It Seemed Like a Good Idea (Darling Springs #1)

Chapter 1

ORIGAMI MAN

RIPLEY

“You can’t just leave after dropping news like that on me.”

Seriously. My sister can’t take off yet. Not when I need to make the list of all lists. Hands parked on hips, I stare, slack-jawed, as she zips up her peach suitcase, the color matching her personality.

“You’ve got this, Ripley,” she says breezily as she springs up from the plush carpet, pops the handle of the suitcase some luggage company gave her, and nods to the door, a sign she’s heading off to catch her flight.

I briefly consider flinging myself against the hotel room door and forcing her to stay in this suite till we’ve covered every single detail of the things I’ll have to do in less than thirty days, but when my sister wants something, not even a human shield can stop her.

“But there’s not enough time. Can’t we have more time?” I ask since I’m still flabbergasted at the impossible assignment she wants me to make possible, and I need to process my flabbergast with her.

“Who else but you can take care of things this quickly?” Haven says.

“Quickly?” I know time isn’t Haven’s favorite thing, but quickly is the mother of all euphemisms. She’s asking me to hustle at the speed of a time-lapse video.

“I have to get our farm ready to host a film crew in one month? I’m good at doing all the things.

Very good, mind you. But I am not that good. ”

She stops on the way to the door of the suite she’d booked for this sisters’ getaway weekend and gives me a don’t be ridiculous look. “Yes, you are. This is what you do. All this”—she waves a hand—“kind of stuff.”

“This kind of stuff?” I flick through the memories of, oh, say, my entire life, but nope, not once did I fix up our small-town lavender farm in twenty-eight days for the benefit of a Hollywood film company.

Haven gives me one of those magic smiles that’s impossible to look away from.

A smile I can’t even try to mimic when she begs me at get-togethers to do my impression of her—the sweet sister.

“You know what I mean,” she says. “Like how you drove me to the audition for that perfume commercial when my car broke down.”

“I didn’t fix your car,” I grumble, remembering that wild day when she said she was so stressed about being late that she was going to pee her pants but at the same time was so excited that she was also going to pee her pants.

Spoiler alert: she did not pee her pants.

But she did get the gig.

She drops her suitcase handle and reaches for my hands. “You fixed me. I wouldn’t be here without you.” She holds my gaze for a weighty beat, and we’re not talking about the car anymore.

Darker memories flash in my mind, and I blink them back.

There’s no time for those today—not when I have a farm to whip into shape.

The film financing for Someone Else’s Ring—a project she’d been waiting to get the green light on—has officially been finalized.

Seems our little farm, more than an hour from the big city, is going to be her co-star, so to speak, as long as I can get her into shape.

“You’re leaving me when I need to figure out this whole thing.”

She squeezes me harder. “You’ll make money on this whole thing, I’m sure. It’ll be exactly what Lavender Bliss Farms needs to show off its rustic charm,” she says, grabbing the handle of her suitcase with a certain finality.

“Oh. It’s definitely rustic. So rustic that I’ll get sued for everything I’m worth if a cameraman’s foot goes through a rotten board.”

“They have, you know, insurance and stuff.”

“Insurance doesn’t prevent you from getting sued. It pays for—” There’s no point in explaining damages. Haven doesn’t need to worry about behind-the-scenes details of running a family flower farm that needs a fork-ton of work.

“It pays for dreams,” Haven says, eyes wide and imploring. “And you know this is a dream come true.”

My hardened heart softens, like it always does for her. “I know. And of course I’ll do it.” We both know I was always going to say yes the second the financing came through. In this case, about, you know, ten minutes ago.

Haven had been biting her nails for weeks, waiting for word on this film, her first big starring role.

Someone Else’s Ring, based on the runaway bestseller of the same name, just so happens to be set in a small town, so her agent had pitched the producers on shooting some key scenes on my lavender farm.

My little, desperately-in-need-of-a-new-coat-of-paint lavender farm.

But I’ll make it happen. That’s what I do. “Like I can turn you down.”

“Yay! I told my agent a few minutes ago not to worry since you’re the best older sister in the world.”

“I’m hardly older,” I point out, but we both know I might as well be five years older instead of the five minutes that separate us.

“Details,” she says with the brightest smile.

I step back and take a look at the woman in front of me with the straight nose, high cheekbones, and sleek, shiny blond hair, twisted up in an ever-so-casual bun. Then, the artful mascara sweeping across her eyelashes, the polished peach nails, and the fair complexion.

She’s a mirror of me, minus the nails. I never polish mine if I can help it.

Plus, I’m a little tanner from working outside, and a lot more covered in ink, since, well, why have naked skin when you can have art?

I have an armful of ink, while Haven has one tiny bird tattoo on her shoulder to match my flock.

But she insisted I have my nails done when she dragged me to the spa earlier today for facials and mani-pedis. Haven picked the color—a bright, girly pink, like a gumball. I can’t wait to take it off when I get home.

Haven glances apologetically at the time on her phone, then gives me one last hug. “Sorry to cut our weekend short. The suite is booked for one more night, so use it. Take a bubble bath and order champagne, on me.”

I snort. Bubble baths are her thing. “I don’t have time for that. But go.” I shoo her out. “Get out of here. The security line at SFO will be ridiculous. Tell the Lyft driver to take Nineteenth Avenue, not 101.”

“I know, I know. Always take Nineteenth Avenue,” she says as she heads off.

As the door creaks shut behind her, I turn around, ready to work. I brought my laptop, so I can do some research and look up everything I’ll need to tidy the farm before I meet with her producers next week on site.

But the bed is strewn with camis and yoga pants, jammies and my Bees Do It Better T-shirt.

There are books, too, and a water bottle with the farm logo on it.

I can’t think straight in this room. It makes my brain messy and cluttered.

The lobby bar is arctic, so I grab a white hoodie and my phone.

Snagging my clutch purse, I head downstairs, stuffing my arms into the hoodie as I go, following the soft hum of jazz melodies and the glow of pendant lights.

I can do this. I’m a glass-half-full kind of woman, so at the bar, I order a glass of rosé, and as soon as the bartender pours it for me, I thank him, then start brainstorming ways to fix up the farm on a budget.

I grab a napkin, start searching on my phone, and begin mathing.

How much more money will Lavender Bliss be able to make with this kind of exposure? On the flip side, how much of the meager savings will we have to spend to get the place ready for a film crew?

Maybe I needed a stiffer drink than rosé.

I scan the mirrored shelves of liquor, briefly considering an upgrade to bourbon. But the bartender’s busy mixing margaritas on the other side of the U-shaped bar.

A few stools away from me is a slick, blond dude wearing one of those business shirts with a different-colored collar—blue stripes against white, like the kind the douchey boss wears in a movie.

A few stools away from him, a pair of women are huddled close together, lifting pink drinks and sharing secrets.

Over there, on the other side of them, is a hulk of a man with dark eyes and broad shoulders that tell me he probably juggles refrigerators for fun.

He’s got an amber drink set neatly next to a tablet, and he’s making… what is he making?

I try to stare without being too obvious, and I’m pretty sure he’s doing origami. Maybe a butterfly.

Which reminds me. The butterfly lavender essential oils we sell in the little shop attached to the farm—the shop that’s become the most dependable part of the business—will I be able to sell them in the shop with a film crew there?

And where will the crew stay? Does Bridget have room at The BookHouse for everyone?

There’s The Ladybug Inn, too, which adds eight or so rooms. Are there enough Airbnbs in town?

How big is a film crew? A dozen people? A hundred?

As I’m writing details down on my napkin, there’s a scratch of metal against the concrete floor, then footsteps, then a cleared throat next to me.

“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

The voice is fratty. Bet it belongs to douchey boss. And as far as opening lines go, it’s pretty demanding.

I barely look up. “No, you don’t.”

“I do though,” he says, grabbing a stool and sitting too close to me. The scent of patchouli and sandalwood clings to him. I thought we left body spray back in the last decade. I guess I was wrong. “Did you go to Brown?”

Great. It’s one of those lines that’s supposed to be a compliment. Like, I’m not going to start with your eyes, but your brain, babe.

“Nope.”

“Well, let me buy you a drink, and we’ll figure it out.”

It’s best to be direct in these situations, so I turn, and no surprise, it’s douchey boss, and I meet his gaze head-on. “No, thanks.”

He makes no move to go though. He leers, his slick eyes roaming from my face to my chest, then back up.

A smirk forms, victorious and irritating.

In no time, I’m cycling through my self-defense moves, picturing the throw I’d use to take this creep down in a parking lot when he snaps his fingers, highlighting a tan line where a wedding ring once belonged. “Wait. Wait. I’ve seen you in a movie.”

Oh.

For a few seconds, I’m disarmed. This is a first for me.

This never happens in Darling Springs since everyone there knows Haven and me.

And while my identical twin sister isn’t a household name yet, she’s well on her way.

She finished two successful seasons on the streaming ensemble hit The Dating Games, and she had a supporting part in a breakout Webflix movie, Top-Notch Boyfriend.

Still, I don’t want to be rude in case he tells people I am Haven, so I toss him a bone, managing a small smile as I start to say, “Actually, that’s—”

“The one where you, you flashed your…” His hands cup imaginary melons at pecs-level.

My sister has never done a nude scene, you jackass.

But I bite back that comeback since he’s just not worth it. I stare pointedly at the stool douchey boss is occupying. “Excuse me. I’m meeting someone,” I say, hoping he finally gets the message to go back to Creepville now.

“Someone who couldn’t be bothered to show up on time?” he asks as the sound of footsteps growing closer registers.

“How do you know he’s late?”

“He’s not here. I am. Don’t you want a man who shows up?”

He’s officially ruined my rosé. I open my purse so I can pay the tip and get the hell out when the footsteps stop.

The origami man wedges himself between us, looming over the other guy but turning to me.

“Hi, honey, sorry I’m late. But I got us a great table to make up for it.

Did you want to join me, or do you still need to make that phone call to your aunt? ”

In his dark-brown eyes, I see the offer. I’m here to whisk you away if you need me to.

I also see the out. I’ll cover for you while you walk away from this asshole.

I flash a see you later smile at the asshole, then a real one at my temporary hero as I push back in the stool, ready to leave. “Thanks, sweetie. A table sounds great.”

But douchey boss harrumphs faster, then pushes back in his stool, the grating sound of metal against metal screeching in my ears. With an aggravated sigh, he tosses a dollar on the bar. Nice tip. He heads off, his tail tucked between his legs.

The towering man tracks him the whole way, eyes like a hawk’s, till the man’s out of sight.

That’s just…hot.

When he turns back to me, he’s mostly, but not quite, all business-y as he says, “He’s gone. Do you need anything else?”

That’s a good question, and I should say no given the length of my to-do list. But there’s a hint of something more in his voice that I like.

I’m revved up from the way he got rid of that jerk.

Does he think I’m Haven too? No idea, but if it comes down to it, I’ll make sure this guy knows I’m not my sister.

Because his moves have got me a little hot under the hoodie. Looking back, I might blame the adrenaline for the words forming on my tongue as I impulsively say, “Yes. Can I buy you a drink?”