Chapter 12 Brains and Brawn
brAINS AND brAWN
BANKS
But I can’t let her parting shot get to me.
There’s too much to do. That afternoon, I power through emails and proposals to other clients, including some for our cybersecurity services, an area that’s already become mission critical to our business in a short time.
Then I check the gossip sites, especially Page Six and VIP Vibes.
Nothing featuring Ripley yet, but that doesn’t mean something won’t show up later.
That carries me through the next few hours while I keep my eye on the client, who never stops moving.
One minute Ripley’s pruning flowers, the next she’s spraying them, then she’s pushing them in a wheelbarrow to the shed.
After she unloads the wheelbarrow, she stops, wipes a hand across her brow, then stretches her neck from side to side, like she’s working out some tightness.
Even from a distance, I can tell she’s wincing as she leans her head to the right for several seconds, then the left.
Soon, she resumes her pace through the property, stopping to throw a tennis ball to that dog. That much I can see through the window. Pretty sure she’s taking care of customers, too, who stop in at the store.
Right now, it looks like she’s just left the shop, walking down the stone path next to a man in jeans and a short-sleeve button-down who lifts a finger as if to say he’ll be right back.
That catches my full attention.
I stand, head to the big window, then watch him like a motherfucking hawk as he trots to a black bike, resting against the white fence. He grabs something from a saddle bag under the seat. Ah, it’s a couple of books. With them in hand, he heads back across the lawn.
The fucker has a chiseled jaw. Light-brown hair with russet tones. A toothpaste-commercial smile.
Is that her boyfriend? Does she have a new dude?
Are you surprised? You’re the jerk who ditched her with a vague-as-fuck letter.
I suck in a tight breath through my teeth, hating him on principle as he hands her the books and returns to his bike, strapping on a helmet before he goes.
Which reminds me.
I grab my phone from my pocket and unlock it to google a couple local businesses.
I check the hours, then make plans to run an errand later.
When that’s done, I tell myself to put Ripley’s possible romantic life out of my head.
It’s not my business, no matter how much I once wanted to touch her, kiss her, throw her on the bed.
After I tuck the phone away, I return to the counter right as the soft shuffle of bare feet approaches from the hallway.
A woman, with even blonder hair than Ripley’s, turns into the kitchen. Her warm eyes are lined with wrinkles, and while she’s clearly much older than her granddaughter, the similarity is uncanny. “Good afternoon,” I say.
“You must be the bodyguard,” she says with a cheery smile.
“I am,” I say, though the preferred term is close protection officer. But there’s a time and place for corrections. This isn’t one of those times or places. “Banks Kendrick.”
“I’m Lila Addison. The girls’ grandmother,” she says.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, and extend a hand.
After we shake, she nods to my laptop on the counter in front of a few jars of honey I’ve no doubt was produced by those little winged workers in the fields. “Hope this won’t disturb you, but I have some madeleines I need to make.”
My stomach growls, Pavlovian thing. “Those scallop-shaped cookies that taste like heaven?”
Mom used to make them after football practice.
Her smile magnifies as she starts rummaging through the cupboards for baking supplies. “We’ll get along just fine, Banks.”
Fifteen minutes later, Lila deputizes me for kitchen duty. At her insistence, I wear a white apron decorated with bumblebees while I mix sugar, vanilla, eggs, and melted butter.
“So, Banks,” she starts, her tone casual yet probing, “tell me about this bodyguarding gig of yours. How does a young man like you end up doing something like that?”
Translation: Why do you want to protect others?
Because I couldn’t protect my mother from my liar of a father. While he never hit her, he manipulated her in other ways. He lied about everything. The least I can do is be the opposite of him.
Protect rather than deceive.
But that’s not the kind of story I share with everyone I meet. “I spent the last few years in private security, including cyber. Saw the market expanding and took a chance. Now this is a whole new level, running my own firm with my good friend, who’s my business partner.”
She nods thoughtfully, a mischievous spark in her eyes as she folds the flour, baking powder, and salt mixture carefully into the batter. “And how do you plan on keeping my granddaughter safe? Do you have any special skills up your sleeve?”
Unable to resist her charm, I smile. “I spent eight years in the Marines. First in MARSOC,” I say, and when she, understandably, tilts her head in question, I add, “Special forces for the Marines.”
“Like SEALs?”
I smile. “Well, we’re both Navy, but we’re Raiders. Which is cooler.”
“I don’t know. Seals are pretty cute,” she says with a smirk. “The animal, not the special forces guys…although, now that I think about it, they’re cute too.”
“My point exactly,” I say, then add, “and the last few years, I spent in intelligence.”
“Brains and brawn,” she says approvingly.
“Let’s hope so.”
She stops folding, fixing me with an intense gaze, not at all unlike her granddaughter’s. “Now tell me something. Why can’t I have a bodyguard? I’d ideally love a hot, swoony, older gentleman who can hold his own in the kitchen.”
“Then we should find you one.” I tilt my head toward my laptop as if I’m about to make a start on that project.
“Just kidding. I know self-defense, plus I have my own mon cheri across the ocean.” Her whole face lights up as she tells me about a man in Paris named Laurent.
They FaceTime every day, play trivia games online, and binge TV shows together too.
She’s hoping to see him there at the end of the summer.
“We want to take pastry-making classes together in the sixth arrondissement.”
“That sounds lovely, Lila,” I say.
She sighs hopefully. “We’ll see if it works out for him to be my French bodyguard who bakes.” She nods toward the mixing bowl. “Try it. I plan to have pastry competitions with him. I need to beat him.”
I take the mixing spoon and sample some of the batter. It’s sweet and full of promise. “Delish.”
She arches a brow. “You really think so, or are you lying to get me to say nice things to my granddaughter about you?”
And I can see where Ripley gets it from—her skepticism. “Both.”
Lila’s quiet for a beat. She stares out the window at the fields of purple, the sun dipping low in the sky, Ripley off in the distance working.
“She’s my fearless girl. Full of energy too.
I swear there’s nothing she won’t try to fix.
Nothing she won’t try to do. She doesn’t stop,” she says, her tone full of maternal pride, but something wistful too.
Like she wants Ripley to slow down perhaps.
As we watch, I wonder if Ripley needs to keep going all day long for some reason. I wonder what drives her. It’d be good for me to know her more, I reason. It’ll help me do my job, so I turn to Lila. “Who was that guy here earlier? The one who brought the books?”
“Are you worried about him? She won’t need to break out her self-defense moves for that man.”
I laugh. “I was just curious. And I’m glad to hear that—that she knows them and that she won’t have to use them.”
“He’s William O’Connor. He runs A Likely Story in town. Cute little bookshop. Nice young man.” Then she smiles, the kind that says she can see right through me. “Jealous?”
Where the hell did my poker face go with Ripley’s grandmother? I pride myself on being unreadable when I have to. Valiantly, I try to erase any emotions from my face. “Just curious.”
She pats my arm. “Sure. Of course.”
As we finish arranging the dough for the madeleines on trays, a voice carries from the other room, growing closer. “There’s no way I’m not eating dessert first tonight, Grandma, and you only have yourself to blame.”
Ripley strides into the kitchen, nose up in the air, drawing a deep inhale. When her gaze lands on me in the bumblebee apron, sliding a tray into the oven, she sighs like she can’t believe it. “And you help grandmas too?”
Not her type, my ass. I flash a smile right back at her. “You bet I do, sweetheart.”