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)
Dean runs a hand over the back of his neck as I tell him about last night’s encounter. “This is such a mess.”
Then his phone beeps, and he checks it, groaning heavily. “What is it?” I ask, though it feels like putting my finger in the fire.
He waves his phone like he wants to chuck it. “I just got an email from Webflix. The meeting is canceled. They’re looking elsewhere for security.”
I fucked up everything.
44
A LITTLE GESTURE
RIPLEY
Think, Ripley, think.
If this had happened to Haven, what would you do?
I’d find a way to fix it. That’s what I do—fix problems. I need to focus on that instead of freaking out and pacing the lavender fields, unable to do any of my work. All I can do is stare at these pictures of us on my phone.
As soon as Dean appeared, I left the cottage and rushed to the house, finding my grandma in the kitchen, staring at her phone and the pictures her bestie had sent her. And before Grandma left for her in-person French class, she showed the snaps to me.
My heart sank like an anchor to the ocean floor as I read the captions. I owe so many explanations to so many people—starting with my sister.
But first, I need to deal with the man. With Grandma gone to her class, I head for the store before it opens, Hudson trotting alongside me. Inside the shop, I FaceTime Chloe rather than text. She’s up already, walking dogs, and sounds concerned when she answers. When I tell her it’s an emergency, she patches in Bridget.
My pulse spikes with worry. Wasting no time, I tell them about the pictures, and then about Banks’s partner showing up unexpectedly this morning. “What do I do?”
Bridget’s been putting on makeup, and she stops, furrows her brow, foundation brush in hand. “Why do you have to do something?”
“Because it’s a mess. Because his business partner showed up. And, well, Banks never wanted him to know about us while we were working together. While he was protecting me.” I feel guilty all over as I admit the full scope of the sneaking around. “Banks was always the one who risked the most. And I feel awful.”
“But why do you have to fix it?” Bridget asks again.
This seems like a trick question.
“Why do you keep asking me that?” I fire back.
“Just answer,” she says, loving but firm.
I huff out a harsh breath. “Because I’m fucking in love with him, okay?” I blurt out and my god, that hurt. Like ripping a jagged stone from my chest.
And my asshole friends just smile. Both of them. “Good,” Bridget says, her peach lipstick shiny.
Chloe grins too. “I’m proud of you, Ripley.”
Up is down. Black is white. “Why are you smiling? Why are you proud of me? This is awful.”
“It is. But it’s also amazing that you fell in love. Especially when you were convinced you never would again,” Chloe says as the sun rises above her, its light mocking me, like it’s bringing all my mistakes into the day.
And they may be right, but what good did falling in love do? “It’s a mess. And I need to fix it. I have to,” I say, desperation driving me on.
Bridget’s smile disappears. Once her expression turns serious, she says, “Well, there’s one thing you could do.”
She tells me, and it sounds awful. My chest squeezes painfully at her suggestion. But I also know she’s probably right.
When I end the call, I sink down to the wooden floor amidst the bottles of butterfly lavender essential oils, the eye masks promising calmness, and the dried sachets offering peace.
I don’t feel calm or settled or peaceful. I feel terrible. My heart absolutely bleeds for Banks. For me, but mostly for him. Because I know Banks, and I know how awful he must feel right now. Like he failed. I know, too, that he’ll do the right thing.
This means there’s only one right thing I can do now, even if it feels like I’m excavating all my insides with a bulldozer.
I push up to my feet, intent on finding him, my curious pup rising too. Only, I don’t have to look far—Banks is already knocking on the door.
That’s so him. He always knows where to find me. He just does. He has a sense for me.
I wish I could revel in that connection. But I can’t. With a bruised heart, I open the door and let him into the tiny store as the sun rises over my farm.
“Hi,” I manage, and my voice sounds scratchy and raw.
Hudson trots over and wags his tail, licking Banks’s hand. Briefly, Banks pets the dog, then meets my gaze. Pain etches his eyes. His hair sticks up everywhere. He drags a hand through it, like he’s been doing that all morning.