My skin is buzzing.

  My heart is hammering.

  And my mind is whirling with brand-new fantasies of a wildly protective man who saves the day. A hero with thick thighs, flat abs, and sturdy pecs. A man with a trim beard on his chiseled jaw, and tattoos on his arms of steel.

  Tattoos with geometric shapes that tickle my memory.

  I steal another glance at this tall, ripped body next to mine, enjoying the view, thank you very much, up until my gaze lands squarely on a very familiar face.

  My new bodyguard is none other than The One Who Ran Away.

  9

  HELL-FIERY

  BANKS

  “Are you kidding me?”

  With fire in her blue eyes, she rips away from me at the corner of Main Street. I don’t grab Ripley since that’d defeat the purpose of my help. The last thing we need is a scene. The last thing I need is to get in trouble for putting hands on a client.

  Even an angry one.

  I’d been warned on my call with the logistics producer moments ago that the twin sister probably wouldn’t want security. But a lot of regular people don’t. Calming someone down is part of the job. “I’m your new bodyguard. I’m only here to make sure you’re safe, Ripley,” I say, trying to appeal like it’s a basic human need.

  Safety is important to emphasize. It’s something we all want. Food, shelter, safety, love—things many people don’t get in life.

  She rolls those pretty blue eyes next. “Right. Sure. That’s your goal.” She reaches for the bouquets of lavender I’m holding. Probably a half dozen.

  Ah, my trump card while I manage a client who doesn’t want to be a client—a good game of keep-away. I wrap an arm tighter around the flowers, keeping a grip on the bag of baked goods, too, in case that’s what she’s angling for the most.

  “Oh, c’mon. Give me my things,” she says. “I want to make my delivery and get my bike.”

  “In a minute, of course. Let’s chat first,” I say, trying to let her know I’m on her side.

  She huffs, staring me down fiercely. “What is your deal?”

  Fiery doesn’t really cut it with this one. More like hell-fiery.

  “I’m part of the team working on the film. I’ve been assigned to you,” I say. Just a few minutes ago, in fact. I glance around, checking behind us, down the street, across from it. Sure, there are townspeople and tourists milling about. A block away, a woman pushing a jogging stroller turns into a white-and-pink bakery. Down the road, a man stops outside a tattoo shop, checking out the designs in the window. Most importantly, though, we’re out of sight of the photogs who stalk Chris Carlisle incessantly. Still, I really don’t want to have this conversation on the street.

  Near the end of the block, a pack of women in varying shades of pastel yoga attire streams into a yoga studio. Next to that is a coffee shop, and on the sidewalk outside sits a chalkboard sign with a peach-colored coffee-cup drawing. Steam curls from the top of the cup, beckoning.

  “Let’s duck into Pick Me Up.”

  “Yes, Banks. That sounds great. I really want to get coffee with you,” she says dryly.

  This is going to be so fun. Both sisters probably hate me. But at least Ripley knows my name. That has to be a good sign. When my firm first landed the gig with the film last month, the plan was to provide security for the shoot itself. Now, with Chris Carlisle on the movie, coupled with the rumors about Haven and him, the key players are getting close protection officers. Tabitha asked me to personally handle security for Ripley when she called a few minutes ago. That call was brief, but Tabitha said she’d given my name to Haven, so Haven must have passed it on to her sister. At least Haven hasn’t canned me yet, but it seems she’s definitely given Ripley the low-down on our almost rendezvous.

  “We should get away from crowds,” I say, keeping my tone so goddamn calm and relaxed, like I’ve been trained to do.

  “No.” She’s emphatic as she wiggles her fingers at the bouquets in my hand. “Gimme my flowers and we can go. Like I told my sister, I don’t need a babysitter.”

  Ah, hell.

  They both definitely hate me. Of course they hate me. Fuck my life.

  “I’m sure you don’t, but let’s chat in the shop, and I’ll give you your things,” I say, trying to wrest control of a difficult client.

  She folds her arms over her chest, sneering at me. “You’re actually holding my Grosso bouquets hostage?”

  “Gross? That seems a little harsh. I think they’re okay.” I take a deep inhale of the pretty flowers.

  “Grosso, and they’re more than okay. They’re some of my customers’ favorites.” Ripley sighs. “And you’re sniffing all over them. Real nice.”

  “I’m not the enemy here,” I say, frustrated, pointing toward the door.

  She stares at the flowers even harder. “But you have my flowers.”

  For a few seconds, I’m not sure who’s going to cave because this woman is staring at me like she’s the zombie slayer and I’m the undead she’s been waiting to obliterate. But after a tense face-off, she relents, marching ahead to the shop. Fast. Like she’s going to race-walk in the Olympics fast. Like she thinks she’ll lose me with her pace.

  That’s cute.

  But my long legs eat up the sidewalk and in seconds I’m ahead of her, reaching for the door, holding it open.

  “Aww, you are a gentleman after all,” she says.

  I wince but try not to let it show at the particular use of that word.

  “Hey, Ripley,” a woman with a fair complexion and big black glasses calls out as she works the espresso machine.

  “Hey, Callie,” Ripley says, all friendly, the polar opposite of the tone she’s taken with me.

  “The usual?”

  “Later. I have to deal with”—she tosses a careless glance my way—“a hiccup in my schedule.”

  The woman smiles. “Hiccups are the worst.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  She storms to the back of the shop, then stops by an empty table in the corner next to a worn leather couch with cracks in it. Across from the couch is a scratched wooden table, covered with stacks of vintage board games and coffee-table art books.

  Ripley parks her hands on her hips. “I’d like my things. I need to take them to the store. I’m late for my delivery. That’s where I was going, you know.”

  “Yes, when the paparazzo showed up. That guy with the ballcap? That’s Silas. He gives no fucks. He works a lot for Page Six. He’s been on Carlisle since Bangable took off. I’m sure that photo of you is going to be on the internet any minute,” I tell her, then shrug. “Until they realize you’re the twin.”

  She slow claps. “Bravo. You can observe. So impressive. But observe this, buddy.” She strides away from the corner, pointing wildly to the front of the store. “No one followed us down the street. Or in here. So someone took a pic of the twin. Big deal. Whatever.” Then she holds her arms out wide, like she’s saying no harm, no foul. “I’m fine. Just fine. Let me be.”

  At least I haven’t been fired yet. At least I haven’t screwed over Dean yet.

  I try to take solace in those facts. “And it’s my job to make sure you continue to be just fine. There are going to be a ton of new people in town. Camera crews and the press. Tourists. Not to mention more paps. But that’s only the start of it. Regular people have become the paps. Everyone is a photographer. They’re going to be looking at you because you look⁠—”

  “Just like my sister.” She stares hard at me. “Dude, I know.” She gestures emphatically to her chest, her stomach, her thighs. “I’ve lived in this body for thirty years. I am well aware I look just like her. You don’t need to mansplain it to me.”

  “It wasn’t mansplaining,” I say, defensively, except…shit. I was. I nod, taking that one on the chin. “You’re right. That was patronizing, and I’m sorry. I understand you don’t want a close protection officer, but the film company approved one for Haven, and they want one for you too. I promise I’ll do my best to be unobtrusive and stay out of the way.”

  She snorts. “Your best? I mean, it shouldn’t be that hard. You’re pretty good at staying out of the way, Banks.” She spits out my name like it tastes bad, and…hold on.

  Her voice. The sass in it. The fire.

  Also, the sheer specificity.

  My brow pinches.

  Like the high-speed rewind when the movie guy realizes he’s been played all along, that night at the hotel flashes before my eyes in sharp, clear detail.

  I add in the biggest clue—the one standing in front of me.

  It’s not the tattoos covering her right arm, which I expected from the pics of her on the farm.

  It’s not the ease with which she sails through town, chatting with shop owners, which I’d expect from a local.

  It’s not the nails, unpolished, which I expected too.

  It’s the attitude of Ripley.

  All take no prisoners.

  Like the woman I met that night at the bar.

  Like the way she said gentleman.

  The way she said my name.

  The way she doesn’t suffer fools.

  Shock isn’t useful in my line of work. But my jaw comes unhinged. “You’re…Ripley?” My voice sounds like it’s coming from another man, on another night.

  Then Ripley-Ripley, not Haven-posing-as-Ripley—because Haven was never posing as Ripley—flashes me a fuck you smile. “Just like I said.”

  10

  AISLE TEN

  RIPLEY

  “I had no idea. But I can totally explain,” he says, sounding desperate to right things.

  Spare me. Seriously. Just spare me. I’m not in the mood for his song-and-dance routine. Especially when he acted like it was nothing to see me again.

  But then, that fits his MO. Fine. Whatever. I’ve had twenty-six days to get over the embarrassment of asking a hotel clerk to spank me, so yeah, I’m so over Banks, I don’t care what he wants to explain. Even though, fine… I didn’t like the way that photog invaded my space. It made my pulse spike, and not just because I don’t love being photographed.

  Still, the encounter was only with one person and nothing bad came of it. I definitely don’t need this guy shadowing me around my hometown. “Cool. Now I believe we had a deal. Can I please have my bouquets and we can go? Salma’s expecting this. French lavender is her favorite.”

  For a second, he feints, like he’s going to hand them to me. But then he hugs them closer. “I’ll carry them.”

  This guy. But I try again. “Or, how about I take them, and you can stay, say, fifty feet behind me?”

  I can manage that. I think.

  Banks smiles and…damn him. The fucker has a dimple. Does the universe hate me? Giving me a bodyguard who rushes out on me before the banging, then giving him a freaking dimple? If that isn’t evidence of the universe’s disdain, I don’t know what is. “I’ll walk with you, Ripley. There’s a lot I need to say.”

  “There’s a statute of limitations and it’s passed, so no need.”

  “I’d like to,” he says. His tone is firm, sturdy, but there’s a bit of a plea in it, like this is important.

  But I have things to do. “As fascinating as I’m sure your explanation is, I have to make a delivery. Pretty sure it’d look bad for your”—I flap a hand at his brick wall of a big, strong frame—“bodyguarding if your client falls behind on her work, right?”

  I’m winging it, making up things as I go along. But logic and all—a bodyguard should help you not hinder you.

  His face is stoic for a minute, then he nods tightly. “Fine, but I’m going with you.”

  “I can find the store myself.” Maybe the more I irritate him, the more I can scare him off. Hell, it worked once already, and I wasn’t even trying.

  No one ever warns you what it does to your relationship self-esteem to run into a hookup who ran out on you. I already have a speckled history of men leaving me. Like Eric Patrick Waterstone—he of the two first names—from San Francisco. A chef, he romanced me through my stomach, making mouthwatering dishes in his San Francisco apartment when I came down to visit him on weekends. He took amazing pics of his food, too, for social media, and created quite the following that he then used as a springboard for the next step in his career. “Darling Springs is just too small for me, baby,” he’d say. But I was in love—or so I’d thought—so I kept driving to the city every weekend to see him. He even said he was thinking of opening a place in Darling Springs, but then he changed his mind, took off for New York to start a fusion café, and never looked back.

  Leaving me standing like a fool in the dust.

  But I don’t want to linger on the guys who can’t stick around. Especially ones who can’t even stick around for one night.

  “I know you can find it, but I’m going with you, and I’m going to make sure no one knocks into you again, so get used to it.”

  I scoff. “Get used to it?” Does he think that line works?

  “I’m here to protect you. You’re mine,” he says, his voice calm, deep, reassuring. “It’s that simple.”

  I hate that my stupid pulse surges from those two possessive words. You’re mine.

  Why do I have a thing for men swooping in and saving me? But that’s a topic for another day. For now, I don’t bother to stare him down. I give a careless shrug. “Let’s go then, babysitter boy.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches, but not for long. He’s stony-faced. As we head out of the shop, I smile as I pass Callie at the counter. “Hiccups not quite gone yet, but I’m trying to shake them,” I say.

  “Try biting on a lemon.”

  I smile brighter at her. “Pretty sure that’s what I am doing,” I say, then toss a sour smile at Banks.

  Once we’re out on the sidewalk, he says dryly, “I like lemons.”

  “Of course you do.”

  Clearing his throat, he turns to me as we walk. “Listen. I’m sorry about that night. I wanted to explain.”

  “No worries. I didn’t think twice about it,” I say breezily, chin up, armor on. Like I’ll let him think I was stewing on it.

  No way he is getting the better of me.

  Not this man in his jeans that hug a firm ass I could bounce a quarter off, those arms made of rocks, that face chiseled from a sculptor’s tool.

  “Still, it’s been weighing on me,” he says, but then his attention shoots elsewhere. He jerks his gaze across the street, then up the block. The guy in the hat is turning down the street, I think. Maybe heading toward The Ladybug Inn. Hmm. I bet New Chris is staying there.

  Banks turns back to me, like he’s ready to resume this convo. But as we near The Slippery Dipper, I spy my chance to dodge this topic again.

  Noah’s outside, spraying the window with cleaner and wiping it down. He wears a blue polo and jeans—his dad outfit, he told me, and it’s pretty much become his uniform since he became one a couple years ago. He catches my eye, then spots the bouquets Banks is holding. “New employee?”

  That gives me an idea. If this goon is going to stick around, maybe I can use him to pick up some slack at the farm. Like moving the rototiller. Or pushing the wheelbarrow. Spreading the weed barrier cloth. I mean, if he has to be so close to me, he might as well help. “Something like that. He’s carrying heavy things for me. Boulders. Tractors, that kind of stuff.”

  “And bouquets?” Noah asks, clearly amused, eyes straying toward the nearly weightless flowers in Banks’s arms.

  “Training wheels,” Banks deadpans.

  Noah nods to him. “Welcome to the Lavender Bliss team.”

  “Thanks,” he says. Once we resume our path to the store a few feet ahead, he says, “You don’t have tractors.”

  True. But do facts matter? “Are you a lavender farmer and a bodyguard?”

  His gaze slides down to the pretty purple flowers in his arms, then back to The Slippery Dipper. “Evidently, I just became one.”

  I head into the market, Banks next to me the whole time as I head toward Salma, who waits at the floral counter, a little impatiently. She’s always punctual in opening and closing her store and has been for the decade she’s been running it, so I know she likes me to be on time too. Her steady green eyes crinkle at the corners as she adjusts her hijab, making sure it’s snug, which it always is.

  “I thought you were going to miss the delivery,” she says when I reach her.

  “Me too. I’m sorry to leave you hanging,” I say genuinely.

  “It’s fine. You made it.” She tips her chin toward the man by my side. “Who’s this?”

  I could say he’s my new employee, maintaining the joke, but I think I’ll keep him on his toes. “My guard dog. Banks.”

  Salma snorts. “Perhaps you need a collar then. Aisle ten is for pet supplies.”

  And I’m forgiven for being late. She takes the bouquets and brings them to the front of the store.

  When I catch Banks’s gaze, he’s rolling his eyes.

  “Well, if the shoe fits,” I say.

  His dark eyes level me. “Sweetheart, I’ve been called so much worse.”

  And I guess we’re over the explanation phase. I tilt my head. I don’t blink as I say, “Guess your desire to explain didn’t last long.”

  “No, I listened to you.”

  Please. Like he’s the mature one. Like he’s the adult.

  Two can play at his game. When we exit, I spot my bike right where Banks left it, resting in the bike rack.

  Safe and unharmed. Like a beacon.

  I don’t map out a plan. I just grab it from the rack. Like I’m escaping from a robbery, I hop on and pedal at the same time, then ride as fast as I can down the sidewalk and far away from my guard dog.

  Take that.

  11

  THAT KIND OF FINE