Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
“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?”