Bridget: Irrelevant. Also, yes. She is and I am.

  Ripley: Regular girls with bodyguards get no sympathy.

  Chloe: You got that right.

  After I thank Chloe for her treat-culture tips, explaining how it helped with Ramona, I say good night, put my phone down, then grab a book from the two William gave me. One is for my sister, and then there’s this one for me—a thriller that promises to keep me turning pages well past my bedtime.

  But I can’t focus on the story even as the hero races down the city block, hunting for the one spot where he can possibly lose the guy who’s chasing him.

  I’m too busy thinking of tomorrow. And the next day and the next. How the hell am I supposed to spend all this time with my sexy bodyguard who even my besties are drooling over from a distance? I’m not sure there’s enough room on my farm for him, my attraction, and me.

  Then, I devise a plan to shake him. And I can’t wait for tomorrow to come.

  14

  SILENT CHICKEN

  RIPLEY

  Not many people wake up earlier than farmers.

  On weekdays, I need to get everything ready in the fields before my employees come to work. Today I will use my early bird-ness to my advantage. Before the sun is even poking above the horizon on Friday morning, I’m up and out of bed, twisting my hair into a long ponytail, then pulling on shorts and a sports tank.

  I smile evilly, then pat Hudson on the flank where he’s stretched out on the floor. “You ready to see how brilliant your mom is?”

  He lifts his snout in curiosity.

  “I say brilliant…” I hold up my palms like scales. “You say nefarious. What’s the difference?”

  I grab socks and quietly pad downstairs. Hudson isn’t so quiet as he follows me, but Banks is in the cottage, so no way can he hear him. The floorboards creak as I make my way to the front door. In the foyer, I grab dog bags from the shelves, then tug on my sneakers and tie them quickly. Hudson’s leash is on a hook, so I slip that on my boy, then inch by quiet inch, I open the door.

  I’m holding my breath the entire time.

  When I survey the property for signs of the tattooed hottie and find none, I let out a huge sigh of relief. I look to the east. The pale light of dawn is starting to fade away as the morning’s first light brightens the edge of the world. At least I can get a walk in without that tempting man by my side. I’ll use the time to enjoy the sounds of the day beginning—a bird, the rustle of grass, the chewing of the horse at a pasture down the road. I hustle along the path toward the gate twenty feet away. My escape hatch.

  Ten feet away.

  Five feet.

  Freedom is nigh! I’ll get thirty minutes, maybe an hour of alone time where I’m not amped up from being near that man.

  I hazard a glance at the cottage.

  Yes!

  The lights aren’t even on. Ha. Someone likes to sleep in. And…it’s not my bodyguard. Because I jump, startled, since Banks is suddenly right beside me, wearing shorts, sneakers, and a workout tank, looking like he’s been up for an hour at least, waiting to ambush me.

  Banks smiles, all crooked and cheerful. “You forgot to send me the agenda,” he says, but then shrugs happily. “But no worries. I took a guess you’d be up early with my new best friend.” He scratches Hudson’s ears, then rises to his full height—six foot three, I’m guessing. He’s all towering and strapping and yes, those tattoos do climb across his pecs since I just got a peek through his muscle tank. My mouth waters. Stupid mouth. “And I guess I was right,” he adds annoyingly, and annoying me.

  “Yes, you were right, Banks. I do walk my dog in the morning,” I say, as I turn down the quiet road. “But I don’t like to talk at this hour.”

  “No worries. I’ve got music to listen to,” he says, brandishing his earbuds from his pocket. My chest burns with irritation. I should have brought mine.

  I wave to the gate. “How did you do that? Just appear out of nowhere?”

  “It’s my special skill. Especially since I had a feeling you were going to break rule number one and rule number two.”

  “There’s plenty of time for me to try again,” I say.

  “I have no doubt.” He bends to pet my dog on the chin this time.

  The traitor wags his tail and asks for more scratches. “Aww, such a good boy,” Banks says as Hudson bounces in response. “Guess I am good with my hands.”

  I snap my gaze to him. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Then I look ahead and try not to check out his arms, his legs, and his whole stupidly handsome body as we walk my dog in a silent game of chicken.

  Forty-five minutes later, we’re back, and I’m seriously going to have to work harder to lose him.

  But there’s more to my plan than my thwarted dog walk. It’s still early, but I know Grandma can cover for me for a couple hours.

  When we near the porch, he says, “So, what’s on the agenda?”

  I smile. “You want to be my shadow? Guess what? We’re doing yoga.”

  I lift my chin. How’s that for brilliant? Plenty of guys do yoga. But I’m guessing a bodyguard isn’t the yoga type. Banks’s muscles will probably atrophy if he doesn’t find a weight bench soon to recharge his muscle cells. A man like him survives on protein powder and weight plates, not sun salutations and shavasanas.

  “Sounds great. I’ll drive,” he says.

  “Actually, we can walk,” I say, cheery and upbeat—all part of the plan.

  “That works too,” he says. “Meet you in…?”

  “Fifteen minutes,” I supply, then bound up the steps before a smidge of guilt hits me again. He’s really going to hate me soon. Might as well just clear the air for the sake of doing the right thing. I spin around. “Banks?”

  He turns around. “Yes?”

  My chest twinges. Or maybe that’s my pride acting up. Either way, I meet his gaze straight on, and I woman up. “SorryIsaidyou’renotmytype. Thatwasn’tnice.”

  There. Done.

  But he stares at me, brow furrowed, confused. “Excuse me?”

  Did I really say it that quickly? I draw a breath, square my shoulders, then try again. Slower this time. Or really, normal speed. “Sorry I said you’re not my type. That wasn’t nice.”

  “Ah,” he says, nodding. “I thought that’s what you said, but I wanted to be sure.”

  My jaw drops. “You knew and made me repeat it?”

  “It’s good to be certain, right?”

  “And you want me to trust you?”

  “I need to trust my ears, Ripley,” he says with a smile. “But don’t think twice about it. We’re all good.”

  “Good.”

  I turn to open the door when he adds, “Besides, I knew you didn’t mean it.”

  This man. I seethe. I have no regrets for what I’m about to do.

  Five minutes later, I’m out the door again, grabbing my bike from where I left it by the fence and hopping on.

  Let him run after me. I don’t care. Let him take his freaking car. That’s fine too.

  I fly down the hill on two wheels, lift my left hand to show I’m turning right, then turn, when the sound of tires against asphalt grows louder. I peek behind me and groan. “Are you kidding me?”

  Banks is wearing a black helmet and riding a mint-green beach cruiser, and in seconds he’s pedaling by my side. “I figured it’d just be easier if I got one too,” he says, calm and too amused for my taste. “Don’t you think?”

  “Where did you get a bike?” I ask, annoyed and impressed at the same time. But then it hits me. When I had dinner last night and he went to run errands, he must have gone into town, or to a nearby town, to pick one up. “Forget it. I don’t even want to know.”

  “Too bad mint was the only color,” he says, glancing briefly down at the pretty frame. “I’d have preferred we have matching bikes. But the shop didn’t have a purple one.”

  “Such a shame,” I mutter as I slow at the upcoming stop sign.

  “But hold on. One more thing,” he says.

  At the sign, I set my feet down on the road. He reaches into the basket on his handlebars and retrieves another helmet. “You really should wear one of these things.”

  He leans across the space between us and sets the most adorable pink helmet on my head. “I usually wear one,” I grumble.

  “I’m sure you do, sweetheart. But, like I said, it’s my job to keep you safe.”

  His midnight eyes stay on me as he adjusts the pink helmet, then tucks some loose strands of hair behind my ear, his finger whisking over the shell.

  His touch lasts a little longer than I’d expect.

  His fingers slide along my jawline, then he snaps the buckle under my chin. He takes a beat, then fiddles with it some more, moving it just so.

  Then just so again. His breath hitches. Quietly, but I hear it. A quick, sharp intake.

  When he lifts his face, he meets my eyes, and I see that same dark desire from the night we met. Raw. Primal. A flash of heat too.

  “There. How’s that?” His voice is lower than before, raspier.

  Holy shit.

  He meant everything he said then. He was into me. And now, all this proximity is as hard for him as it is for me.

  Guess I am his type.

  “It’s good,” I say, answering him at last, even though it’s not good. It’s bad, how dangerously attracted I am to my bodyguard. Especially since he keeps up with me the whole way to the Downward Dog All Day yoga studio.

  After we lock up the bikes on a rack and go inside, a pink-haired woman behind the check-in counter says to me, “Ripley, you’re finally taking a class.”

  I wince and paste on a smile.

  Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the brightest idea to play chicken here. Since I’ve never done yoga before.

  15

  UPSIDE DOWN

  BANKS

  Bet she thinks I don’t know my utkatasana from my uttanasana.

  But when the instructor—a guest teacher from San Francisco—calls out the first instruction I bend my knees, lower my hips, and move into the chair pose easily.

  I peer to the right as Ripley stands awkwardly and jerks her gaze to the right too, avoiding me to check out the woman next to her, then does something vaguely resembling a squat.

  Since this is a vinyasa flow class, the teacher’s already moving into uttanasana, a forward fold. She’s using the English words for the poses too, but she calls those out a few seconds after the Sanskrit now, so Ripley’s moving on a five-second delay. “And now, if you want, take a flow into your chaturanga or go straight into urdhva mukha svanasana.”

  Once again Ripley cheats to the right, watching the woman next to her fluidly shift from plank to an upward cobra as the instructor adds, “And we all meet in downward dog.”

  But Ripley—oh, sassy Ripley who tried to ditch me with yoga—doesn’t know her cat from her cow, and I am here for it.

  I smother a smile as she’s a few steps out of sync, but her jaw is set, her gaze is focused, and her determination is screwed to the sticking post.

  As the instructor guides us into a mountain pose, she must see that Ripley’s lagging behind, since she stops at the very obvious newcomer and offers some tips. My yoga companion breathes a noticeable sigh of relief, then rises into a standing pose with the rest of the class. Did Ripley even read the schedule online? If she knew this was an intermediate class, would she still have taken it? Or did she just want to scare me off that badly?

  Well, she’s going to have to work a lot harder to give me the slip, especially given what’s on Page Six today.

  A little later, when the instructor guides us through a twisting chair pose, I’m vaguely tempted to tell Ripley she doesn’t need to sit so low. That she might risk overextending something.

  But why bother? She’d bite my head off.

  And you’d like it.

  Yeah, I would.

  After forty-five minutes of Miss Stubborn white-knuckling it through the class, the teacher gracefully pads to the front of the studio again. “And now we’ll start to slow down. It’s easy to focus on strength and balance. We spend all day going, going, going. We check things off our lists. We do all day. And so we often are drawn to the strength poses, the balance ones, the ones we feel like we should do, but slowing down is just as important.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Ripley’s expression soften. It’s like tension melts away as the instructor gives her maybe something she doesn’t often give herself—permission.

  “Let’s take a child’s pose now,” the instructor says.

  In a heartbeat, Ripley sits on her knees and leans forward with a contented sigh as she rests her forehead against the mat, stretching, easing, then letting out a long breath.

  Then another.

  Soon, all that tension she holds seems to slough off her shoulders.

  When we move into the final resting pose, flat on our backs on our mats, Ripley’s like a happy dog, settling in at night in bed, before she closes her eyes.

  I should close my eyes too. Really, I should. Since I’m not technically worried about her safety during a yoga class, it would be no big deal to do it.

  But I can’t close my eyes. I just…can’t.

  So I lie there as I stare at the ceiling. Wishing this painful part of the class would go faster. Willing the second hand to tick by at a higher speed. C’mon. It’s taking forever. Pretty sure the old dude a few mats away is snoozing. The young woman on my other side looks so serene. Ripley’s practically murmuring as she just…lies there.

  Me? I’m trying not to bolt up, roll away my mat, get the hell out.

  After a few laboriously long moments, the instructor speaks again, leading us out of that pose as she sits cross-legged at the front of the classroom. “Thank you for coming to this intermediate flow class here at Downward Dog All Day. I’m Briar Delaney. I live and work in San Francisco, but occasionally get the chance to lead special classes like this. If you want more yoga classes from me, try my Flow and Flex Fitness app. And I hope you all have a beautiful day.”

  I really shouldn’t rib Ripley about her lack of research in trying to give me the slip as we clean our mats and return them to their baskets.

  Truly, I shouldn’t, as we say goodbye to the instructor, then grab our shoes in the lobby.

  I absolutely should refrain from teasing her as I head outside first, scanning the street for photographers or anything out of the norm. The coast is clear, so I hold open the door for her.

  Then, fuck it. “So, you were thinking you’d give me the slip, but you wound up in a yoga class a little tougher than you were expecting?”

  She digs her heels in. “I knew that was an intermediate class,” she says, lying through her teeth. It’s cute, the way she tries so hard to be so tough.

  As we pass a tourist shop peddling sunglasses and beach hats, I check behind us once more, then look at my watch. It’s eight-fifteen. “What’s next? Are you planning on face masks? A spa day? Taking me to a salon? Oh, I know! Should we get a blowout?” I stop to run both hands through my hair, like I’ve got a luxurious mane.

  With a confused look, she stops too, asking, “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  She twirls a finger around my face. “That thing you just did with your hands in your hair.”

  Was it not clear? “Like I’m a shampoo model.”

  She gives a long nod. “My bad. I thought you were doing a stripper move.”

  I huff. “I was not doing a stripper move.”

  “Looked like a stripper move.”

  I set my hands on my hips, then punch them forward. Add in a little gyration. “How’s that for a stripper move?”

  Her eyes pop, but she holds her own with a comeback. “I didn’t know your bodyguard services included a free show.”

  “Who said it was free?” I counter.

  “I guess I could go get some dollar bills and make it rain.” She snaps her fingers. “Better idea. Maybe we should sign up for a pole dancing class!” She bats her lashes. “Would that work for you? We could learn together.” Then she pauses, tapping her chin. “But you probably know how to pole dance already. Like you know yoga. And when I’d be up. And that I’d ride my bike.”

  “If you can find a place that teaches pole dancing, I’m there.” Just let her try to call my bluff. She has no idea I don’t have a bluff to call.

  She lifts her chin. “Bet you think we don’t have dance studios in small towns.”

  “Bet you think I wasn’t raised in one.”

  She blinks. “Oh.” There’s a furrow in her brow—a momentary truce in our zings as she asks earnestly, “You were? Which town?”

  “Lucky Falls,” I say.

  At the mention of the little town thirty or so minutes away, a genuine smile tips her lips. “That place is so cute. I love the bookstore there. And there’s a great wine shop.”

  “It’s not a bad place.” Too bad we couldn’t stay there after my father’s lies were exposed. After everyone stared at Mom, my sister, and me, whispering about our family.

  “There’s not actually a dance studio here though,” she says, flapping a hand toward the street, as if to indicate all of Darling Springs. “But the community center has been adding some fun new classes. Candle-making and pottery and stuff. Maybe pole dancing will be next. You never know,” she says, then her gaze strays longingly toward the end of the block, landing on the chalkboard sign with the coffee cup on it.

  Pick Me Up.

  She lifts her nose slightly skyward, like she’s trying to catch the faint scent of freshly brewed beans. I know a caffeine hankering when I see one, especially since I’m feeling it myself.

  “Want a coffee? It’s on me,” I add.

  Her eyes widen in surprise. Possibly delight. Then, she’s all sarcasm once more as she says, “In that case, I’ll have a dozen coffees.”