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)
“And I’m guessing like the yoga, and sensing my whereabouts at any second of the day, it’s just another thing you can do obscenely well?”
“Glad you’ve noticed some of my skills.”
She sets her chin in her hand. “What are you not good at?”
Relaxing. Letting go. Unwinding.
I smirk. “Not much really.” But since she asked the question not with sarcasm but real interest, I try to answer her in kind. “Except…communication.” I offer a sympathetic smile.
She gives me one in return—a forgiving one, and I’m damn grateful for that.
“It’s all good, Banks,” she says, then takes another sip of her coffee, her guard still down as she says, “I guess it was obvious it was my first yoga class?”
I’m a little surprised she relented and admitted something that’s hard for her. But it’s a good surprise. I hold up my thumb and forefinger. “Just a little.” Because it was hard for her, the last thing I want is for her to feel embarrassed or foolish. “But you did great. Seriously.”
She scoffs. “I barely could figure out the poses. I was twenty steps behind. Honestly, I was just making it up most of the time.”
I lift my cup in a toast to her. “Even so, you burst into an intermediate class guns blazing and didn’t fall on your ass. That’s impressive.”
“Or stupid,” she says, and hell, this is cute too—this self-deprecating side of her, this forthright side.
“Sometimes they’re the same,” I say with a shrug.
She sighs, like she’s letting go of the running act she tried to pull this morning. “Look, I don’t love being…babysat,” she says, but it’s not a sassy retort. It’s more a quiet admission.
“I know,” I say gently. She’s not my first client who didn’t want close protection.
“And I get it’s for my own good and everything,” she says. “It’s just…hard for me.”
I flash back to her comments the night we met—feeling overwhelmed but wanting something badly too. Then to what Tabitha told me in earlier calls—the sister was taking on a lot of work prepping the farm. Finally, to what Lila said last night—Ripley doesn’t stop.
“You’re used to calling the shots,” I say, hoping to understand her reticence better. The more I understand her, the better the job I can do. At least that’s what I tell myself as I get to know her better.
“Yes.”
“Now, you feel like I call the shots?”
She gives me a look. “Well, you are, Banks.”
“You don’t like that? Someone else being in control?” I ask.
She’s quiet for a long beat, and in those breath-held seconds, as her eyes lock with mine, it’s like she’s saying she’d want that in other ways.
Maybe in bed.
Or could be that’s my hopeful imagination. My dirty wishes. Since she’d look fantastic taking orders. I’d love to give them to her. To tell her to clasp her wrists behind her back so I could tie them together.
She meets my eyes. “Not in my daily life,” she says, and I hear a distinction. Perhaps she likes it at nighttime. Maybe. “So I’m just struggling.”
Before I can think the better of it, I say, “That makes two of us.”
Her brow knits, like she’s replaying the words I just said, till she finds the meaning—it’s a struggle for me to work with you when I want you. But maybe that’s expecting her to read too much into something.
With a heavy sigh, she says, “I just feel I need to take care of everyone and everything. The farm, my employees, Grandma, my sister, and her dreams… I want to be able to still do that while you’re…”
“By your side every day?”
“More like every second,” she says.
“I don’t want to get in the way. And I noticed you like that—taking care of everything,” I say, but I do wonder…who takes care of her?
“I do,” she says with a crisp nod, then takes a long swallow of her coffee. “I like to.” There’s a pause. “Maybe I need to. And I want the freedom to keep doing that.”
“I hear you. I want you to have that freedom too, but I also want you to understand that your life is going to be a little more complicated for the next few weeks,” I say, leaning forward. “Your photo did show up this morning.”
Nerves flash in her eyes. “It did?”
I take my phone from my pocket to show her. There’s the shot of her on the street, and a caption that says, “Haven Addison’s in town early just like Chris Carlisle. Is there a secret meet-up in the script in Darling Springs? We’ll make sure you’re the first to know.”
Ripley winces. Then shudders. “That’s…kind of gross. They don’t care if they took my pic or Haven’s.”
“Exactly. They just wanted the clicks. They’ll get in your face for them. Possibly they’ll figure out you’re Ripley and your sister’s Haven, but from a distance, when they’re chasing that supposed first-kiss shot of Carlisle and his alleged new girlfriend, they won’t care. They’ll shoot first and ask questions later.”