Chapter 25 #2
“I do. I always try to order from the hometown store. You know how it goes. Support a local business and all. So he leaves notes on his favorite scenes. Such a book guy,” she says with a shrug, then takes the note and the book.
I arch a brow. That sounds like more than bookishness. “He probably has a crush on you.”
She scoffs. “Doubtful.”
“Not doubtful. You’re kind of a movie star,” I stage whisper. “Also, look at you. You’re gorgeous.”
She stares right back at me, then clears her throat. “Ahem. Pot. Kettle. Literally.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“And speaking of crushes, is your bodyguard hot for you?” she whispers.
A flush spreads like wildfire up my chest. “No,” I say immediately. “He just stays close to me.”
“That’s not what I meant, Ripley.”
But I don’t want to talk about Banks with her. Because nothing more can happen with him, and she doesn’t need to worry about me. She especially doesn’t need to play matchmaker when she should be playing Lucy Snow, the heroine in Someone Else’s Ring.
“Enjoy the book from the not-crush,” I say.
“Enjoy the cottage with the not-crush.”
We leave together, with Wanda mentioning that her son thinks there’s a dinosaur named Asparagus Rex.
“Honestly, that’d be a good name for a dino,” I admit.
“Or a new variety of asparagus,” she says.
“I’d eat that asparagus,” Haven puts in.
“Just grill it with a little olive oil and it’ll be delish,” Wanda says as they head to the car.
A few minutes later, Hudson and I are back at the cottage. I knock on the door, and Banks swings it open.
“You didn’t follow me to the house,” I point out.
“I figured you weren’t going to run tonight. Plus, I was holding your origami menagerie hostage.”
He’s set the bird and the fox on the coffee table. The damning evidence is now home decor. He must have snuck the fox out of my room without me noticing. He is stealthy. I head inside, Hudson trotting behind me, giving a lick hello to his new friend.
In the few minutes I’ve been gone, Banks has already set a pillow on the couch and spread out the blanket that had been on the foot of the bed.
Shame. I was hoping he’d talked himself into sharing.
The pillows are stacked against the headboard, and I’m under the covers in my cami and sleep shorts, the dog snoozing at my feet, Banks reading on the couch. He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, the ink on his arms on full display. His knees are tucked up.
Since he doesn’t fit.
I sigh from the bed.
He turns a page.
I flip another page in my book.
He slides a little lower on the couch, knees jutting higher.
I read another page.
He flips to the next one in his book.
I slap my book down on the cover. “This is stupid. If you’re not going to sleep with the gardening equipment, just share the bed.”
Slowly, he turns his head, meeting my gaze, his lips quirking up. “Is that your way of telling me to hit the shed?”
“No. Just come here. I won’t bite.”
He puts the book down on the coffee table. “What if I like biting?”
A whoosh of heat rushes through me. “Do you?” I ask in a low voice, then shake my head. I don’t want to know. Only because I do want to know. “Forget I asked.”
“Okay.”
“Banks,” I say with a sigh.
“Yes, Ripley?”
“We can handle this,” I say.
His stoic expression fades. There’s real concern in his eyes. “You think so?”
“Yes,” I say, emphatic. “I have faith in us.”
With a heavy sigh, he stares back at the couch with disdain. “Good, because this couch sucks.”
He grabs his pillow, comes around to the bed, and sets it down. Then he slides under the covers, patting them on his chest.
We’re like two sticks in a bed.
I try to come up with a topic to relieve the tension, when he says, “Sam wants you.”
I scoff. “He does not.”
Banks shifts to his side, giving me a look. “He was checking you out.”
“Then he wants Haven too,” I say.
His brow knits. “Just because you look alike doesn’t mean someone is attracted to both of you.”
I know this to be true, but it’s rare to hear from someone else. “You think so?”
“Yes. I know so,” he says. “Case in point—me.”
My chest warms dangerously, so naturally I push back. “But you thought I was Haven the night we met.”
“Correction: I thought you were Ripley, then I thought you were Haven pretending to be Ripley. Then I met you again. It was always Ripley I was attracted to.”
The temperature in me shoots up. I should leave this topic alone, but I don’t. “Glad you’re not into both twins.”
“I can tell you apart.”
“You couldn’t at first.”
He levels me with a dark gaze. “I can now. I can tell here,” he says, tapping his chest. “Only one of you turns me on.”
It’s official—I’m on fire. I can’t even speak.
“And Sam was definitely flirting with you,” he says, a little irked.
I can’t resist. “Did that bother you?”
The tension in his forehead says it did. The tightness in his jaw is another sign. “What do you think?”
“A little,” I say, smiling.
A laugh bursts from him. “You love to fuck with me.”
“You love to fuck with me.”
There’s a weighted pause, then Banks nods at the book I brought. The cover is midnight blue, with a stark-white serif font for the title. “That bookstore guy brought that for you.” There’s still some jealousy in his tone.
“I ordered it from his store.”
“Does he hand-deliver books to all his customers?”
“He’s one of my customers! He has lavender bouquets at the counter in A Likely Story.” I take a moment, then add, “And when he brought the book I purchased, he brought one for Haven too. It was marked up with favorite lines and stuff.”
“Ah.” Banks nods, his shoulders relaxing like that settles that issue for him.
“I guess they’re friends,” I add. But I don’t want to talk about my sister or other guys. I glance around the cottage. “You don’t like messes, do you?”
“I hate them,” he says, then scrubs a hand through his hair, messing it up—an incongruous move.
“Why?” I ask softly.
“I just like order. I like things the way I like them. I like to be able to control my environment.”
Earlier he said the situation with his parents splitting up was messy. That he had to step up. “Is that because there was a time when you couldn’t?”
He’s quiet at first, then sighs. But it’s not a frustrated sound. It’s more thoughtful, and so is his gaze as he says, “Definitely. The thing I told you earlier? In your truck?”
“Yes?”
“We had to move. Well, my mom wanted to, as well. But she definitely felt like she had to—to start over.”
“That must have been hard.”
“It was. For her.”
“And for you and your sister.”
Silence fills the space, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s necessary. He nods. “Yeah, for everyone. Guess that’s why I like things the way I like them.”
“I won’t tease you about being a neat freak then,” I say genuinely.
He stares me down. “But if you didn’t tease me, maybe I wouldn’t know it was you.”
There’s nowhere for this fizzy feeling to go, so I bottle it up. “What’s the eye mask for?”
“Tension,” he says with some vulnerability. “I was feeling it the other day.”’
“With me?”
He’s quiet for a beat, then sighs and nods. “Yeah. I was.”
That makes me happy, but it’s a futile happiness. “Did it help?”
“It did.” A pause. “Be sure to tell the owner that lavender works.”
“I’ll let her know,” I say, but I don’t want him to feel more tense. He already seems to carry a lot on his shoulders. “Good night, Banks. Don’t try to cuddle me while we sleep.”
“Don’t you try to cuddle me,” he fires back.
“I mean it.”
“You mean it like a challenge?”
“I dare you not to cuddle me.”
After he sheds his shorts, so he’s down to boxer briefs and a T-shirt, he flips to his other side, his big back to me. “Done.”
We turn off our bedside lamps. The cottage goes dark. Eventually, sometime later, we fall asleep.
I wake to his arms wrapped around me, his breathing steady against my neck, his body unbearably close to mine.