Chapter 24 All My Friends Are Assholes
ALL MY FRIENDS ARE ASSHOLES
RIPLEY
My stomach is flipping with nerves. This is bad. So bad I can’t believe I’m about to do this, but I duck into my en suite bathroom a little later that evening, shut the door, and emergency text Chief Troublemaker and Number One Pain in the Ass.
Ripley: I need to talk, stat. For real.
Bridget: I’m on it. My assistant manager just arrived. Give me one minute to go to my office.
Chloe: I just finished a dog bath! I’m ready, wet shirt and all.
A minute later, we’re on a three-way video call, Bridget in her tiny office at the inn, Chloe walking down the quiet alley behind the doggie daycare, hair swept up in a high pony.
“Listen,” I say, cutting to the chase. “I need to tell you something, and don’t be assholes.”
Bridget straightens her shoulders. “Us, assholes? Never.”
“Shocking that I’d think you might be.”
Chloe adopts a robotic voice to match her robotic arm movements. “Anti-asshole mode activated.”
I breathe out, then begin my full confession. “That weekend I went to San Francisco with Haven? A month ago?” They nod. “I almost hooked up with Banks.”
Two pairs of eyes widen on the phone screen. I go on to explain what went down in painstaking detail. “And I didn’t tell you because…I felt stupid. Because…boys suck and all.”
“They can,” Bridget says, but she’s the diplomatic one, so she adds, “And so can girls.”
“But we’re talking about boys,” Chloe points out.
“Fine. They can suck,” Bridget acknowledges, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ear.
“And I thought he was a jerk at first, so when it turned out he was my bodyguard, I was pissed. But he explained why he ran, and I got it. I did. And now it’s just…complicated,” I say, wincing because this afternoon made everything more complicated again.
To their credit, they don’t tease me this time. “Sounds like it,” Bridget says thoughtfully.
I release another big breath. This is hard for me. It’s so much easier to focus on someone else, but I feel untethered right now. “And then this afternoon when he drove me home—well, there was a dare, and we made out on the side of the road, and blah, blah, blah.”
Chloe holds up a hand. “Do not blah, blah, blah the orgasm.”
“Wait,” Bridget says, with fresh worry in her tone. “Did you not come? Is that why you’re calling? I’m sorry he didn’t give you an O, hon.”
“He gave me an O,” I say, heat racing all over me again as I picture the scene a few hours ago—my hands pinned behind me, Banks controlling my pleasure.
“A fantastic one. But we agreed it was a mistake. He has to focus on his job and honestly, so do I. My job being making sure this shoot happens without a problem. But now there’s no room at the house, and he’s offered to let me stay in the cottage where he’s been staying, and I don’t know if I can handle it. ”
Chloe squeals, then quickly rearranges her expression to a more serious one. “Sorry. I’m totally not excited for you. Why do you think you can’t handle it?”
Because I pride myself on handling anything and everything, but this is uncharted terrain. “I don’t know what to do. Do I stay with him or sleep on the floor or stay with you?” Escape has its appeal—as in, I need an escape from my libido.
“But if you stay with us, he’ll be here too. With you,” Bridget points out.
“True, true.”
“Also, don’t you want and need to be at the farmhouse?” Chloe asks, a helpful reminder.
I drop my head in my hand. “I do.” Then I draw a deep breath and raise my face. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I can handle some weird sexual tension. It’s no big deal. We’re adults sharing a small space. It happens all the time. It doesn’t mean we’re going to sleep together. We made a pact.”
“Yes, and pacts were made to be broken,” Chloe says, then shakes her head. “I meant honored. No-sex pacts were made to be honored.”
“Chloe,” I warn her.
She tilts her head, giving me a soft and genuine smile. “I’m teasing. But I know you’re going to be able to handle this, Ripley. That’s what you do. Even if it’s hard, you always find a way.”
“And I bet it’s going to be very, very hard,” Bridget deadpans.
Narrowing my eyes, I lift a finger. “Hey, you promised you wouldn’t be assholes.”
Bridget arches a brow. “You were an asshole first. You didn’t tell us.”
“I guess we’re all assholes then, so we’re even,” I say, leaning against the vanity.
“And call us if you feel like you’re about to cave,” Chloe offers.
“And you’ll give me a pep talk?” I ask, hopeful, grateful for this lifeline.
“Or encourage you to ride his big D,” she says.
I growl. “You’re definitely assholes.”
“And you love us,” Bridget says.
“I really do,” I say, and I feel better from talking to them. I needed to get that off my chest.
Now that I have, I’m confident I can do this. They’re right. I can handle this new level of awkward. I can manage the sexual tension. It won’t be a problem at all.
I say goodbye, then leave the bathroom, and I survey my bedroom. Guess it’s time to pack an overnight bag for a few—gulp—tempting weeks.
There’s a knock on the door. I head over and open it, then startle. It’s the sexy man I need to resist. And my pulse is surging.
“I came to help you pack,” he says, and it’s a thoughtful gesture. Like something a boyfriend would do rather than a bodyguard.
But I can’t linger on that thought so I say, “Let’s do it.”
His gaze snaps to my nightstand, and I follow it. The fox he made at Pick Me Up sits atop my paperback. A smile curves his lips, but he says nothing.
I don’t either as I drop two books from my nightstand into a canvas bag, then head to the closet and grab my overnight bag—the one I used when I visited my sister in San Francisco last month.
I bring it to the bed and unzip it. “I’ll grab some clothes and toiletries,” I say, then head to the bathroom again to gather some things.
When I return with a bag of lotions and potions, Banks is staring at me like a cat who’s just finished eating a very delicious trout.
“What is it?” I ask, unsure what that wicked grin is about.
His gaze drifts to my bag. Inside it is a small box. I left it open when I put the bag away because I didn’t want to throw out the contents.
One origami bird.
“You kept that too.”
“It’s a nice bird,” I say defensively.
“It really is.” A pause. A nod of his head toward the nightstand. “So’s the fox.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“It’s quite a collection.”
“Banks,” I warn.
“Don’t worry. I’ll forget all about it,” he says, turning my words back on me. But he’s smiling, like he’s deliciously pleased with the twin discoveries.
I roll my eyes. “I’m sure you’ll never let me forget it.”
“I see you understand me finally,” he says, then helps me pack.
The thing is, I think I do understand him, and I like it too much.
Or him.