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)
She’s quiet but unflinching for a few seconds till she says, “Fine. I won’t try to run off. But I want something in return.”
“What’s that?”
She lifts a finger, points it at me. “Don’t stay too close. I need to do my job, and I don’t want to scare off all my clients. I don’t want them to worry that I think Darling Springs is unsafe and that’s why I have a guard. I also don’t want them to think I think I’m too big for my britches or whatever. I’m not a celebrity. I’m not a movie star. I’m a flower farmer. So just let me do my thing. How’s that for my kind of fine?”
That’s entirely fair. “I’ll give you some space. You’ll hardly know I’m there.”
“Doubtful.” She draws a big breath, the kind that says the conversation is over. Tipping her chin to the lavender fields beyond the farmhouse, she says, “I should get back to work. Are you going to follow me around here?”
I shake my head. “I don’t need to. I can do some admin stuff on my laptop,” I say, and now’s as good a time as any to touch on another important part of the job. “I trust you. If you trust me to keep you safe, I’ll trust you not to ride off on your bike again.”
She smiles. Devilishly. “That’s why you had to drive, right? Only way you could keep up?”
A laugh bursts from me. This woman is some kind of piece of work. “Yes. That’s it.”
“I thought so,” she says, then pulls out a stool at the kitchen counter and pats the wooden seat. “You can work here.” She gestures to the living room. “Or there.”
“Kitchen counter is fine.” I don’t tell her why. I don’t even let my gaze stray to the big window over the sink that gives me a great view of the lavender fields beyond and the shop too. From this perch, I can keep my eye on her outside as I work inside. I meant it when I said trust is important, and I sure as shit don’t trust her. “Wi-Fi password?”
“The network is Lavender Haze, and the guest password is don’ttouchadamnthingofmine.”
I laugh. “I won’t, Ripley. I won’t.”
“In that case, the guest password is Melissa,” she relents.
I wonder if that was her late mother’s name, but I don’t ask. It’s not my place to open that wound. “Thanks.”
She turns to go, but after a few steps, she spins back around. “Where are you staying? The Ladybug Inn? The BookHouse? An Airbnb?” Her voice pitches up with hope at the last one.
I can’t help it. I smile. It’s too fun to wind her up. “Sweetheart, I’m protecting you. How would I do that from a hotel?”
“Binoculars sound like a good idea to me.”
She says it with such a straight face that I have no choice but to play it even drier as I ask, “Or a telescope?”
Her smile is pleased. “Excellent. Enjoy the stay at your hotel with your telescope.”
“Didn’t you learn this afternoon that you can’t shake me that easily?”
“Is that rule number four? I should try harder to shake you?”
“It wasn’t a challenge,” I say, with a sigh. “Anyway, I’m staying here.”
She scoffs. “That’s presumptuous.”
“Ripley, I’m here for you. I need to be close to you. You have six bedrooms.”
“But the crew will be here soon. The producer. The camera guys,” she says, sounding overwhelmed momentarily. Like she did that night when she mentioned a big project.
“I’ll sleep in my car if I have to. Or I’ll get a tent and sleep in that,” I say. She’s not getting rid of me that easily.
When her eyes widen, possibly in surprise that I’d be willing to do either of those, she waves a hand, like she’s dismissing the options. “There’s no need to sleep on the ground or the car. You can stay in the cottage. It’s for guests anyway.”
That’s nicer than I’d thought. I guess she really is moving past that night. I should let her know I’ve done that too. “Thank you. And listen, we can pretend that night never happened,” I say, since I’m pretty sure that’s what she wants.
She heads to the kitchen door that leads back outside and stops in the archway, tossing me a carefree smile. “Works for me. You’re not my type anyway.”
Damn. Talk about knocking me down a peg.
12
BRAINS AND BRAWN
BANKS
But I can’t let her parting shot get to me. There’s too much to do. That afternoon, I power through emails and proposals to other clients, including some for our cybersecurity services, an area that’s already become mission critical to our business in a short time. Then I check the gossip sites, especially Page Six and VIP Vibes. Nothing featuring Ripley yet, but that doesn’t mean something won’t show up later.