And, I’m pretty sure, my future.

  Emotion spreads through my chest, a deep sense of rightness. A potent hope for many days to come. I sink inside her, trembling at the feel of her and of us.

  We move together in the dark, bodies tangling, skin sweating, hearts thrumming. She hooks her heels around me tight and pulls me deeper, even though I’m already so far gone.

  It doesn’t take long for either of us, then we’re tumbling over the edge.

  The next morning, I take the dog out, then I’m in and out of the shower in a flash. Ripley is next, the water pattering as I step over Hudson, who’s eagerly waiting for his human. I button my shirt and hunt for my phone. Do Not Disturb is still on from last night, and when I turn it off, a slew of text messages land like coins raining down in a slot machine.

  A few from Dean.

  A few from my sister asking, What’s going on?

  One from Tabitha.

  Unease rolls down my chest, but I don’t have a second to open the messages. As Ripley turns off the shower, there’s a knock on the door. With some concern, I head over, peer through the peephole, and tense.

  It’s my partner. In Darling Springs. A day before our meeting.

  43

  TRUST YOUR GUT

  BANKS

  Ripley utters an oh when she sees Dean. She’s just come out of the bathroom in a tank top and shorts, rubbing a towel in her wet hair. Hudson barks, but he’s wagging his tail too. For all intents and purposes, this is an innocent scene. It’s no secret we’re sharing the cottage. Naturally, we’d both shower here.

  Still, my first instinct is to lie. I can feel the false words climbing up my throat. She was just showering. That’s all.

  The sentence jostles around in my mouth, and it feels all too easy to say. Briefly, I part my lips to utter the cover-up. Because she was just showering isn’t even a lie.

  It’s true.

  But in those few dangerous seconds where lies seem easy and truth slinks far, far away, I grow ashamed.

  This is what my father did.

  He lied for years about his nights, his days, his whereabouts. He built a second house of lies, and he slept in the king-size bed in the center of it all.

  I’ve vowed to never be like him.

  The fact that I even considered a lie makes my cheeks heat with red-hot shame as I meet the confused eyes of my business partner.

  Dean Ortiz is six three and brawny, with a shaved head and inked vines snaking around the light-brown skin on his arms. He’s one of my closest friends, and I’ve known him for more than a decade—yet I feel like we’re worlds apart.

  Since I’ve been fucking around and potentially harming the business we’ve built.

  “Hey,” I say on a strangled breath. “What are you doing here?”

  My business partner cocks his head, saying nothing, clearly trying to make sense of the scene before his eyes—the very domestic scene of Ripley and me in the morning, casual and comfortable in front of each other.

  Ripley clears her throat. “I should go do…um…farm stuff. Yeah. That.”

  Dean blinks again, then takes another beat, brow knitting, gesturing to the bed.

  “I take it you didn’t get my text?”

  Shit. I wince. “Is the Webflix meeting canceled?”

  But why the hell would he come here today to tell me a meeting set for tomorrow had been canceled? Why wouldn’t he call?

  “No. I texted you to tell you I was coming in early, Banks,” he says with an unusual emphasis on my name. “Figured it’d be good to see the movie set, say hi to the Ruby Horizons client, and catch up. I texted so you’d know I’d switched to an earlier flight.” He pauses. “But seems you have company.”

  He says it pointedly and then waits, giving me an opportunity to explain. There could be a reasonable explanation. But there isn’t.

  I can’t avoid it any longer, especially since Ripley says, “I was just leaving.”

  A minute later, she and her dog hustle out, and it’s just me and the friend I’ve been lying to. Lies always catch up to you.

  I shut the door, a pit widening in my stomach at the ominous click of the latch. Dean scratches his jaw as he stares at me like he doesn’t even know me. The silence stretches for years.

  Time to man up. I meet his eyes and own this problem. “It’s what you think it is.”

  Dean shakes his head, letting out a long, frustrated, “Fuuuuuck.”

  Trudging to the couch, he sinks down and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Seriously? That is so risky, man.”

  “I know,” I say heavily. I don’t really feel better for having admitted it. Owning the truth was necessary, but it doesn’t absolve me. Neither does the voice saying, What’s so wrong with falling in love?

  I shut up that voice. Now is not the time for the poets to convince me the heart always wins.

  “That’s like the golden rule of our business,” Dean says. “Don’t fall for the person you’re protecting.”

  Like I weigh a ton, I sit next to him, “I know. I should have⁠—”

  “Told me the truth before it got this far so I could have taken you off the job.”

  When he puts it like that, more shame creeps up my neck. “Yes,” I mutter.

  “You know the deal in our line of work. When you fall for the client, you make mistakes. Get distracted. You think with your heart instead of your gut.”

  It’s ingrained in me, and in him, so we say it together: “Always trust your gut first.”

  That awful feeling coils tighter in my stomach. “I let you down.”

  “You did. You let us down. But we’re in this together,” he says, apparently ready to roll up his sleeves and fix the mess I made. “Does anyone know?”

  I shake my head. “Just some of her friends.”

  He blows out an annoyed breath. “I really wish you’d said no one.” But then he shakes his head, like he’s shaking off his frustration. “We’ll tell Ruby Horizons you got pulled to another job, and I’ll handle Ripley for the rest of the shoot. No one will have to know.”

  What did I do to deserve a partner like this? His triage skills are unparalleled. “Thank you,” I say, grateful, embarrassed it’s come to this, but relieved all the same.

  “And then we’ll move on, and you’ll be more careful. Right?” He asks it like a cop letting you off with a warning.

  “Of course,” I say, and I’m about to add falling for a client won’t be a problem since I’ll be with Ripley when my phone buzzes again. It’s as persistent as someone punching a doorbell over and over. It’s my sister again, and I click open the text.

  Emily: You’re seeing Haven Addison’s sister?

  “The fuck?” I drop the phone like it’s on fire, then scramble to get it from the floor. Yup. The same damning text still mocks me.

  “What’s going on?” Dean asks.

  What’s going on is a photo on VIP Vibes of Haven, Ripley, Bridget, and Chloe dancing at Prohibition Spirit last night. I’m in the background next to Wanda.

  Why would my sister assume we’re together from this shot?

  I also didn’t realize Ludwig was there last night. He must have been since he regularly sells to VIP Vibes.

  Dammit, Dean was right. Falling in love does make you lose focus. I should have paid more attention to the other people in the bar.

  But my sister sent another link, this one to a social media feed of hashtags from the movie. And that pit in my gut turns into a gaping maw. That’s why my sister asked if I’m seeing Haven’s sister. Because there’s a picture making the rounds of Ripley and me getting out of the car, my hand in hers, our gazes locked.

  I hate to admit it, but it’s a good shot.

  If a photo tells a story, this is the tale of two people fighting like hell to resist each other as they fall hard. This picture doesn’t lie at all.

  My only hope is that the paparazzi assumed Ripley was Haven again, like they’ve done before.

  But they’re not stupid.

  Last night, Ripley wore a strappy tank, and her birds were visible, flying down her upper arm. That explains why this photo isn’t running in VIP Vibes—neither of us are celebrities. VIP Vibes wouldn’t pay News Site Ink for a shot of the star’s sister and her bodyguard. This was just one of many images under the hashtag for Someone Else’s Ring.

  Ripley and I are a sidebar. A footnote. An interesting little scandal with the caption: Better look twice! If you thought Haven Addison was having an affair with her bodyguard, you’d be wrong. Her identical twin sister is, though, and was seen canoodling with him before she and her star sibling went dancing at a local hot spot.

  It had to have been Eric Patrick who posted this online. No wonder he flashed me that smug smile. He’d probably saved this pic somewhere else on his phone after taking it off his camera roll. “Her fucking ex,” I mutter.

  “This was taken by her ex?” Dean asks.

  “I’m guessing so,” I say. “The one inside must have been shot by a pap. This was probably shot by her ex. He’s into food photography, so I guess he knows his way around a camera. And then he dropped it online because he was pissed she’s not helping him get an intro for his restaurant.”

  Dean runs a hand over the back of his neck as I tell him about last night’s encounter. “This is such a mess.”

  Then his phone beeps, and he checks it, groaning heavily. “What is it?” I ask, though it feels like putting my finger in the fire.

  He waves his phone like he wants to chuck it. “I just got an email from Webflix. The meeting is canceled. They’re looking elsewhere for security.”

  I fucked up everything.

  44

  A LITTLE GESTURE

  RIPLEY

  Think, Ripley, think.

  If this had happened to Haven, what would you do?

  I’d find a way to fix it. That’s what I do—fix problems. I need to focus on that instead of freaking out and pacing the lavender fields, unable to do any of my work. All I can do is stare at these pictures of us on my phone.

  As soon as Dean appeared, I left the cottage and rushed to the house, finding my grandma in the kitchen, staring at her phone and the pictures her bestie had sent her. And before Grandma left for her in-person French class, she showed the snaps to me.

  My heart sank like an anchor to the ocean floor as I read the captions. I owe so many explanations to so many people—starting with my sister.

  But first, I need to deal with the man. With Grandma gone to her class, I head for the store before it opens, Hudson trotting alongside me. Inside the shop, I FaceTime Chloe rather than text. She’s up already, walking dogs, and sounds concerned when she answers. When I tell her it’s an emergency, she patches in Bridget.

  My pulse spikes with worry. Wasting no time, I tell them about the pictures, and then about Banks’s partner showing up unexpectedly this morning. “What do I do?”

  Bridget’s been putting on makeup, and she stops, furrows her brow, foundation brush in hand. “Why do you have to do something?”

  “Because it’s a mess. Because his business partner showed up. And, well, Banks never wanted him to know about us while we were working together. While he was protecting me.” I feel guilty all over as I admit the full scope of the sneaking around. “Banks was always the one who risked the most. And I feel awful.”

  “But why do you have to fix it?” Bridget asks again.

  This seems like a trick question.

  “Why do you keep asking me that?” I fire back.

  “Just answer,” she says, loving but firm.

  I huff out a harsh breath. “Because I’m fucking in love with him, okay?” I blurt out and my god, that hurt. Like ripping a jagged stone from my chest.

  And my asshole friends just smile. Both of them. “Good,” Bridget says, her peach lipstick shiny.

  Chloe grins too. “I’m proud of you, Ripley.”

  Up is down. Black is white. “Why are you smiling? Why are you proud of me? This is awful.”

  “It is. But it’s also amazing that you fell in love. Especially when you were convinced you never would again,” Chloe says as the sun rises above her, its light mocking me, like it’s bringing all my mistakes into the day.

  And they may be right, but what good did falling in love do? “It’s a mess. And I need to fix it. I have to,” I say, desperation driving me on.

  Bridget’s smile disappears. Once her expression turns serious, she says, “Well, there’s one thing you could do.”

  She tells me, and it sounds awful. My chest squeezes painfully at her suggestion. But I also know she’s probably right.

  When I end the call, I sink down to the wooden floor amidst the bottles of butterfly lavender essential oils, the eye masks promising calmness, and the dried sachets offering peace.

  I don’t feel calm or settled or peaceful. I feel terrible. My heart absolutely bleeds for Banks. For me, but mostly for him. Because I know Banks, and I know how awful he must feel right now. Like he failed. I know, too, that he’ll do the right thing.

  This means there’s only one right thing I can do now, even if it feels like I’m excavating all my insides with a bulldozer.

  I push up to my feet, intent on finding him, my curious pup rising too. Only, I don’t have to look far—Banks is already knocking on the door.

  That’s so him. He always knows where to find me. He just does. He has a sense for me.

  I wish I could revel in that connection. But I can’t. With a bruised heart, I open the door and let him into the tiny store as the sun rises over my farm.

  “Hi,” I manage, and my voice sounds scratchy and raw.

  Hudson trots over and wags his tail, licking Banks’s hand. Briefly, Banks pets the dog, then meets my gaze. Pain etches his eyes. His hair sticks up everywhere. He drags a hand through it, like he’s been doing that all morning.

  “I really fucked up, Ripley,” he begins, regret thick in his voice.

  “Me too,” I say.

  He shakes his head as if rejecting that thought. “It was my fault. All mine.”

  “It was ours,” I say.

  “No. It was mine,” he insists, proving that he only blames himself. He scrubs a hand down his face. “Webflix canceled the meeting. Just now.”

  My heart plummets. This is worse than I’d thought. So much worse with him losing business. “Because of the pictures?”

  He breathes out hard through his nostrils. His fists are clenched. Every muscle in his body is taut. “Because I didn’t act like a fucking professional. Because I didn’t do my job. Because I’m a goddamn liability. I prided myself on protecting you at all costs. I take every job seriously. I looked out for you every second of the day, and what happened? I wound up in the press for falling in love with you.” He stabs his chest with his finger. “I’m not supposed to fall in love. I’m supposed to protect you. Perfectly.”

  My heart aches so much I can’t even process the terrible beauty of those words—falling in love.

  The words come with a cost. And the cost is coming. Still, my impulse to take care of everything is too strong to ignore. “You can’t beat yourself up,” I say gently, trying to shoulder some of the blame.

  “But I can, and I will. This is on me. I’m just like my father.”

  This poor man. “You’re not,” I say, emphatic as I shake my head.

  He’s silent for a beat—a long, thoughtful one that lets me hope he’ll see the difference between himself and the man who lied about an entire second family.

  “Fine. Maybe I’m not,” he says quietly, and a sliver of sunshine warms me. Then it disappears behind a cloud when he adds, “But I still can’t get away with this.”

  I brace myself. I knew this was coming because I know this man. He’ll take it all on. He’ll think he can control everything. And he’ll want to pay the price.

  So I have to do the right thing, and I must do it before he can. If he says the next thing he came here to say, he’ll hate himself even more than he does now. I won’t let that happen.

  “Banks,” I begin, the word scraping my throat raw. But he’s not the only one who knows how to protect the people they love. I can protect him too. From himself. I won’t make this any harder for him than it already is. I won’t fight it. I won’t try to convince him he’s wrong. Nor will I let him be the one to pull the trigger.

  I get the words out first: “I think we should…stop.”

  The word burns my tongue as I break it off.

  But when he nods gratefully, muttering a terribly heavy, “We should,” I know, too, that I had to be the one to do it. This way, he won’t entirely blame himself. I suppose that’s the only gift I can give him right now.

  Sometimes you just have to let go of the ones you love.

  45

  YOU AND NOTTING HILL

  RIPLEY

  I should have done this weeks ago. When Haven’s finished shooting for the day, she meets me in the kitchen. I texted her earlier, asking if she could talk. Her jaw is set, her gaze wary, but curious.

  She peers toward the front door. “This isn’t very private. Anyone could come in here.”

  She sounds…professional. I feel awful. But I’m supposed to feel bad because I fucked up. “Let’s go to⁠—”

  “The lavender maze.”

  That’s where we used to escape to when we were kids. The fact that she picked it gives me hope that I’m not the worst sister in the world. But Haven shakes her head, dismissing the maze idea. “Actually, I don’t want to deal with bodyguards watching us.”

  “Me neither,” I say, and when my gaze drifts to the staircase heading to the garden level, it’s clear we’re both thinking the same thing.

  Grandma’s suite. Fitting, since Grandma’s is where we’ve both always felt safest.

  We head downstairs and rap on the door. It’s perfunctory, though, since after her in-person French class, she went out with friends. I go inside, and we sink down on the couch.