Chapter 10 Aisle Ten
AISLE TEN
RIPLEY
“I had no idea. But I can totally explain,” he says, sounding desperate to right things.
Spare me. Seriously. Just spare me. I’m not in the mood for his song-and-dance routine. Especially when he acted like it was nothing to see me again.
But then, that fits his MO. Fine. Whatever.
I’ve had twenty-six days to get over the embarrassment of asking a hotel clerk to spank me, so yeah, I’m so over Banks, I don’t care what he wants to explain.
Even though, fine… I didn’t like the way that photog invaded my space.
It made my pulse spike, and not just because I don’t love being photographed.
Still, the encounter was only with one person and nothing bad came of it. I definitely don’t need this guy shadowing me around my hometown. “Cool. Now I believe we had a deal. Can I please have my bouquets and we can go? Salma’s expecting this. French lavender is her favorite.”
For a second, he feints, like he’s going to hand them to me. But then he hugs them closer. “I’ll carry them.”
This guy. But I try again. “Or, how about I take them, and you can stay, say, fifty feet behind me?”
I can manage that. I think.
Banks smiles and…damn him. The fucker has a dimple.
Does the universe hate me? Giving me a bodyguard who rushes out on me before the banging, then giving him a freaking dimple?
If that isn’t evidence of the universe’s disdain, I don’t know what is.
“I’ll walk with you, Ripley. There’s a lot I need to say. ”
“There’s a statute of limitations and it’s passed, so no need.”
“I’d like to,” he says. His tone is firm, sturdy, but there’s a bit of a plea in it, like this is important.
But I have things to do. “As fascinating as I’m sure your explanation is, I have to make a delivery. Pretty sure it’d look bad for your”—I flap a hand at his brick wall of a big, strong frame—“bodyguarding if your client falls behind on her work, right?”
I’m winging it, making up things as I go along. But logic and all—a bodyguard should help you not hinder you.
His face is stoic for a minute, then he nods tightly. “Fine, but I’m going with you.”
“I can find the store myself.” Maybe the more I irritate him, the more I can scare him off. Hell, it worked once already, and I wasn’t even trying.
No one ever warns you what it does to your relationship self-esteem to run into a hookup who ran out on you.
I already have a speckled history of men leaving me.
Like Eric Patrick Waterstone—he of the two first names—from San Francisco.
A chef, he romanced me through my stomach, making mouthwatering dishes in his San Francisco apartment when I came down to visit him on weekends.
He took amazing pics of his food, too, for social media, and created quite the following that he then used as a springboard for the next step in his career.
“Darling Springs is just too small for me, baby,” he’d say.
But I was in love—or so I’d thought—so I kept driving to the city every weekend to see him.
He even said he was thinking of opening a place in Darling Springs, but then he changed his mind, took off for New York to start a fusion café, and never looked back.
Leaving me standing like a fool in the dust.
But I don’t want to linger on the guys who can’t stick around. Especially ones who can’t even stick around for one night.
“I know you can find it, but I’m going with you, and I’m going to make sure no one knocks into you again, so get used to it.”
I scoff. “Get used to it?” Does he think that line works?
“I’m here to protect you. You’re mine,” he says, his voice calm, deep, reassuring. “It’s that simple.”
I hate that my stupid pulse surges from those two possessive words. You’re mine.
Why do I have a thing for men swooping in and saving me? But that’s a topic for another day. For now, I don’t bother to stare him down. I give a careless shrug. “Let’s go then, babysitter boy.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but not for long. He’s stony-faced. As we head out of the shop, I smile as I pass Callie at the counter. “Hiccups not quite gone yet, but I’m trying to shake them,” I say.
“Try biting on a lemon.”
I smile brighter at her. “Pretty sure that’s what I am doing,” I say, then toss a sour smile at Banks.
Once we’re out on the sidewalk, he says dryly, “I like lemons.”
“Of course you do.”
Clearing his throat, he turns to me as we walk. “Listen. I’m sorry about that night. I wanted to explain.”
“No worries. I didn’t think twice about it,” I say breezily, chin up, armor on. Like I’ll let him think I was stewing on it.
No way he is getting the better of me.
Not this man in his jeans that hug a firm ass I could bounce a quarter off, those arms made of rocks, that face chiseled from a sculptor’s tool.
“Still, it’s been weighing on me,” he says, but then his attention shoots elsewhere. He jerks his gaze across the street, then up the block. The guy in the hat is turning down the street, I think. Maybe heading toward The Ladybug Inn. Hmm. I bet New Chris is staying there.
Banks turns back to me, like he’s ready to resume this convo. But as we near The Slippery Dipper, I spy my chance to dodge this topic again.
Noah’s outside, spraying the window with cleaner and wiping it down. He wears a blue polo and jeans—his dad outfit, he told me, and it’s pretty much become his uniform since he became one a couple years ago. He catches my eye, then spots the bouquets Banks is holding. “New employee?”
That gives me an idea. If this goon is going to stick around, maybe I can use him to pick up some slack at the farm.
Like moving the rototiller. Or pushing the wheelbarrow.
Spreading the weed barrier cloth. I mean, if he has to be so close to me, he might as well help.
“Something like that. He’s carrying heavy things for me.
Boulders. Tractors, that kind of stuff.”
“And bouquets?” Noah asks, clearly amused, eyes straying toward the nearly weightless flowers in Banks’s arms.
“Training wheels,” Banks deadpans.
Noah nods to him. “Welcome to the Lavender Bliss team.”
“Thanks,” he says. Once we resume our path to the store a few feet ahead, he says, “You don’t have tractors.”
True. But do facts matter? “Are you a lavender farmer and a bodyguard?”
His gaze slides down to the pretty purple flowers in his arms, then back to The Slippery Dipper. “Evidently, I just became one.”
I head into the market, Banks next to me the whole time as I head toward Salma, who waits at the floral counter, a little impatiently.
She’s always punctual in opening and closing her store and has been for the decade she’s been running it, so I know she likes me to be on time too.
Her steady green eyes crinkle at the corners as she adjusts her hijab, making sure it’s snug, which it always is.
“I thought you were going to miss the delivery,” she says when I reach her.
“Me too. I’m sorry to leave you hanging,” I say genuinely.
“It’s fine. You made it.” She tips her chin toward the man by my side. “Who’s this?”
I could say he’s my new employee, maintaining the joke, but I think I’ll keep him on his toes. “My guard dog. Banks.”
Salma snorts. “Perhaps you need a collar then. Aisle ten is for pet supplies.”
And I’m forgiven for being late. She takes the bouquets and brings them to the front of the store.
When I catch Banks’s gaze, he’s rolling his eyes.
“Well, if the shoe fits,” I say.
His dark eyes level me. “Sweetheart, I’ve been called so much worse.”
And I guess we’re over the explanation phase. I tilt my head. I don’t blink as I say, “Guess your desire to explain didn’t last long.”
“No, I listened to you.”
Please. Like he’s the mature one. Like he’s the adult.
Two can play at his game. When we exit, I spot my bike right where Banks left it, resting in the bike rack.
Safe and unharmed. Like a beacon.
I don’t map out a plan. I just grab it from the rack. Like I’m escaping from a robbery, I hop on and pedal at the same time, then ride as fast as I can down the sidewalk and far away from my guard dog.
Take that.