like that.

  “You’re such an enabler.”

  “I’m full of brilliant ideas.”

  “Like this one,” she says, then hands me her purse since I suggested earlier that we trade bags. I give her mine. We swapped the contents earlier.

  “And now, the pièce de résistance.” Grandly, with much fanfare, she hands me her pair of pink heart-shaped shades.

  “Ooh, your signature accessory these days.” I put on the sunnies, pushing them through my hair so they act as a headband.

  Then, it’s showtime.

  I yank open the door, greeting the sturdy woman who protects my sister most of the time. “Hi, Wanda! How’s everything going?” I ask brightly, imitating Haven.

  She blinks, shaking her head in amusement. “It’s eerie.”

  “I know,” I say, pleased we’re so convincing.

  She walks with me down the hall, then the steps, then into the lobby. From behind the desk, Bridget doesn’t even bat a lash. She simply smiles. “Do you need help with anything, Haven?”

  I drum my fingers on the counter, talking a touch faster than I do usually, a bit peppier. “Is that arcade still open on Main Street?”

  “The one we all used to go to in high school?”

  “Yes. The retro arcade,” I say.

  “It is.”

  “Fabulous. I haven’t played Ms. Pac-Man in ages,” I say, naming Haven’s favorite game.

  “Pretty sure you still have the high score.”

  Well, Haven was excellent at that game. “Awesome,” I say, then turn around, but like I forgot something, I spin back. “What time is it?”

  Bridget smiles kindly, clearly knowing Haven was always rubbish with time. “Seven ten.”

  “Thanks, Bridge. Don’t wait up too late for me, but I’ll text you later.”

  She looks momentarily confused, but I’ll explain it to her soon.

  When I turn around, I say to Wanda, “Do you like arcade games? I have to show you this fun arcade in my hometown. It’s even better than the one in—” I stop, think, then take a wild guess: “Santa Monica.”

  “That’s high praise.”

  “I know,” I say, and we make a show of walking through the lobby. And I mean show. Because I want someone to see me act. I thought I’d hate it, but acting in my own body—so to speak—is surprisingly fun. I’m not me right now. I’m my sister, and I know what to do with my face. Smile. Shine. Beam.

  Like Haven did when she faced her demons and took charge of her mental health. When she went to therapy and worked on herself. When she moved forward from grief and the chokehold it had on her.

  Like that, I protect my sister as I walk out of the hotel, being the best bodyguard for her so her secret boyfriend can slip upstairs and see her.

  “Damn, girl. You’re working it,” Wanda whispers proudly.

  “Thank you.”

  Yup. I’m pulling it off.

  C’mon, photographers. Show up. Take my pic. I dare you.

  I’m only mildly disappointed that there are no photographers waiting on the street. But I’m wildly happy when I spot William in a blue Prius, pulling around the side of the hotel to the back door.

  I turn to go, having pulled it off when someone clears a throat from behind me. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

  Oh, shit.

  I wince, stopping in my tracks at the sound of Vega’s voice. Didn’t see that coming. But then, I fasten on my best Haven grin, turning around. Vega strides from inside the inn toward me on the street. I’m a little terrified. She’s the most no-nonsense of no-nonsense people I’ve ever met.

  “Hey! What’s going on?” I ask brightly.

  “The scene tomorrow,” she says, tapping her chin. “Your character—I think before the wedding, in order for us to believe she’d run off with her brother’s best friend when she finds out her groom is cheating, she needs to be doubting her choices already.”

  Vega waits.

  Oh. Right. This is where I speak. “Cold feet?” I ask, hoping that’s what an actor would say not only to a director but to a director who possibly wants to work with her again.

  Vega’s brow knits, a look of displeasure. “Yes, but ask yourself why, Haven. Why does she have cold feet?”

  This feels like one of those dreams when you’re back in school and you didn’t study for the test. I steal a glance at Wanda, like maybe she keeps a crib sheet of actor answers with her. But she’s scanning the streets.

  It’s up to me to play the actress. Time to improvise. Like the kid who definitely missed all the classes, I try again, suggesting, “Because her groom is cheating?”

  “But she doesn’t know that.” It’s a slap on an actor’s wrist.

  Vega taps her toe. I gulp, then try one more time. “Because she’s always wondered if maybe the brother’s best friend is the guy for her?”

  That earns me a small, safe nod, then I’m saved by a voice saying, “Two of my favorite people!”

  It’s New Chris, striding toward the hotel, his bodyguard by his side. New Chris barely seems to notice that Silas and Ludwig are flanking his security team. The star stops right in front of me, flashing that high-wattage smile, ignoring the hell out of the photographers snapping our picture and shouting questions like, “Big date tonight?” “Where are you having dinner?” “How long have you been together?”

  Like he doesn’t even hear them, he looks me in the eyes as if I’m the only person in the world and says, “I think I heard you talking about the big opening scene. I’d love to discuss my ideas for it. Vega and I were going to get a drink and really break it down. Goal, motivation, wants. Are you in?”

  I draw a big blank when it comes to excuses. I stand like a fish with my mouth open. Shoot. Haven would never do that. Haven would say yes. “Of course.”

  New Chris turns to the pack of pushy photogs, his grin never faltering as he says, “To answer your question, I’m having a drink with my co-star and my director.”

  And that is how I wind up pretending to be my sister for another hour. I’ll take my Oscar right now, thank you very much.

  I sink into a booth in the corner of Prohibition Spirit an hour later, exhausted and utterly relieved. I texted Haven a heads-up so she knows what happened, then I sent an emergency get-your-asses-over-here-stat text to my friends. Chloe and Bridget are here while Wanda watches the door.

  First, I confess our twin trick, and Bridget swats my arm. “You fooled me.”

  I blow on my nails. “When you’re good, you’re good.”

  “More like when you have matching DNA with another person, you’re good,” she corrects.

  “That’s true too,” I say, then I tell them all about how I was corralled by the director and the movie star into a quick drink to discuss where the characters were before the scene, what they want, and who they are. “Mostly I learned I’m terrible at bullshitting.”

  “I want to feel sorry for you, but this is what you get when you play twin tricks on me,” Bridget says.

  I pluck at my shirt. “I mean, I was sweating. I think I have pit stains. That acting stuff is hard.”

  Chloe lifts a glass. “Amen. I’m pretty sure I’m an excellent me, but a terrible someone else.”

  “Let’s all drink to being excellent me’s,” Bridget offers.

  I lift my old-fashioned, and we clink glasses.

  Then, I take a deep, fortifying breath and tell them what I couldn’t say to my sister. I can’t keep it inside any longer. “I think I’m falling for my bodyguard.”

  They huddle closer, and Chloe goes first. “Really? That’s so good, especially because you’ve been so gun-shy since Eric Patrick.”

  She’s not entirely wrong. But my fear of closeness started long before then, and well before I worried I had a terrible track record with men. “It’s not just him—not just my ex. Or exes. It’s…” I pause and swallow past the deep-seated fears that have lived in me ever since I was fifteen and my life changed irrevocably. “It’s just I don’t think people stick around.”

  “Oh, sweet friend,” Chloe says, giving me a side hug.

  “We do,” Bridget says gently, rubbing my shoulder.

  My eyes shine, but I fight off the tears. “I know that. I do. You two always have been there. So has Haven. But it’s not about that.” I tap my sternum. “It’s about this. And how it broke when my parents died.”

  They nod thoughtfully, understanding completely.

  “But I have to move past it. I can move past it. It’s time.” I swipe away an errant tear on my cheek. “Dating and romance aren’t the same as what happened to my parents. I’m learning that. I need to remember that.”

  The day I told Banks about the photo helped me to see that I could let go of some of my past hurts. That I can move forward even when it’s scary. “I think…maybe I’m ready.”

  Chloe fights off a grin. Bridget smiles proudly. “What are you going to do about it?” Bridget asks.

  “You’d better not move to LA,” Chloe chides.

  I scoff. “Like I could move.”

  “So what then?” Bridget presses.

  “I really don’t know, but I think maybe when the film is over, we can explore…something.”

  “Sounds like you’re already exploring lots of things,” Chloe says with an arch of her brow.

  I laugh, relieved for the levity, and then I drink to that. I feel better that I was honest with them. But there’s someone else I need to speak the truth to as well, and it’s not my sister. It’s the man himself. “He’s got a lot riding on this job, so I’ll wait to talk to him about what’s next.” I smile. “I’m very patient.”

  We finish our glasses and then leave, with Wanda taking me back to the farm. As I walk to the cottage, I set aside thoughts of the future and focus on the now, assembling a plan.

  A redo.

  I picture the outfit I’ll wear. Well, after I shower since…sweat is gross. I imagine what I’ll say. How it might feel.

  But when I open the door to get ready for Banks, he’s already here. And it looks like he’s paid a visit to quite a number of local shops to satisfy our DIY sex toy habit.

  37

  A SMORGASBORD

  RIPLEY

  It’s a sex toy buffet. “Can I have one of everything?” I ask as I survey the offerings on the coffee table.

  “You can have everything,” Banks says, standing by like a proud…charcuterist creator? Potluck purveyor? Who knows, but the man has outdone himself with his selection of unconventional toys. I pick up the first one, inspecting it, then dangling the stick with the stuffed fake blue bird at the end. “You stopped by a pet store?”

  “Don’t knock it. Those fake feathers look pretty soft,” he says.

  I run the baby-blue faux feathers over my palm. “Cats have the right idea,” I say, but there’s one issue. “Though I might feel a little weird using a pet toy in bed.”

  “Fair enough.”

  I set it down and pick up the next option. A silky pink ribbon, long and curling. “Paid a visit to the craft store?”

  “I was a busy boy.”

  I rub my fingers against the material, then hum approvingly. “It’s silky,” I say, then drag it over the top of my chest. “Very silky.”

  His eyes widen as I demonstrate.

  Next, I pick up the synthetic feather duster and run it down my arm. My breath catches. But I frown. “I’m not sure I’m ready to come to terms with getting aroused by a cleaning tool. But I would definitely love to watch you do dishes and fold laundry someday because that sounds unspeakably hot.”

  He leans in, cups my cheek, and plants a quick, firm kiss to my lips. “Just wait till you see what I can do with fitted sheets.”

  “You can fold fitted sheets?” I ask breathily, my chest already heaving.

  “Perfectly,” he says in a husky promise.

  I nibble on the corner of my lips. “I’m not sure we need toys then. Knowing that is foreplay enough.”

  He grabs my ass, then hauls me against him for a deeper kiss. When he breaks it, he says, “Get on the bed, sweetheart.”

  I have a feeling I know which one’s coming. In a flash, I shed my clothes, leaving on my white lace bra and panties.

  I settle onto the bed on my back, as he prowls over to me. He’s wearing jeans and nothing else. My mouth waters at the sight of him—broad chest, thick shoulders, carved abs, and all that ink on his muscular arm. The symbols of who he is, what he believes in. As he returns to the table, picking up the ribbon, he regards me with wild heat in his dark eyes. Passion, too, as he returns to me, his gaze journeying up and down me. He dangles the pink ribbon over my chest, the soft end of it teasing against my left breast, tickling me. “Still want to skip foreplay?”

  The rush of heat shooting down my body makes me a liar as I arch into the ribbon’s touch. “No.”

  He stands by the side of the bed, teasing the ribbon down my body, between my breasts, over my belly. It’s soft, and I shudder as he drags it over me, like it’s a feather.

  And yes, apparently I’m into flower ticklers, headband bondage, and now ribbon play. Who knew? Maybe Banks did. Maybe he sensed this about me all along. I stretch my neck, a sign for him to keep going. He takes my cue and runs with it, dangling the silky material over me, then coasting the end down my arm. I’m aching. He’s not even touching me with his body, not his hands, not his mouth, not his cock, and still my skin is tingling, my thighs shaking.

  He continues his erotic torture, unfurling the ribbon down my body, over my legs, then back up, along the inside of my thighs. I part my legs for him.

  He stares wantonly at my white panties. “You look so fucking beautiful,” he says, and he sounds filthy and adoring.

  He drops the ribbon and bends to run his knuckles along the side of my face, tracing my jawline.

  Funny how I thought I’d come back to the cottage and demand a spanking, like I wanted the night I met him, but when he showed me the table of toys, I wanted that more.

  Because of how he uses whatever sex toys he MacGyvers—he uses them to turn me on. That’s his sole mission—me. And with Banks, I’m learning I don’t have to solve a thing. I get to fix…nothing. I don’t have to think at all, and I like not having a to-do list.

  Or perhaps I like that I’m his to-do list.

  Banks takes each item on it very seriously, leaning down and starting with tugging down the cup of the bra on my right breast. Giving me a kiss on my nipple. Then sucking.

  I draw a sharp breath.

  Next, he bites.

  I gasp.

  He lifts his face, raises an eyebrow. Asking if that was okay.

  “Yes,” I murmur.

  He rubs his chin against my exposed breast, the stubble from his short beard whisking across my skin. He’s sandpaper to my softness, and the contrast makes me squirm. Makes me want him. I reach for his chest, my fingers playing with the wiry hair on his pecs.

  A grunt falls from his lips. He looks up, and in a flash he’s on the bed, straddling me, pinning my wrists down. “You trying to touch me?” he asks, but it’s not aggressive. It’s curious. Playful. Like he always is with me.

  “I am,” I admit.

  He lifts his chin. “You can touch me when I fuck you.”

  I shiver. From ribbons to words. “Now you’re really teasing me.”

  He smirks. “I know.”

  I exhale into the good feelings, then relax into the bed when he lets go of my wrists, expecting Banks to travel down my body. Instead he moves to the side, lying next to me, kissing my neck. My clavicle. My shoulder.

  I shudder, luxuriating in him.

  He dusts a soft kiss to the top of my arm, then spends a good, long time kissing his way down, turning me soft and liquid everywhere as I realize what he’s doing. He’s kissing each bird on my skin.

  As the strength of that hits me, I turn to him, our chests flush, and kiss his mouth—hard, deep, and passionate. We kiss till we’re twisting together, our bodies seeking even more contact.

  With some reluctance, he breaks the embrace, then pushes me down to my back. Moving along my body, his lips whisk over each breast, travel down my belly, then to my hips.

  I’m gasping and arching, desperately hoping he gets the message, when he looks up at me with a satisfied smirk. “Ask for it.”

  I’m too turned on to taunt him back. “Go down on me,” I plead.

  “Beg for it.” His lips twitch, then his eyes drift so he’s staring between my legs. “Beg for my mouth.”

  I grow wetter from the demand. “Please. I’m begging you, Banks.”

  That’s all it takes. Scooping me up, he flips me over to all fours. “Ass up,” he instructs, and I comply as heat sparks through my whole body.

  Moving behind me, he settles, then hauls me up higher and dives in, kissing my pussy without mercy.

  The sounds I make are long and carnal. I didn’t realize how much I needed this till he put me in this position. “Need you. Want you,” I murmur as he kisses my wetness.

  Stopping briefly, he mutters, “I know.”

  “So cocky,” I say, but it comes out strangled when he flicks his tongue up and down my aching core.

  Soon words and taunts become meaningless. He takes me apart with each delicious flick till I’m shaking. I grab at the sheets, clutching them for dear life as his fingers dig into my flesh and his mouth owns me.

  I’m dissolving into the bed, panting, moaning. My breathing turns shallow, and I’m close, so damn close. One more flick of his tongue, then he fastens his mouth to my clit and sucks, and pleasure pulses everywhere inside me—a wave relentlessly heading to the shore. With a final hungry groan from him, the wave crashes.

  I break apart into moans and sensations, into lust and emotions, into this endlessly wonderful moment with this man. With my face pressed against the covers, I try to catch my breath. He must move off me, because the sound of a zipper coming undone filters by, then the noise of clothes being shed.