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)
“Do you have the Otto Quast for Prohibition Spirit? Esmeralda has added lavender specials to her menu. Oh, and I need the delivery for the market too.”
He flashes a toothy grin, white teeth sparkling. “Always. I’m on top of it,” he says, but as we head to the barn where we prep the flowers, my phone trills.
That’s the ringtone I gave to Tabitha. I answer it so fast. “Hey, what’s going on?”
“Hi, Ripley. Do you have something…purple-y?”
I blink. “Purple-y?”
“Yes. Vega doesn’t like the lavender on the counter here at the shop. It’s dried out lavender,” she says, her voice frayed, and it’s only day one.
A lot of people do like dried lavender. That’s why the store sells it. But now’s not the time to educate her or anyone on the ins and outs of my business. “What would she prefer?” I ask, refraining myself from recommending Provence as a feather tickler.
“It’s too washed out,” Tabitha says. “She wants something brighter for this scene.”
Ah, that’s an easy fix. “I have Impress Purple and Hidcote. Let me send you pics.”
“You’re a goddess,” she says as I find the photos I keep handy and text them.
Seconds later, she’s asking the director who declares that one with something like utter relief.
“The Impress Purple,” Tabitha says to me.
“When do you need it?”
I can hear Tabitha grimace as she answers, “Yesterday.”
“I’m on my way.”
After she tells me how many, I grab the bunches, plus the ones Cyrus has set aside for the market, then let Banks know I’m heading to the set.
It’s a little thrilling to say that—set. I can’t help it. It’s exciting that a movie’s being shot in my hometown and with my sister as the star.
“Let’s deliver this emergency lavender, stat,” Banks says.
That giddy feeling carries over when he opens the door of the truck, casts a furtive glance around the farm, then trails his fingers down my back, whispering, “You’d look good on your knees with your hands tied behind you.”
It’s not my shirt I’m going to need to change soon. It’s my panties.
A security officer lets me past the cordoned-off area of the block on Main Street and ushers me inside with Banks staying outside. My heart is sprinting with excitement. I get to see my sister in her element, and when I catch the first sight of her behind the counter, her hair in braids, her eyes sparkling as she chats with Tabitha, my heart surges with joy.
There she is. Making the art she’s always wanted.
“It’s my heroine!” Haven calls out when she sees me, then she scurries past the cameras and lights and rushes my way.
“Wow. You look amazing,” I say, my throat tightening as I check out her cute T-shirt and jeans, face all flawless and camera-ready, her heart-shaped sunglasses pushing back her mane of blond hair.
“So do you,” she says.
I laugh it off, then hand the flowers to Tabitha who joins us and says, “Thank you. You’re the goddess of goddesses.”
Off in the corner, Vega is chatting with the lighting guy, but when she sees me, she gives a crisp, businesslike nod, calling out, “Thank you for the lavender save.”
“Anytime,” I say, then turn back to Haven.
“Where’s New Chris?” I whisper.
“He’s not in this scene, but he’ll be in the next one. Want to stay and meet him?”
I check the time. “I’ll see if I can come back. I need to bring Salma her flowers.”
“Haven!” the director calls out, and my sister returns to the counter.
I weave through the crew, a little overwhelmed and starry-eyed, and head back to the street where Banks is waiting for me with the lavender delivery for Salma.
“How was it?” he asks.
“Kind of amazing,” I whisper, then we walk along the familiar block with its Hollywood blockade.
As we leave it, Banks scans left and right, then says, “Press over there. I’ve got you.”
“Thanks,” I say, grateful for his presence as he ushers me past photographers. There are more than last week. So many more. Understandable since, well, the film’s actually shooting today.
“Are they all paparazzi?” I ask, recognizing Silas from last week, and the guy Banks pointed out, Ludwig. But there are others too.
“No. Some are with the entertainment press. They aren’t quite…hunters.”
“Thank god,” I say, relieved for that as he whisks me into Salma’s market.
“I’ll stay here,” he says, nodding to the doorway of the shop. “So you can see your customer by yourself.”
I’m touched he remembered I wanted that. But not surprised. I head down the first aisle to find Salma at the florist counter, but instead I walk right toward the movie star himself.
Chris Carlisle is in the store, and he’s holding a sandwich.
30
A GRATITUDE SANDWICH
RIPLEY
Chris Carlisle doesn’t look like everyone else in town. With his chiseled jawline, carved cheekbones, wavy golden-brown hair, and crystal-blue eyes, he looks as advertised.