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)
We teased her for days about her allegedly amazing skin care routine.
“I made croissants too,” she adds, then taps me on the nose. “Because—”
We both pause, like, wait for it, then say in unison, “Muffins suck.”
“Seriously, muffins should be abolished,” I add, grateful we’ve moved on to baked goods and away from my cover-up-a-silly-punishment-for-my-sass attire.
As I help her in the kitchen, images of last night flicker before my eyes, and my stomach flips. I really need to stop thinking about what he did to me in bed. Since it can’t happen again.
Then, there’s the clearing of a throat, the sound of shoes on hardwood floor, and my body reacts instantly as Banks walks into the kitchen.
“Morning, Lila. Morning, Ripley. Hope you didn’t think you could give me the slip,” he teases.
I don’t even look at him. If I do, the desire will be written on my face for my grandma to see. She already knows I like him. She already knows I’m wildly attracted to him. She’ll be able to put two and two together and add it up to you enjoyed hot sex and naughty uses for lavender with your bodyguard last night, didn’t you?
“I didn’t know you were my shadow on the farm too?” I toss out.
“I’m not. You’re safe here. But I’m good at finding you,” Banks says, and something about the confidence in his words makes me nearly swoon.
I grab the coffee bag instead and shake it for no good reason. “Thanks for walking the dog.”
“Anytime,” he says.
Grandma arches a curious brow, like walking the dog is the only proof she needs to know something’s going on between us.
“I’ll make more coffee,” I quickly add.
My grandma gives me the most side-eye of all side-eyes ever, then says playfully and pointedly to Banks, “Yes, thank you so much for walking my granddaughter’s most favorite person.”
“You’re my favorite person,” I counter quickly, speaking to her.
Grandma scoffs. “You can’t fool me. That dog has ranked top since you adopted him.”
“He’s a good dog,” Banks says evenly.
“Ripley is crazy about him,” Grandma says, and that’s true, but I’m not entirely sure she’s talking about Hudson.
Still, I’m the woman wearing a mock turtleneck in eighty-degree weather, so I shut the hell up and focus so hard on making coffee.
After the crew leaves bright and early to shoot at The Slippery Dipper today, I work on my usual tasks around the farm until it’s time to swing by the art museum to pick up the flowers from last night’s event. Banks helps me collect them and put them in the bed of the truck. “What will you do with them now?”
“Take them back to the farm and turn them into soil compost,” I say.
Under the sun in the museum parking lot, he stares at me for a beat, his lips curving up.
“What?” I ask breathily.
“That’s hot.”
“Composting my flowers?”
“Yeah. Being good to the earth.”
I laugh. “Makes it even harder to resist me, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” he says, and he’s intensely serious. He heads over to the passenger door and opens it. The man loves driving.
“You and your control,” I mutter.
But before I can get in, he ropes an arm around my waist and jerks me against him, my back to his front, his hand coming down on the thin, crocheted floral belt I’m wearing since I’m in my vintage ’90s era today, it seems, with my jean shorts too. “And you like it,” he rasps out.
“I do.”
His arm cinches tighter. I melt more. He slides his other hand up my neck and into my hair. “Me too.”
“Is anyone watching?” I whisper, but I know the answer. With the movie shooting in town today, no one’s really following me. The photographers—from the Hollywood trade press to the paparazzi—are all on Main Street, hunting for the real action.
“I looked around. We’re good,” he says huskily, then runs his fingers up and into my hair. “Does your neck hurt today?”
“A little.”
“Want me to rub it?”
I want him to rub everything. “Yes.”
In the parking lot, with his arm locking me in place at the waist, he rubs my neck. It’s a better neck massage than the first one, especially since he sighs, and murmurs, and kisses the shell of my ear.
Eventually, when I’ve turned into a liquid state, I say, “So we’re forgetting last night?”
“Yes, this is forgetting.” He kisses my neck once—no hickey this time—and lets go.
Back at the farm, Haven texts me a few times during the shoot, sending little updates like this one.
Haven: OMG, I am pretending I run The Slippery Dipper!
Ripley: Dreams do come true.
Haven: I know. I’ve always wanted to run a cute shop!
Ripley: It’s not all sunshine and roses.
Haven: It is for me!
Ripley: Glad to hear.
After I hit Send on the last text, my phone’s quiet for a while as I check in with Ramona on the shop’s orders, then with Cyrus on his deliveries for the day. He’s bopping his head to a beat as he pushes a wheelbarrow up to the shed but stops and nods when he sees me. “What’s cooking, boss lady?”