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)
He is a gentleman in a lot of ways. But there’s no way he can sleep on the couch. The sofa’s not long. But Banks is. “I can take it,” I offer.
He shakes his head. “Nope. I’ll take it or the floor.”
I scoff. “You can’t sleep on the floor.”
A brow lifts in challenge. “Wanna bet, sweetheart?”
“Sure,” I say, squaring my shoulders too.
“Really? You really think I won’t sleep on the floor? After the yoga and the pedicure?”
He doesn’t mention the other challenge—the try me one from earlier. I don’t want him sleeping on the floor no matter what, but I know he’d do it to prove a point. He’ll be uncomfortable, but he’s so tough he won’t let on, and he’s so stubborn he’ll do it. “Fine. You can couch it,” I say, sort of giving in, but I prefer to think I’m being strategically nice. “Unless you want to sleep in the gardening shed.”
“Would you bring me a pillow and a blanket?”
I cross my arms. “I would.”
“Sounds kind of nice,” he says, then eyes the couch, lifting one palm, then the other. “Couch? Shed? Shed? Couch?”
It’s asked like he’s on Jeopardy!, and he tilts his head back and forth, weighing the options.
Both are ridiculous. He should just sleep in the bed. It’s big enough for two. “Banks,” I say, when my phone trills.
I grab it from my back pocket, grateful for the distraction. It’s Haven.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask. “Are you at the hotel already? Want me to virtually tuck you in and read you a book?”
“You know I do.”
She used to ask me to do that—read a book to her when we were much younger. She’d say, “I just like hearing the story better than reading it, and you’re so good at character voices.”
I wasn’t good at character voices. She just liked the company.
“But, no I’m not at the hotel. I’m still at the house and your dog is wandering around here like a lost soul.”
“Hudson!” I shriek. “I’ll come get him. Also, you need to get to the hotel and get your sleep.”
“I will.”
I end the call, then meet Banks’s eyes. “Can the dog sleep here?”
“Of course.”
I rush across the lawn, into the house, and to the living room. Hudson leaps up from the floor, greeting me with the waggiest tail I’ve ever seen.
“He’s been whimpering at the door,” Haven says as she stands and stretches, phone and a pair of pink heart-shaped sunglasses in hand. “He wuvs you.”
I kneel and cup his soft snout. “I wuv him too.”
He happy-whimpers against my face, then I stand and pat his side. “You can come with me, buddy.” Then I turn to her. “Are you taking off?”
She nods. “Just said good night to Grandma and Wanda’s at the door.” She steps closer and flashes a smile. “She’s hilarious. She’s like a standup comic. She has the funniest stories about her kids and her wife.”
“I’m glad your bodyguard doubles as entertainment,” I say.
“Me too.”
Before I say goodbye, my gaze strays to the coffee table. Ah, there’s the canvas bag with my books, one of which is for Haven. I grab it and reach inside for the one William brought over the other day for her. The cover is light blue with a photo of an inviting beach house overlooking the ocean. That Summer with You is the title. “I almost forgot. William brought this over for you when he brought my book,” I say, then hand her the paperback.
“Oh fun!”
A note slips out. It’s folded in half so I can’t see it, but I grab it before it falls to the floor. I hand the piece of paper to her, along with the book. “What’s up with the note?”
“I bet he marked his favorite pages,” she says with a friendly smile.
“Does he normally?” I ask. “And do you normally get books from him?”
“I do. I always try to order from the hometown store. You know how it goes. Support a local business and all. So he leaves notes on his favorite scenes. Such a book guy,” she says with a shrug, then takes the note and the book.
I arch a brow. That sounds like more than bookishness. “He probably has a crush on you.”
She scoffs. “Doubtful.”
“Not doubtful. You’re kind of a movie star,” I stage whisper. “Also, look at you. You’re gorgeous.”
She stares right back at me, then clears her throat. “Ahem. Pot. Kettle. Literally.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“And speaking of crushes, is your bodyguard hot for you?” she whispers.
A flush spreads like wildfire up my chest. “No,” I say immediately. “He just stays close to me.”
“That’s not what I meant, Ripley.”
But I don’t want to talk about Banks with her. Because nothing more can happen with him, and she doesn’t need to worry about me. She especially doesn’t need to play matchmaker when she should be playing Lucy Snow, the heroine in Someone Else’s Ring.