Like the lavender maze off in a corner of the farm. Hardly anyone comes to that, which needs to change. I could add fairy lights at night and make it a fun date destination. It’s a twisty, curly series of hedges, with dead ends and paths that lead to a clearing in the middle. We seriously need to get more tourism going to keep this place afloat when it’s not summertime. I also want to start promoting have-your-own-picnics here. Some of my lavender farm friends in Washington State have been making extra money by charging a few bucks for folks who want a nice place to enjoy a picnic lunch—in this case, in the lavender fields. It’s an easy way to make money off our best asset—the flowers in bloom.

  For now, though, best I stay focused on the film prep. The crew arrives in three weeks. Only twenty-one more days. Today’s tour is yet another item on my get-ready-in-record-time list. I’ve been busier than ever since Mister Ditch-A-Girl-In-Seconds-Flat sent the desk clerk to do his bidding last week. I’ve been nothing but nonstop energy. I haven’t even thought about the ghoster. I don’t have time. Not when the climactic wedding scene in Someone Else’s Ring is going to be shot here on the farm, as well as, oh, about ten others.

  Today’s goal? Keep Juniper happy. She’s my main contact with the production company. If she’s happy, she’ll—I hope—say nice things to Tabitha, the logistics producer, then Vega, the director, about this town. If the director’s in a good mood, that’ll help the shoot. If the shoot goes well, my sister’s happy. When my sister’s happy, she can pour her big, squishy heart into her role.

  Not to mention what it’ll do for the farm. But Haven first.

  As Hudson artfully lopes through the blue and purple flowers that form the world’s prettiest outdoor carpet—he’s learned to run through the bushes like it’s an obstacle course for big mutts—I tell Juniper I’ll be there soon. I finish clipping the Otto Quast and take it to Cyrus in the shop, who’s rocking out to something from the looks of it, his shaggy head of hair bobbing. He’s got sunscreen streaks all across his pale arms. He’s as religious about applying it as he is about worshipping the sun.

  When I reach him, he turns down his music. He’s listening to the Bob’s Burgers soundtrack. Again. “Thanks, bro,” he says, since he calls everyone bro, regardless of gender. “I’ll add it to the herb stash. But not my personal herb stash.”

  “Appreciate that,” I say dryly, hoping he’s not seriously considering smoking the product.

  I peel off my purple gardening gloves and head inside the farmhouse, lured by the yummy scent of butter and dough, and a cheery voice echoing from the kitchen.

  “On n’est pas des robots.”

  My grandmother repeats the French phrase in her warm, husky tone as she rolls out dough for croissants. “On n’est pas des robots. We are not robots.”

  I arch a dubious brow. “Do you really think you’re going to vouch for your humanity in Paris someday?”

  She looks up from her rolling pin, giving a you never know shrug. “It’s possible, love.”

  “I don’t know if you’re open-minded or prepared for anything,” I say as I head to the big sink to wash my hands.

  “Both,” she says, and that is my grandmother in a nutshell.

  “Je suis un docteur,” the app singsongs.

  Over my shoulder, I side-eye her phone. “I am a doctor?”

  “Some doctors might be using this app to learn French too,” she says.

  I turn off the water and dry my hands. “Even if you were a doctor, would you be spouting that phrase in Paris?” I raise an arm grandly, like I’m marching through town. “Attention! Je suis un docteur.” I come around, squeeze her shoulders. “Maybe time for a new French app, Grandma?”

  But the robotic voice chatters on, saying, “Je mange du beurre.”

  My grandma’s blue eyes brighten, crinkling at the corners. “Ooh! I knew it. That one is useful. I am eating butter.”

  I use the diversion to pinch off a sliver of the dough and pop it in my mouth. “Me too.”

  She waves a blue-and-white-striped kitchen towel my way, shooing me out of there. “You were never able to wait, Ripley,” she tuts.

  “Why should I?”

  “It tastes better when it’s, you know, done.”

  “I guess I just like to live dangerously,” I say.

  “And the gray hairs on my head are proof.”

  “You don’t have any gray hairs!”

  She shakes her head of platinum-blond hair like a shampoo model. “Only my stylist knows the truth.”

  I bring a finger to my lips. “And Kyle never tells.”

  “Exactly.” She points to the door. “Now go, you croissant thief.”

  I flash her a gotcha smile. “Bet you’ll need to say that in French.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Au revoir!”

  “Bye, Grandma,” I say, shifting to practical mode now. “I need to take Juniper around town, but I’ll be back in a few hours. Also, when you see Ramona, remind her we need more bottles of lotion for⁠—”

  “The Slippery Dipper,” she supplies. “I know. I used to run this place.”

  She ran Lavender Bliss Farms for years, before my parents died, and after too. Much longer than she planned to. Now, she takes care of the bees. She loves bees, and bees are cool. Also, they get along great with flowers, so we like to give bees a good home.

  “And now you get to make croissants and study French and possibly go to Paris,” I say, hoping she hears the gratitude in my voice for all she’s done.

  “Peut-être,” she says. I’ve learned by osmosis that means both perhaps and maybe. I prefer perhaps since that’s more hopeful. Grandma wants to spend the fall in Paris with her boyfriend, Laurent, a handsome Frenchman she met on a cruise last year.

  And dammit, she will. As long as I can keep this place in the black. The film should help that if everything goes as planned. After grabbing a canvas bag, I stuff it with some lavender goodies, then head out to the garage. I hop into my pickup truck—electric, Juniper, imagine that—and drive off to the inn a couple of miles away.

  I trot up the steps and dart into the lobby, ready to say hello to Bridget, one of my besties and inn owner extraordinaire, but my plans are thwarted when the businesslike-during-the-day brunette is chatting amiably with a guest. “Of course we’ll make sure you have hot towels in your room every morning,” Bridget tells the man.

  I walk behind the guest, furrowing my brow and mouthing, “Hot towels? WTF?” at Bridget, but she keeps smiling, masterful at ignoring my shenanigans.

  I beeline to the lobby library, where a woman with bright-blue hair, a porcelain complexion, black glasses, and a camera slung around her neck stands against a tall bookshelf. She’s bent over a phone, swiping across the screen. “Ready for some Kale Yeah?” I ask Juniper.

  She smiles. At least, I think it’s a smile. The corner of her lips moves maybe a millimeter. “Yes. Just checking my Helios Pro,” she says, her brow creased with worry.

  “Cool,” I say, because I have no clue what that is.

  “It’s an app that tracks the sun at different locations,” she adds, like she needs to justify what she’s up to. Maybe she’s under a lot of pressure for this film shoot too. That makes sense.

  “Glad you have it then,” I say, and she tells me more about it as we head to my truck. How she needs to make absolutely certain what the light’s like at different places and times, and yup, she’s stressed. Who isn’t these days? I listen to her as she goes on about permits next, since I suspect that’s what she needs—an ear.

  We hit the smoothie shop, and she seems a touch calmer once she’s sucking green liquid through a straw. We walk to the community center a block away. After a quick pit stop there, where we meet my friend Chloe’s mom and Juniper asks her about using some of the local community theater actors to play extras in the film since Chloe’s mom’s the director, we head to Josiah’s Hardware.

  Once we arrive, I snag a small pot of the Loddon Blue from the bed of the truck and go inside. I spot the affable owner offering a Churu to a fluffy orange cat who saunters across the counter like he’s going to take the cat treat, but then snaps his furry head toward me, eyes bugging out before he flies off the wood, racing who the hell knows where.

  Josiah shrugs when he sees me, apologizing for the feline. “Cats.”

  “Cats,” I second.

  I know Josiah well. His family is from Haiti, but he doesn’t speak with an accent since he was born here. He was a friend of my father’s, and they went fishing together on weekends.

  A warm smile coasts across his weathered face. “I’ve told Sheldon you’re friendly. I’ve told him you’ve always been friendly, but…”

  “But cats,” I say, handing him the pot, then gesture to the blue-haired woman with me. “And I believe you know Juniper Claire from Ruby Horizons.”

  “Sure do. Met the other week. Sheldon likes you,” he says to Juniper.

  “I’m a cat person,” she says, and I file that detail away.

  Especially since it just tracks.

  Juniper quickly shifts gears, noting she needs to double check the power supply options in the store for the shoot. As they chat, I grab some of the paint he’d told me he’d set aside for me as part of our regular trades, and I load the tins up in the truck.

  On the way back into town, we drive past the local university, an enclave of learning and cherry blossom trees. Both are quiet during the summer, but I point out the quad where the trees bloom gloriously each April, then the small art museum just beyond, which recently hosted a pop art exhibit that brought new crowds to the town.

  We pull over on Main Street to pay a visit to The Slippery Dipper, where a key scene in the film will take place. Outside the lotions-and-potions shop hangs a cheeky awning with a black-and-white illustration of a cartoon woman in an old-fashioned bathtub, taking a sudsy shower. Juniper stops under it, swiping on her screen, perhaps recording sunlight amounts, or I dunno, checking to see if her kale levels have slipped too low.

  When she’s done, I grab the handle of the door, but then pause before opening it. “I swear this guy here—his name is Noah—is like some kind of romance soothsayer.”

  That seems to perk her interest. She cocks her head. “Really? In what way?”

  “He seems to know exactly what every dude in town needs,” I say, then an irksome thought lands in my head. Banks could have used Noah’s help. He would definitely have benefitted from some serious guidance because ghosting a one-night stand before the deed is not okay.

  But then I dismiss the thought.

  There’s no help for that man I met in San Francisco. Some guys just aren’t worth the trouble. Like the ones who kiss you breathless then disappear without a trace, leaving you feeling like a complete and utter fool.

  I’d never have had time for romance anyway. Fine, fine, it was only going to be a one-night stand, but even that would have occupied too much space in my head. It’s a good thing the night with Banks didn’t happen.

  It really, really is.

  A few hours later, after I drop off Juniper at The BookHouse, I’ve crossed another item off my to-do list. “I should go recharge now,” she says, and briefly I picture her plugging herself into a wall socket so she can handle her job tomorrow.

  Once I’m home, I grab my gloves, ready to hit the farm chores again, but I stop on my way through the kitchen. There’s a package from Haven waiting on the kitchen counter. Grandma must have brought it in and left it for me.

  I open it, grabbing the card on top of the gift.

  You’re the best. I don’t know what I’d do without you. I can’t wait to see you soon.

  Then, there’s a packet of biodegradable tennis balls for my dog. My heart warms. Haven knows the way to my heart.

  I show Hudson and he wags his tail, ready again, no recharge necessary.

  I spend the next few weeks prepping, then finally catching my breath at Prohibition Spirit with my best girlfriends—Chloe and Bridget—a few nights before my sister and the crew arrive.

  Inside the whiskey bar with the rich deep-red upholstery and high windows, we order old-fashioneds. “Coming right up,” the bartender-owner says in a honey voice worthy of a torch singer as jazz music plays faintly overhead.

  When she plunks them down a few minutes later, she locks her big eyes with mine. Tiny silver skull earrings line both ears from lobe to top. Matching skulls snake across her arms, and a silver stud is parked in the side of her nose. “All right, Addison. Who do I need to fuck around here to get my bar on the location list?”

  For a few seconds, I draw a blank. I didn’t know Esmeralda Polanco was so…blunt. “I…”

  She points at my chest. “Oh, you?” She’s so deadpan I don’t know if she means it.

  “I swear it’s not up to me,” I say, holding up my hands in surrender. “I was just helping the location scout.”

  But Esmeralda cracks a smile, then slaps the counter. “Just giving you a hard time, girl. I don’t want my bar in the film. Earlier today this place was crawling with amateur photogs. I swear I had to swat ’em out of here with my extra-large broom.” Then she wiggles her eyebrows. “The one I fly on at night.”

  Relieved she’s not annoyed, I laugh too. “Oh good. I mean, it’s not good that you’re…but it’s good…”

  Bridget sets a hand on my shoulder. “What Ripley means is tell us every dirty detail.”

  “Yes, and leave nothing out,” Chloe adds.

  Esmeralda leans in, tips her forehead to the door, and says, “There was a tour group trying to get in before I even opened. Some local guide from the city is offering tours of Darling Springs. A Hollywood hot spot,” she says.

  “Oh, wow. Already?” I ask.

  “Evidently. With the book having been such a hit, the new game is guessing which local spots represent which places from the book. But that’s not even the big news.” She leans closer. “I heard today the male lead was recast. Now, Chris Carlisle is playing him.”

  “The… New Chris?” I ask, a little starstruck. Haven didn’t mention this—and surely she’d have mentioned the sexy superstar who pretty much guarantees box office success. He’s the it guy in Hollywood these days after Bangable, his sleeper rom-com hit, became a global phenom last year thanks to word of mouth and word of abs. Chris’s, of course.

  “And if you see me wearing more makeup when he arrives, you’ll know why,” Esmeralda says, then pantomimes fishing and reeling in a big one. When she catches the imaginary fish—it’s gotta be fifty pounds at least—she nods to a group of new customers who just grabbed stools. “I’ll catch you chickies later.”

  I turn to my friends. “Chris Carlisle?”

  “I’m asking Haven right now!” Chloe taps out a text message, since she was friends with Haven when we were in school too. But Haven doesn’t reply right away, and all they find on the internet are rumors, so we table the hunt, lifting our drinks instead and toasting.

  “Here’s to prepping a farmhouse, a farm, and a cottage for a whole damn crew,” Bridget says to me.

  Chloe lifts her glass too. “That was an impressive feat, Mrs. Fix It. Even for you.”

  I blow on my nails, unpolished. I borrowed Chloe’s polish remover the day after I returned from San Francisco and scrubbed that color right off, going back to me as quickly as I could. As I take a drink, I think of Grandma and her dreams, the ones she set aside when our parents died. I think of my sister and her hopes. The one I feared she’d never realize during those dark days when she was younger. When I made it my mission to look out for her. Always. To fix whatever I could for her since I could never fix the hole in her heart from losing our mom and dad.

  Finally, their dreams are close to coming true.

  That night as I crawl into bed next to Hudson, a message blinks up on my phone. Finally, it’s Haven. I click it open instantly.

  Haven: I was doing some interviews for Vanity Fair about the new guard in Hollywood. Is this my life?

  Ripley: Yes, and you’re the new guard!

  Haven: THIS IS SO WEIRD! And Yes, New Chris is on the movie, and I’m trying not to freak out. The producers want to make some last-minute changes.

  My stomach sinks. Are they recasting her? I don’t even want to touch that, but I have to.

  Ripley: Like what? Everything OK with you?

  Haven: I’m great! And they’re just adding a few more people. I’ll call you tomorrow. But don’t worry.

  That sounds ominous, but I tell myself not to let it bother me. I’m not sure I listen though.

  7

  A STANDARD RAISER

  BANKS

  With my jaw ticking tightly like the clock as it moves closer to the inevitable, I thumb through a shelf in the etiquette section at An Open Book in San Francisco on a Thursday morning. My notorious nerves of steel feel like they’re made of spaghetti as I think about seeing her again. There’s got to be a book here to help me. I scan for something, anything, to guide me through this terrible mess I haven’t figured out how to undo for the last twenty-six days. As I’m searching futilely, a woman with red hair and red glasses comes over to me. “Is there anything I can get for you?”

  A do-over? A time machine? A better plan than leaving a fucking letter for a woman I wanted to spend the whole damn night with?

  “I’m all good, thanks,” I say, then think the better of it. “Actually, I need a new book for my sister. She likes, um…” I hesitate, thinking about what Emily calls her favorite romances. “A standard raiser?”