The woman smiles. “Haven’t heard that one before. But it’s a good term. Now let’s see.” She rattles off options: “Rom-com? Dark romance? Mafia romance? Romantasy? Billionaire?”

  I snap my fingers. “The last one.”

  She finds me a book with a black and gold cover, and I grab it, then pick up a celebrity memoir for Mom, and a new Stephen King for me. After I buy them, I take off, heading over the bridge to Sausalito. I’m meeting my mom and sister for a quick lunch before the drive to Darling Springs today where I’ll have to face Haven again. I still have no clue how to handle it. I could ask the ladies in my life, but once we settle in at an outdoor table at a café overlooking Richardson Bay, they’re updating me on the latest in their worlds, so I keep my focus on them. As it should be. Just like my focus was on them when our lives capsized back when I was in high school, thanks to my dad. I don’t want to be like him. Ever.

  But near the end of the meal, Mom puts on her very concerned about her son face. “You seem distracted, Banks.”

  Distraction is bad in my line of business. No, it’s the kiss of death. “I’m all good.”

  “Is it the new business?” she asks, clearly not buying my lie.

  Ah, hell.

  Best to deal with the distraction right now so I can do my job later. I can’t risk the company Dean and I are building. Well, any more than I might already have. “How do I apologize? For fucking something up badly?”

  “Language,” Mom says.

  “For messing something up badly,” I quickly correct.

  “How badly?” Emily asks, parking her chin in her hand, like she’s ready to break out the popcorn.

  I drag a hand through my hair and sigh heavily. “Pretty badly,” I say, but then shut the hell up. There’s not much more I can say. I signed an NDA. I can’t tell them who I’m working for even if it gets out soon. I’ll just have to…

  Do better this time around.

  “I’ll figure it out,” I say, then pay for the meal when we’re done and head on my way.

  As I drive to Darling Springs blasting Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5 since it suits my angsty mood, I mentally prep to see Haven again.

  When she finds out I’m on the team that’s been hired, she’ll likely either one, fire my ass into next year; two, call me all kinds of names then slay me with her sexy eyes (if she doesn’t knee me in the balls); or three, kiss her co-star, since she’s already forgotten all about me.

  I growl, unbidden at the thought of option three. But one is most likely. I just have to hope Dean is around to cover for me if she does pull the it’s him or me card.

  Facts are facts—I kissed the lead actress and was making plans to fuck her. I’m man enough to handle the consequences now. I hope Dean will understand when he finds out.

  That night, though, I didn’t know who Haven Addison even was. I definitely didn’t know she’d been cast on the film, or that it was a film client since the referral firm hadn’t shared the details with me.

  But on my flight home to Los Angeles—I switched it to that night and got the hell out of there—I googled Haven Addison and learned she’s a twin. Learned, too, that her identical twin sister, Ripley, runs a lavender farm in Darling Springs.

  Doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together. Haven must use her sister’s name when she’s out and about. No wonder she was so emphatic about the name Ripley. Haven really wanted me to think she wasn’t Haven, understandably.

  But when I googled pics of the two of them, I noticed a few key details. Haven always polishes her nails. Ripley never does. Yet that night, Haven-posing-as-Ripley had cotton-candy-pink nails.

  Haven-posing-as-Ripley also dropped that bit about mulch into the convo, maybe to underscore she wasn’t Haven.

  But c’mon.

  Nails aside, of course it was Haven-posing-as-Ripley. The woman was in the same damn hotel where I’d had a meeting about the film Haven’s starring in. The same night the film got the green light. Plus, there’s what she said when I made her the origami bird.

  I just got some wild news. Then, she added, it’s a huge project.

  And of course it makes perfect sense that an actress would use a fake name when she’s at a bar and meeting a guy, especially after a jackass hit on her.

  The evidence added up.

  I wasn’t going to take a chance at risking a reputation our firm has just started to build. One wrong step and all our work could go down the drain. I learned the hard way from my liar of a father how precious your reputation is. So I walked away rather than risking it.

  I chose the careful path.

  With Haven’s star rising she’ll need to be even more careful when she’s out in public, when she meets random guys. I can help her with that. That’s what I do. I can give her some tips and strategies.

  If she doesn’t kick me in the balls, that is. Like I probably deserve.

  I take the exit for Darling Springs, hoping my balls stay intact. Once I’m driving down Main Street, my phone rings. I turn off the fourth movement when I see it’s the logistics producer with Ruby Horizons.

  “Banks here,” I say.

  Tabitha wastes no time. “Change of plans. We need to get you started, stat. There’s a situation.”

  8

  GOOD-ISH

  RIPLEY

  I’m riding toward Main Street on my purple beach cruiser, with a bike basket of lavender bouquets slated for the gourmet market. I told Salma, the owner, I’d have this delivery to her by 2:00 p.m.—fresh and on time—for the early Thursday evening wave of what’s for dinner shoppers.

  Ordinarily, I’d send Cyrus with the delivery, but he took a mental health day. Which is fine. I’m all for mental health days. It’s a little annoying when he also posts pics on social about how great the waves are at the nearest beach.

  Which I only know he posted about because Ramona stomped out of the shop earlier, waggling her phone, her curls wild, her dark eyes determined to get her due, declaring she wanted to go surfing, too, like Cyrus and his boyfriend. But like a good girl, she was waiting for her day off.

  “And I appreciate you coming to work,” I told Ramona.

  “Thank you,” she said with a proud lift of her chin.

  “I’ll get you a treat,” I said.

  “That would be great,” she said, and I gave myself a mental note to thank Chloe for that tip since she’s a self-proclaimed practitioner of treat culture, getting herself rewards when she finishes errands and such.

  As I near The Sweet Spot, the scent of cinnamon banana bread wafts out the open door of the white storefront that’s decorated with pink polka dots. I’ll snag some for Ramona on my return.

  I’m nearly past the shop when someone shouts: “Ripley!”

  I slam on the brakes, then turn toward Katrina, the makeup-free and ever-so-casual owner of the bakery. Except, now she’s the owner of the longest lashes and reddest lips I’ve seen. But the change in her makeup routine aside, maybe she sensed I was entering the treat zone. She races to the curb, where I stopped my bike.

  “Hi, Katrina. I was just inhaling the banana bread,” I say, tipping my forehead to the storefront.

  “Great. Awesome. So good. That’s fantastic,” she says at the speed of a locomotive as she brushes her hands over her white apron with, you guessed it, pink polka dots all over it. “I’ll get you some right away. But first, is he here? Is it true? Is he with her?” She flaps a hand in front of her face and takes a deep breath, settling her obvious excitement. “Because if he’s not, I think it might be my chance.”

  But what the heck is she talking about? “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Chris Carlisle,” she says reverently, her voice breaking.

  Suddenly, the makeover makes all the sense in the world. “I don’t think he’s in town yet.”

  “Does he like banana bread? Will you take some to him? Tell him it’s from me. I think he’ll like it. I went to Tell Me Your Tarot and she said the man of my dreams was coming to town soon. And I am sure it’s him. But if he’s involved with your sister, I take it all back,” she says, then holds up her flour-covered hands in surrender. “I would never go after your or her guy or anyone’s guy.”

  This is more info than I expected at one forty-five in the afternoon. But everything comes into focus now—why she burst out when she saw me. Like I’m the keeper of all the intel. “I have no idea if he likes banana bread, but who doesn’t like it? Also, I don’t think he’s involved with Haven.”

  She squeaks. That’s the only way to describe the high-pitched sound that exits her mouth. “Be right back.” She flies into her shop and returns with a white paper bag seconds later, thrusting it at me. “Take it. In case you see him. Tell him it’s from Katrina Goldstein, owner of The Sweet Spot.”

  “But what if I don’t see him?”

  “Then it’s yours, and I’ll make you more tomorrow for him.”

  It does smell good. Maybe Ramona’s not the only one who deserves a treat. “Okay, thanks.” I take the bag and set it in the basket next to the bouquets of Grosso, a type of French lavender that’s among the most popular.

  I thank her, then shake my head in amusement as I leave. Is this the town’s new norm—obsessing over New Chris?

  After I pedal across the street, I pull over by a parklet for the breakfast café that’s now closed for the rest of the day. Jamming a hand into my back pocket, I grab my phone right as it rings with Haven’s ringtone.

  “Hey. Is there something you’ve been meaning to tell me?” I ask playfully.

  “As a matter of fact, there is,” she says.

  Not the answer I expected, so I straighten, on alert as I switch to AirPods and Bluetooth. “So you are involved with New Chris?”

  She snort-laughs. “Oh god no.” She takes a pause. Blows out a breath. “Buuuut.” She says it like it has five syllables. “Everyone thinks we are because we had lunch the other day.”

  “Haven, haven’t I told you? Lunch means you’re engaged.”

  “I’m sure they’ll say that next. It’s all over a bunch of celebrity sites—the photo from lunch. Page Six and VIP Vibes and a bunch of others. We were talking about the movie, and I was showing him a picture of the farm on my phone. I leaned close to him, and he leaned into me…”

  Of course. “And that’s the shot they got?”

  “Yes,” she says with remorse.

  I hate to do this, but it’s best to be prepared, so I google Chris. And holy shit. The first thing that pops up is the image of them at a white wooden table at a sidewalk café, surrounded by tall potted plants, looking like a couple, all close and snuggly, his hand on her arm.

  “It’s only his hand on your arm,” I say. I still feel queasy because I know that, but others won’t see just a hand on an arm. They’ll see the start of a new celebrity romance.

  “And now,” she continues, “the gossip sites are saying he asked to be on the movie so he could be with me.”

  “Oh.” I process this twist. “Is that good or bad?”

  “It’s good-ish. Good adjacent,” she says, like she’s hedging her bets.

  “Elaborate.” I check the time. I told Salma I’d be at the market in five minutes.

  “Well, it’s great because the movie is getting more buzz, and so is the farm and the town here.” She seems to be laying out all the good news before she gets to the bad bits. “But Ruby Horizons is increasing security for the film.”

  My shoulders relax. That’s not bad news at all. “That’s great, actually.” I check the street and continue down the bike lane, chatting as I ride slowly. “You can’t be too careful in this day and age. Seems like a normal thing on a film shoot, right?”

  I can actually hear her gulp as I pedal.

  “Haven,” I press. “What is it?”

  “It’s not just more security in general. I mean, this is Chris Carlisle. He has photogs following him everywhere.”

  “Paparazzi still exist?”

  She laughs, but not cruelly. “They do. There’s this idea that they don’t because of the rise of cell phones, but there’s a big difference between a photo taken by someone with a long-range lens and a photo taken with a cell phone camera by just anyone.”

  That’s fair. “Sure, they have skills.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But with social media and celebs posting their own stuff, there’s still value?”

  “Yes. Because sometimes the public only wants an unposed photo. The uncurated moment. Like right now. Everyone’s supposedly dying to get a picture of us kissing. Something that would make it official.” She sounds annoyed, and that’s not her usual MO.

  “And you’re definitely not involved with him?” I ask.

  “Ripley! No. I’d tell you. I’m not involved with him.”

  “Why doesn’t he deny you’re a couple then?”

  “Because denial would look even more like we’re involved.”

  My head spins. “It would?”

  “Yes. There’s a long history of actors and celebrities denying they’re in a relationship, especially when they’re filming, then admitting it later. And often it comes out later that they were together during the film but then split up afterward. Which means if they admit it too early, then break up during the film—as, let’s be honest, often happens—you have a PR mess.”

  Forget spinning. I have whiplash. “But you’re not even involved with him.”

  “I know! But that’s my point. If you deny a rumor, you look like a couple that’s, well, trying to hide a relationship, so that makes the paparazzi even more hungry for a picture. It’s like feeding a troll.”

  Ahh. I suppose that does make sense. Hollywood sense. “Got it.”

  “Which is why it’s better to ignore it or not comment on it till it dies down,” she adds.

  “So what does all this Hollywood logic mean?”

  “Well, Chris travels with his own security and he’s arriving in Darling Springs today.”

  “Why is he here earlier than you?”

  “It’s part of his process,” she says.

  “Method actor?”

  “I guess.” She pauses, a weighty beat that’s a sign she’s about to tell me something I might not like. “They’ve always been planning on getting me a bodyguard for the shoot. Because of the book’s success and all.”

  “And yours,” I point out. “Don’t forget you were on a very successful streaming show.”

  I can hear her smile, then turn serious again. “I’ve never had a bodyguard before, but Ruby Horizons is a very cautious company, and they take safety seriously. They think it’s a wise idea.”

  “But again, that’s not bad news. That’s good news,” I say.

  She sighs happily. “I’m so glad you said that because⁠—”

  There’s a siren on her end, and I can’t hear the next thing she says as I near the market, which has a line outside the door. Good for Salma. I’m glad her place is becoming more popular.

  “Sorry, Haven. I didn’t hear you,” I say as I slow near the bike racks.

  “I said I’m so glad you said that because now they’ve decided they’re sending one for you too.”

  I always thought it was just a saying—I stop in my tracks. I thought it was along the lines of an I did a double take or I spat out my drink.

  But I literally stop in my bike tracks like I’ve hit an invisible wall. “Why the hell are they sending a bodyguard for me?”

  Then I catch my reflection in the window of The Slippery Dipper, next to the market, and have my answer. Except for the ink flying down my right arm—visible in my white tank top—I’m the spitting image of the woman rumored to be dating a bona fide known-around-the-world movie star.

  Still. I don’t want or need a goon following me around my hometown all day.

  “Because we look alike,” Haven says apologetically.

  “Right, but a bodyguard is a hundred percent unnecessary. I know literally everyone in Darling Springs. And they know me. No one here confuses me for you.”

  “But there are so many new people coming to town. Tourists, the crew, the press, and so on. It’ll only be for the next few days, and then for the shoot itself. It’s a good idea, like you said. Mace can only do so much,” she says, all upbeat as she sells me something I definitely don’t want.

  I have enough happening in my life and business right now—managing the farm, the employees, and the deliveries, not to mention the freaking location shoot at my home and place of business.

  “It sounds like a terrible idea,” I correct her. “I live a normal life in a small town. I’m not a celebrity. I’m a farmer, for bee’s sake.”

  But Haven’s already making the case. “This firm is great though. It’s run by a couple former Marines and⁠—”

  I lose the rest when a pale, stocky man in jeans, a backward baseball cap, and a black T-shirt appears out of nowhere. He trots beside the bike, gets in my face, a camera around his neck.

  Holy shit. Haven was right. These guys are good at staying hidden. I didn’t even see him coming.

  “How’s Chris?” the man barks. “Is he here yet? Is everything good with him?”

  What?

  “Are you two going out tonight? Bet you’re excited to see him.”

  I’m so flustered by the bizarrely mundane way he asks the questions as he snaps pictures of me that my tire smacks into the bike rack, knocking me off-kilter.

  I wobble on the bicycle, the bouquets and banana bread toppling out of the basket. I slam a sneaker on the sidewalk and hop off the bike as it’s falling.

  Haven’s tinny voice grows faint in my ear. “He’s already on his way to handle advance security.”

  A man made only of muscle swoops in between me and the photog, catching my shoulder, then wrapping an arm around me while steadying the bike in one smooth motion. “I’ve got you,” he says. Then, to the guy, he says, “That’s enough.”

  Two words. Stern. Commanding. Clear.

  The photographer backs off, and before I can process what just happened, the sturdy man scoops the bouquets and the bag of banana bread from the sidewalk, slides my bike into the rack, and then whisks me away, an arm wrapped protectively around my shoulder.