A few seconds later, Banks is back on the bed, a foil packet in hand, and he’s gently turning me to my side. He spoons me, kissing my neck, running his hands along my arms. “Want to fuck you like this,” he murmurs.

  “Do it,” I urge.

  He nips at my neck harder, biting. “Fuck, Ripley. You’re so fucking perfect for me,” he mutters.

  “Same,” I pant out.

  “Yeah?” It’s asked full of wonder.

  I don’t answer with words but actions, wriggling against him, trying to get closer. He jerks my body tightly to his, gripping me like he never wants to let go, kissing me madly for a breathless second. Then he stops, rolls on the condom, and nudges the head of his cock against my slickness, letting out a staggered breath. “Need you. Want you,” he growls, repeating my words from earlier as he fills me.

  With a wicked smile I say, “I know.”

  He doesn’t reply in kind saying so cocky, like I did to him moments ago. Instead, he says, gravelly and vulnerably at the same time, “Good. I want you to know how much I want you. How much I need you.”

  That last verb echoes in the night air. Need. As he moves in me, I feel it too. All this need. Words break apart. We’re both reduced to gasps. Groans. Heated sighs. He wraps one arm around my shoulders, the other around my waist.

  It’s not slow and languid, like I expected. It’s not a middle-of-the-night tender spooning, with gentle kisses. It’s passionate and deep. It’s him taking me and showing me how much he needs me.

  This kind of sex is not at all what I expected when I walked in the door tonight. But then again, everything about this man has surprised me, from his taste in music, to his smart mouth, to his big and scarred heart.

  His arms are like ropes, binding me to him, keeping me in his inescapable grasp as he fucks me, his mouth skimming over my neck the whole time. “Fucking love this,” he grits out against my skin.

  Flesh slaps against flesh. Sweat-slicked skin slides against sweat-slicked skin. We’re hot and sweaty and desperate, and I feel like I’m on the verge of release with every punishing thrust.

  But there’s one more thing I want. We’ve tried flowers and headbands and ribbons. The man is good with his hands though. Great, actually. I crane my neck and look back at him, at the restraint in his features, the clench of his jaw coupled with the fire in his eyes. “In San Francisco? When I thought you were at the hotel room door?”

  He slows his hips, concern briefly flickering across his irises. “Yes?”

  “I opened it and said spank me.” It feels so good to finally say that. To let him know I wanted to explore my desires with him. “I’ve never said that to anyone,” I blurt out, suddenly confessing the depth of my desires.

  His cock slides deeper, and the sound he makes is the hottest thing I’ve ever heard. “You can have anything with me,” he says, sounding as desperate as I feel. “Want it now, sweetheart?”

  “So much.”

  He lifts a hand and slaps it on the outside of my ass. The sharp sting radiates through me, then blurs into pleasure.

  “More?”

  “Yes. Please,” I say.

  Another smack. Another cry from me. Then, my world tunnels to these sensations—his hand smacking my ass, the bite that spirals through me, the hot rush of pleasure in my core.

  Then this—the giving in, as I fall to pieces in his arms one more time, sinking into blissful oblivion. He follows me there with a powerful thrust, then grunts, growls, murmurs.

  And quietly kisses me.

  Sometime later, I don’t know when, he’s kissing my hair, whispering sweet nothings of praise, then saying, “Next time I’m going to use that cat toy on you.”

  “Only after I watch you fold the sheets and make the bed.”

  “Deal.”

  I feel shiny inside and out from the words next time. From the easy promise in them. From the possibility of all our next times.

  A little later, after we straighten up, he pulls on clothes and fetches my dog from the house. Through the window, I spot Banks taking Hudson for a quick midnight stroll through the lavender bushes. The sight of that man walking my pooch makes my heart beat far too fast.

  When he returns, he settles Hudson onto the floor and comes back to bed.

  “Thank you,” I tell him. “I seriously appreciate your dog-walking skills.” I pause, then add, “Among others.”

  “You’re welcome.” He doesn’t ask for anything in return. I get the sense he gives to give. It’s in his nature, these little acts of service. Gently, he turns me around so I’m facing away from him. He rubs my neck, kneading the usual sore spots. Yeah, it’s definitely in his nature.

  “Like this skill too,” I say, relaxing into his touch.

  “Good.” He sounds happy. Maybe that’s what he gets out of these little gestures. They make him happy too—to be able to give and know it’s received. So I happily take, knowing it’s working for both of us.

  A few minutes later, he kisses the back of my neck, then stops rubbing. With a sigh, he says, “I still regret not coming to your hotel room.”

  “Don’t,” I say.

  “But I do. If I had, maybe we could have started sooner.”

  Started, not stopped.

  He wraps his arms around me, like we’re not stopping whatever this is becoming—little gestures and big feelings.

  38

  HER TURN

  RIPLEY

  “I knew it wasn’t her.”

  The humble brag comes from Grandma the next day as the three of us settle into a table at the restaurant at The Ladybug Inn.

  Haven’s call time isn’t till this afternoon, so we stole away for a girls’ breakfast like old times, when Grandma used to take us here once a month back when we were in high school. Well, as long as we brought home good grades and excellent attendance.

  Haven knits her brow at the older woman. “How did you know there’s a pic?”

  Amused, Grandma shakes her head. “Send my girls out of the nest, and they forget all about me.”

  Haven’s mouth falls open in awareness. “You’re right. I almost forgot about Daisy’s penchant for gossip. She told you?”

  Grandma nods. Her bestie loves gossip, so I’m guessing she showed Grandma the pic of Haven, New Chris, and the director from Page Six this morning.

  I saw it too—Banks showed it to me as we walked Hudson together. He laughed about it, mostly over our twin antics. He said the same thing as Grandma. I knew it was you.

  Right now, he’s waiting outside the restaurant with Wanda. I sort of feel like we should invite them in, but Grandma wanted to have a just family meal.

  “How did you know it was Ripley pretending to be me?” Haven whispers.

  Grandma grabs her phone from her purse and swipes up. She clicks on something, then swivels the screen around, tapping on that pic. “Ripley always has this little extra sass in her eyes and her expression.”

  “Thanks, Grandma,” I say dryly. “And Haven’s sweeter?”

  Haven flashes her good-girl-next-door grin. “I’m sugar. You’re salt.”

  I roll my eyes, but still I say, with a you-got-me-there shrug, “No lies detected.”

  But before Grandma puts her phone away, something catches my attention on screen. “That’s not Page Six. I thought that’s where the picture ran. But it’s on VIP Vibes too?”

  “Seems so.” She pauses. “But why do you ask?”

  I’m not sure why it matters. “The angle’s just different than the other pic.” I study the photo info, but it just says News Site Ink. Banks told me that’s the company that buys pics from photographers and sells them to celeb sites. He said the stocky guy—Ludwig—sells to News Site Ink a lot, which supplies to VIP Vibes. And Silas sells to Page Six. That makes sense, after all. I relax again. “It’s nothing. There were two photogs last night, so of course there’d be a couple angles.”

  “And neither one fooled me,” Grandma says, “because you’re mine and I’ve never not been able to tell you two apart. But I do think it’s hilarious that you’re still doing that. You tricked your parents, but…”

  Haven and I look at each other, grinning as we recite Grandma’s rallying cry in unison. “We never tricked you.”

  “You never did,” she says, then thumps her reading glasses case against the table. “Let’s order.”

  We order the ladybug pancakes, and when we close our menus, I turn to my sister. “Also, that was close,” I say, letting out a belated sigh of relief over last night’s fake-out.

  “I still can’t believe you pulled it off,” she says, grinning. “Vega texted me this morning to tell me she loved my ideas and can’t wait for the wedding scene.”

  “That’s this afternoon?”

  “Yes. It’s the first scene in the film but one of the last ones we’re shooting. We should go out and celebrate some night before I leave,” she says, her voice pitching up. “With Chloe and Bridget.”

  “Let’s do it,” I say.

  The shoot ends after this weekend. That’s a reminder that I should talk to Banks about us. But when Grandma clears her throat and says, “Now, girls. I have something I want to tell you,” I drop all thoughts of my own romance.

  Is she sick? Is something wrong? I’m not even sure why I go there, except when you open the door to a police officer telling you your parents are dead, sometimes you assume the worst.

  “What is it?” I ask, my voice threaded with worry.

  She reaches across the table for my hand. “I know you’re saving for me to go to cooking school in Paris, but I decided I’m doing it myself. I have money saved,” she says.

  “No,” I say instantly. “I told you I want to. As a gift to you.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “But I want to,” I repeat, then rattle off all the reasons. The farm is growing in popularity. Sales are up. Tourism is increasing.

  I take a breath, building up a new head of steam, but Haven cuts me off. “Actually, I paid for your school.”

  Grandma snaps her gaze to Haven. “What?”

  “You can go anytime. I did it last night, and I’ll email you the info. You’ve both worked so hard to help me, but it’s my turn now. I want to give this to you, Grandma. And I didn’t want Ripley to know. So I went ahead and took care of it all on my own.”

  “Haven,” I say quietly, my throat tightening with emotion.

  My sister squares her shoulders. “It’s my turn to give back.”

  My little sister. Younger by only five minutes, but she’s always seemed like the baby of the family. Now, she’s taking care of both of us, and it’s beautiful to see because of how far she’s come.

  Grandma’s lip quivers, and she meets Haven’s eyes, then mine. She reaches for one of my hands and one of Haven’s. “My girls.”

  It’s said with such affection and love that my heart breaks in a whole new way—with happiness for the family we became out of necessity one snowy night, then shaped with this deep and abiding love.

  Grandma turns her attention to the hostess stand. “We should get two more place settings.”

  She rises and heads to the front of the café, motioning for Banks and Wanda to join us. They do, keeping watch the whole time, but—I think—enjoying their ladybug pancakes, nonetheless.

  After breakfast, Haven’s phone rings with Tabitha’s name flashing across it. She chats briefly with the producer as we leave The Ladybug Inn, then says to her, “I’m on it.” When she ends the call, she says, “A PA spilled coffee on the wedding dress. It’s ruined and we need a new one, stat, so Tabitha tracked one down at Second Time Around. They’re doing a quick adjustment to the straps, and I offered to pick it up on our way back.”

  We hustle over to the consignment shop in town and snag the replacement gown. As we leave, there’s a tour group coming down the street that stops and asks my sister for autographs.

  “We love Someone Else’s Ring so much,” one woman says.

  “And you’re Lucy Snow! She’s so tough. The way she walked out on her wedding day,” another coos.

  “And you and Chris are the perfect pair to play them,” one more adds.

  Haven smiles and thanks them all as she signs and poses for selfies.

  Wanda stays close to Haven while Grandma and I stand back, Banks scanning the street, watching over us. Across the road, some passersby slow down, lifting their phones to take pics of the moment.

  Cyrus would think that was very meta too. I can’t wait to tell him. Better yet, to show him. I grab my phone to snap a pic of it, but once I open the camera the group across the street has moved on. As they walk toward the corner, I spot a profile that feels familiar. But then they turn down the block and out of sight, so I let the déjà vu sensation slip away as I return to the farm.

  39

  THE CAUTIOUS ONE

  BANKS

  Dean calls in the afternoon while I’m in the house setting up some security checks with new corporate clients in Los Angeles—we’ll test cameras, handle background checks, and evaluate cybersecurity. I answer the phone right away, and Dean wastes no time on a greeting.

  “Can you get away Friday afternoon?”

  “Nice to hear from you too. And probably,” I say. I’ve got backup here to cover Ripley when I can’t. “What’s it for? Did you get first-base-line tickets to the Dragons/Cougars game?”

  Dean is a notorious baseball fan and will do just about anything to see a game.

  “Yes, Banks. I’m suggesting we skip work to see a ball game,” he deadpans, then returns to serious business. “Webflix wants to move quickly. They asked to meet with both of us this Friday.”

  I give a quick fist pump, then say in the same no-nonsense tone, “I’ll be there.”

  “I’ll lock it in for the afternoon and we’ll meet with them in San Francisco.”

  “Is that where you’ll stay?”

  “Yup. I’ll fly in Thursday night. I’ll get you all the details.”

  “We should meet beforehand and go over our game plan,” I suggest.

  “Let’s do it.”

  I exhale, and it feels like I’ve been holding my breath for a long time. I sink back into the couch, a little amazed. “Can I just say it? This is impressive. What we’re pulling off.”

  “I hear you, but we’re not there yet,” he says, playing the cautious one, which is usually my role.

  Lately, though, not so much.

  “Right, but still,” I point out, “we started this firm a little over a year ago. We’re blasting past all the goals we set.”

  “That is true,” he admits.

  “We won’t have to work for anyone else again. Knock on wood and all.”

  “It’s a relief, man,” he says, then pauses for a beat. “And you’re right. It’s fucking impressive.”

  “I knew you’d see it my way,” I say, my gaze swinging to the kitchen window. I check out the wedding-scene shoot, then turn to watch Ripley working in the fields.

  She’s gorgeous there amongst the flowers. She’s in her element, doing what she loves, and she’s damn good at it.

  Dean and I chat briefly about the research and prep we’ll both need to do, then we end the call. I sigh happily. But contentment is short-lived. I can’t bask in the possibility of this business growth. Soon—very soon—I need to let my business partner know I’m not the cautious one. I’m not the obsessive one. I’m the wild card, the rogue one who fell for a client.

  I never wanted to be that guy. I despise messes, especially ones I have to clean up. But this isn’t a mess. It’s a situation with a clear-enough solution.

  But I don’t have to tell him yet. I can do that when the shoot ends after this weekend.

  Right? Right.

  The thought twists my gut. I should tell him sooner. It’s the responsible thing to do. I’m not sure I will though.

  At least, not before I talk to Ripley.

  That evening, after the cast and crew pack up and head into town for dinner, I find Ripley tossing a ball to Hudson, who hurtles after it toward the lavender maze, twinkling with fairy lights. I catch up with her quickly as the dog enters the purple hedges, hell-bent on chasing the errant missile.

  “Hey,” I say.

  She turns around, seeming to fight a smile before giving in to it. Oh, hell. Is she feeling this too? If she feels even one-quarter of what I do, I’m a lucky guy. Because I am falling so damn hard for the woman I swore to protect. So hard that my stupid heart tumbles over itself as she says, “Oh, hi.”

  Emotions climb up my chest, but for several seconds, I don’t know what to say. Fear holds me back. What if I can’t protect her for the next few days? What if these risky feelings distract me on the job at a critical time? What if I fail her somehow?

  On the other hand, what if I don’t say a word?

  Immediately, I know I can’t walk away from her. I can’t walk away from the possibility of us. The way I feel isn’t wrong. It has to be right. I’m not my father. I’m not doing the same thing he did—not even close. I’m measured and calculating, and I have a plan—tell the woman I’m obsessed with how I feel, then tell my business partner.

  Emboldened by my private pep talk, I say, “Ripley. That Webflix meeting is this Friday.”

  “That’s great. I’m happy for you,” she says.

  “Me too, but that’s not why I’m mentioning it.” My pulse surges with more excitement than nerves. With anticipation of all the good things. “The movie ends after the weekend.”

  Nerves flicker across her eyes. “I know.”

  I step closer, look around, making sure it’s only us as the sun dips lower in the sky, pink and purple streaks pulling toward the horizon. The lights on the hedges give this place a romantic glow. But it’s not only us here. It’s her dog too. He trots toward us from one of the coiled hedges, a ball in his mouth. “I want to keep seeing you when it wraps.”