“Good,” he says, a lion toying with his prey.

  Pounce on me.

  I’m caught in his tease. In his talented hands. In his dark eyes. They’re the deepest brown I’ve ever seen. A tempest of colors, like dark chocolate and black coffee. His hair is dark, wavy, the perfect length to hold on to. His nose, strong and Roman. His jaw, square. His lips full, lush, and confident.

  And so damn close.

  As he gazes down at my mouth, he raises his other hand, then holds my face in both his palms. He hasn’t even kissed me yet, and somehow this warm-up exercise is the hottest moment I’ve experienced in some time. I can’t wait to drag him back to my room. He can take my mind off anything he wants, and he can do it all night long.

  If he just kisses me.

  But he doesn’t. He looks. He studies. He parts his lips.

  And still, I wait.

  Until I can’t. Until I’m squirming.

  “Dammit, just kiss me,” I plead, since I can’t stand this.

  He tsks me, shaking his head. “Say please.”

  I pout. “Fucker,” I mutter.

  He laughs devilishly. In charge. “Try again,” he says, amusement and arousal in his tone.

  Two can play. “Please…fucker,” I taunt.

  Another chuckle.

  “Much better, Ripley,” he says, and it sounds like my name on his lips tastes good to him. So good that I close my eyes.

  The world is dark for a few delicious seconds, and I’m sure he’s going to kiss me the way he touched me—with slow, tantalizing, barely-there kisses. But the second his lips touch mine, I hurtle into new terrain.

  He crushes my mouth with his, and I gasp in surprise. He swallows the sound in a bruising kiss that knocks me off-balance, even though I’m sitting. His hand curls tight around my head. He kisses with a hunger I’ve never experienced before. With a passion that’s all new to me.

  It’s hot, deep, a little rough.

  It’s the kind of kiss where you haul a woman up against the kitchen counter and bend her over. It’s a kiss that says we’re both grown-ass adults who need to blow off steam.

  But when he breaks the kiss, his eyes flash with guilt, maybe. Or is that concern? “Shit, was that too rough?”

  He says it like he’s legit worried. Like he thinks I might not like his rugged kiss. “No, it wasn’t,” I say, breathy and surprised.

  He breathes out hard, perhaps grateful. “Good,” he says, then purses his lips, like he’s holding something back. Maybe that he likes it a little rough?

  Maybe I like being rough too.

  I grab the collar of his shirt, jerking this big man a little closer. “Just to be sure though…do it again.”

  “Yeah?” It’s asked with a wild kind of delight.

  “Yeah,” I answer the same damn way.

  In no time, he seals his mouth to mine, curls one hand around my hip, and ropes the other through my hair. He gives a tug, and I yelp softly into his mouth, but he doesn’t break the kiss.

  He amps it up. Hard. Fierce. Certain. His hand lets go of the hold on my hip, climbing higher to my waist.

  I angle closer, letting him know with my body that I want his touch. Need it. He slides his hand under my shirt, splaying his fingers across my stomach, spreading them over my skin, then wrenching away a few seconds later.

  “Fuck, you’re soft,” he says, kind of mesmerized. His eyes look hazy. Then he blinks. “I’d like to get you naked really fucking soon. Think that’ll work for you?”

  I furrow my brow. “Was it not clear?”

  “I just like to ask.”

  He’s an unusual mix of gentleman and caveman. I want to feel him above me, under me, and over me.

  God, that image sends a wicked thrill through me, a hot ache in my core.

  But then I picture the suite, and the hot mess I left it in flashes before my eyes. The laptop, my Bees Do It Better T-shirt—all the reminders of the farm. Reminders I don’t need right now when I want to not think about every single thing I need to do in the next twenty-eight days.

  “Can you give me ten minutes?” I ask.

  “Yeah, I…” He stops, then a hint of shyness flickers in his eyes. “Need to get a condom anyway.” He scratches his jaw, then shrugs. “Sometimes at hotels, the fitness center has them in a vending machine, or the front desk does. If you ask, that is.”

  My heart gets a little fluttery for a few seconds. I don’t know why I love that he’s not carrying one, but I do. “Like an ‘if you know, you know.’”

  “Exactly.”

  “Perfect. Meet me in Room 210 in ten minutes,” I say.

  Banks cups my cheek, soft this time, gentle. He presses a tender kiss to my lips. “I’m counting down.”

  Then, he gives me the kiss I was expecting at first. A slow, heady kiss. A kiss that makes my mind feel hazy and my body warm. I’m melting into it and into him. He’s the most alluring mix of rough and tender, and I’m dying to experience more of him.

  Maybe more of my own untested wishes tonight.

  He breaks the kiss, leaving me wanting him even more, then runs his knuckles along my jawline possessively. “Whatever you want tonight, it’s yours.”

  I want to explore my desires. “I’ll tell you when I see you in ten minutes.”

  “You better,” he says. That dark look has returned, and he maneuvers a hand down my back, smacking my ass lightly but sending a message. There’s more where that came from. “Nine minutes and forty-five seconds now. Better get moving, Ripley.”

  I hustle out of there so fast. I can’t wait for my night to really begin.

  4

  MY LUCKY NIGHT

  BANKS

  My dick hasn’t even had a chance to deflate when my phone rings thirty seconds later.

  Annoyed at the interruption, I reach for the device in my back pocket where I’ve been happily ignoring it since I met the most interesting woman I’ve encountered in ages. I don’t want to deal with a phone call right now while my mind is lasered in on Room 210 and all the ways I want to make Ripley come tonight.

  But you never know who’s calling. Could be Mom, or my sister Emily, or my landlord telling me a pipe’s burst. I guess pipes bursting are on my mind. I adjust myself surreptitiously in the booth, even though no one else is in this back corner of the bar. The phone bleats again as I wrestle it from my pocket.

  It’s…

  It’s a 415 number.

  My heart sprints.

  It’s the number of the San Francisco referral agency I met with a couple hours ago right here in this hotel where they conducted interviews with a few key candidates about a highly specialized contract job for a hush-hush client, they said. I flew up from Los Angeles for the meeting. Signed an NDA in advance, even though they didn’t share details of the client. But that’s par for the course in my field, where discretion and subtlety are mission critical. When the meeting ended, the guy told me they’d get back to me soon about the opportunity.

  I figured that meant when the fuck ever, so hurry up and wait.

  But a call mere hours later has got to be good. I try to tamp my excitement, but already I’m feeling damn good. Meeting a sexy-as-sin woman I vibe with and scoring a plum gig for our new firm in one night?

  I’m not a guy who believes in luck. But maybe I should. I answer it. “Banks here,” I say, cool and professional.

  “Hello, Banks. It’s Liam Halperin,” the man says. “We met earlier.”

  I laugh lightly. “Yes, I remember.”

  “Of course.” He clears his throat. “Listen, our client was impressed with your credentials, and they’re moving quickly on the project. Everything has come together quicker than expected. You know how it goes.”

  In the booth, I sit up straighter, zeroing in on the call as my hard-on vanishes. It’s business time now. “I do.”

  “We need to move fast and provide a full suite of services. And they’d like to hire your firm,” he says, then rattles off the parameters of the job and drops a key detail at the end. “And it’s a high-profile assignment.”

  No surprise. Most of them are. That’s the nature of my business. “You’ll have our utmost discretion.”

  “Excellent. Let me send you some more details over email. Then, we can connect you with the folks in the Los Angeles offices who handle logistics.”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  We hang up, and I pump a fist quietly.

  This is fantastic. Dean is going to lose his mind. We set up shop a year or so ago after working for others for years and have been eager to land some marquee clients. But I’ll tell him later. For now, I’ve got five minutes to grab a condom and get to Ripley’s room. Then I’ve got all night to take care of her before my early morning flight.

  As I slide out of the booth, snagging my tablet and the butterfly, my email pings. Love a quick-moving client. As I’m walking through the bar to the front desk, I click open the email.

  I read the name of the client. Ruby Horizons Film Productions. The work is on an upcoming movie.

  Sweet.

  We’ve been making inroads in the entertainment business, but this will help us make further strides for sure. A perfect area for Dean and me.

  I scan the email as I stride across the plush carpet but set it aside before I can finish reading. I’m at the front desk now and a cheery man with red hair and redder freckles smiles my way from behind the gleaming marble counter. “Good evening. What can I do for you?”

  I scan his name tag. “Evening, Spencer. Any chance you have condoms behind the desk, or anywhere nearby?”

  He gives a crisp nod. “Yes, we do. One minute.”

  Guess this isn’t his first time at the didn’t-bring-protection rodeo. As he steps away from the desk and disappears behind an open door into a small office, I return to the email, reading the rest of the details. The film shoots in Darling Springs. Production starts in a month. The lead actress is Haven Addison.

  There’s a picture attached. I download it right as Spencer returns from the office with a condom. Actually, three. Well, someone has a lot of faith in me. He hands me the trio. “Just in case.”

  I flash him the smile that a perfect wingman deserves. “Thank you, brother.”

  I pocket the condoms as the photo opens and the floor falls out from under me.

  In a heartbeat, all the evidence of tonight adds up as the name Ripley reverberates in my skull.

  Ripley’s Believe It or Not! Ripley from Alien. The Talented Mr. Ripley.

  Ripley’s gotta be the fake name that Haven uses. Because I’m staring at the image of the woman upstairs. The one expecting me to throw her onto the bed in less than thirty seconds.

  And she’s my new client.

  5

  CRUMPLE-WORTHY

  RIPLEY

  There.

  Not only have I cleaned up the pile of clothes, the laptop, and the farm merch from the bed, but I’ve spritzed on some lavender and vanilla body mist.

  In the en suite, I fluff out my hair, then take a breath. It’s been a long while. As in, a little over a year since my ex sliced my heart and broke my romance confidence when he moved across the country to open a new restaurant, giving me a quick goodbye, and saying, thanks for the small-town memories and fun times.

  Um, hello, it was a fucking relationship.

  But I do not want to think about Eric Patrick, of the two first names, blindsiding me. Since he took off, I’ve been all work, work, work, and I can’t help but wonder: Does sex still go the same? Has there been a new position, a new style, new kinks since I last had it oh, say, several eons ago?

  Well, let’s hope there are new kinks.

  That’d be nice.

  I take one last look at my reflection. I ditched the hoodie because what’s the point? It’s all coming off anyway. My ink is on full display now, birds soaring down my upper arm.

  I leave the bathroom, my gaze catching briefly on the origami bird Banks made for me. I’d set it on the nightstand when I swung open the door nine minutes and thirty seconds ago.

  Except.

  No. That looks like I’m clingy. Like it’s a keepsake I’ll treasure forever when this is just a one-night stand. I hurry over to grab it when there’s a knock on the door. My heart clatters around in my chest, my stomach swooping in excitement. Well, that man can kiss. I bet he can fuck.

  “Just a second,” I call out.

  “Of course,” a muffled voice answers as I grab the bird and drop it into—what do I do with it? It’s so cute, and I don’t want to crush it. Thinking fast, I rush to my suitcase, flip it open, and find an empty blue box. Haven brought me salted caramels from Elodie’s Chocolates, and we devoured them last night. Perfect. I put the bird inside so it doesn’t get crushed.

  Well, I like birds. That’s all.

  I stand and smooth a hand down my shirt, settling my nerves and my excitement, and head to the door.

  When I pass the clock, it vaguely occurs to me he’s two minutes late. Huh. Banks hardly seems like a man who’d ever be behind schedule. But I’ll have fun with that. I unlock the door, yanking it open while saying, “You’re late, but I’ll let you make it up to me if you put me on my hands and knees and give me a good, hard spanking.”

  Then, my dignity flies out the window as I come face-to-face with a man with red hair and a hospitality first smile. He’s holding a folded sheet of paper. Crisp. White.

  “I have a letter for you, ma’am.”

  I cringe, embarrassment gripping me in a tight noose. “I’m so sorry…I thought you were…I was expecting…”

  His smile never wavers. “No worries.” He dangles the letter. I wince, and like it contains anthrax, I take it while I search for an escape pod to hurl me through the black hole of dating and hookups and return me to Darling Springs.

  “Thanks,” I say, the word tasting like sour milk.

  “Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you. Champagne on the house?”

  So it’s that obvious I’ve been stood up. And that I was expecting a spanking, no less.

  But no one, not a damn soul, gets to feel sorry for me. I dealt with enough of that when I was in high school.

  I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and say, “Actually, if you could tell the valet to bring my car around.” I flash an apologetic smile, then improvise. “I was called home, so I have to leave right away.” I wave the paper airily, like I don’t care about his excuse, whatever it is. “Poor guy. He was so devastated when I told him I had to go early. But business calls.”

  The smile never leaves the man’s face. “Of course.”

  “Feel free to send that champagne to Banks…” I shrug, laughing off the fact I don’t know his last name or room number. “He’ll probably need it more than I do.”

  Then I shut the door, slump against it, and let out the world’s most frustrated sigh.

  I wish I could say I crumple up the note. But I don’t. I’m not that tough. I open it, dreading the words, but reading them anyway.

  Three lines.

  Three lines that feel like lies. Because the truth? The truth is that somewhere between then and now, Banks lost interest in me. Could be the way I kissed. Could be something I said. Or it could be that I wanted him too much.

  My stomach roils.

  Whatever the reason, he ditched me, and these excuses—these three little sentences—don’t change how foolish I feel.

  They’re crumple-worthy. I ball up the paper and toss it across the room. Then I pack my things at rocket speed, grab my bags, turn off the lights, and go.

  Less than two hours later, I’m driving along a winding road, nearing a wooden sign rising up in the hills, lit up at night and declaring: You’re entering Darling Springs.

  It’s bright and beckoning even in the starlight. I turn into town, leaving San Francisco, lying men, and failed one-night stands far behind.

  6

  MS. FIX IT

  RIPLEY

  A week later, Hudson trundles through the emerald hills covered in lavender bushes, a used and abused tennis ball in his mouth. I’m carefully snipping sprigs of Otto Quast lavender under the midmorning sun, phone pressed to my ear as the fast-talking, high-strung location scout at Ruby Horizons Productions rattles off not her schedule, but her sked, as if the two-syllable version takes too much time to say. “I have a Zoom, then I review some photos from another location. And I seriously need to find a kale smoothie with oat milk, not almond milk,” she says, like that last one won’t be possible here in Darling Springs.

  Oh, ye of little faith.

  “Go to The Oasis. It’s a cute little smoothie shop just past the community center. Get the Kale Yeah. It’s exactly what you’re looking for, and you can add honey or hold the honey—whatever works for you,” I say as I take the gift of the slobbery tennis ball and lob it down the hill for my Manchester-terrier-meets-cattle-dog mix with maybe some lab thrown in, but who really knows? He shoots off chasing it, all floppy ears, wagging tail, and endless drive.

  “They do?” It’s asked with utter astonishment.

  Yes, and we have Wi-Fi and electric cars here too. “Yup. And, fun fact—the kale comes straight from the Simmon family gardens on the outskirts of town. It’s run by the Darling Springs sheriff’s husband. He supplies some of the best restaurants in the city.”

  “Oh!”

  I’ve got Juniper’s attention now—now that she knows Darling Springs exports things to the big city of San Francisco.

  “And where is The Oasis?” She stops herself. “No worries. I’ll just plug it into my GPS. That works here.”

  Technology is truly amazing. But her this-town-is-Podunk-USA attitude aside, I’m happy to help the gal from Los Angeles. “I can take you on the way to our tour,” I offer.

  “That’d be great. Haven said you were helpful, but that’s above and beyond.”

  Today, I feel above and beyond, having smashed my to-do list. I’ve already fixed the floorboard in the farmhouse where key members of the cast and crew will stay (no falling through the boards here, thank you very much), emailed security and property specs to the logistics producer on the film, prepped the Loddon Blue bunches for the farmers market this afternoon, and updated the spreadsheets for Ramona to work on later when she reviews the books to see what we can’t keep in stock in the cute little on-site shop she runs, and what else is dragging us down.