Chapter 30 A Gratitude Sandwich
A GRATITUDE SANDWICH
RIPLEY
Chris Carlisle doesn’t look like everyone else in town. With his chiseled jawline, carved cheekbones, wavy golden-brown hair, and crystal-blue eyes, he looks as advertised.
A movie star.
He’s also got an entourage. A big, burly man walks a few feet behind him, wearing a tight black polo shirt that stretches across his chest. That must be his bodyguard. A petite woman in black pants and leopard flats is next to him, a phone, tablet, and notebook in her arms.
They’re all heading my way when Chris’s gaze lands on mine, and instantly a smile brightens his face.
It’s like a billboard on the side of the highway. A movie marquee you have to look at. He strides right up to me, those blue eyes locked on me. “You must be Ripley.”
I’m not usually starstruck, only because I don’t usually meet stars, so I don’t have a second to stammer or gawk. After all, he’s the guy my sister says is so nice.
“I am,” I say, then take a quick pause, assessing my reaction. Yes, he’s a movie star, but he also puts his pants on one leg at a time. So I treat him as I’d treat anyone. With kindness and a little humor. “And I’m guessing you’re maybe, possibly Chris Carlisle?”
He laughs politely, his gaze staying on me the whole time. “Good guess.” Then, his expression turns more serious. “I am so grateful for you.” Sandwich in hand, he comes closer, extending his free arm. “Hug?”
Oh.
He’s asking for consent to hug. Okay. That’s interesting. I shift the flowers awkwardly to my other arm, saying, “Sure.”
He wraps his arm around me in a side hug that’s quick, friendly, respectful, then he lets go. “What an honor to meet you,” he says, both earnest and intense.
“It’s my pleasure. How are you finding Darling Springs?”
“It’s an incredible place,” he says, telling me more about the beach, then the tapas he had at dinner last night, then the innkeeper at The Ladybug Inn.
He doesn’t once look away. He’s all about the eye contact, which is nice, but a little overwhelming.
Especially with that sandwich. The woman with him, an assistant I’m guessing, steps forward and takes it from him. “I’ll hold this.”
He turns to her. “Thank you so much, Natasha,” he says in a tone full of gratitude.
His gaze returns to mine. “And Ripley,” he says, placing his hands together as if in prayer, “I just want to thank you so much for welcoming our set onto your farm. I put you in my gratitude journal and thanked you in my morning meditation.”
Ohhhhh. I get it now.
He’s a gratitude guy. Which is lovely. And endearing. And also intense.
“That means a lot to me,” I say, since I think that’s how you respond to that kind of compliment.
“We drove past your farm earlier today. I wanted to see it from a distance, like the character does the first time he sets eyes on it. As an actor, I rely so much on my set and setting to perform, and I find the atmosphere you have created to be…” He pauses, clearly taking a moment to find just the right word.
“Profound. I’m so looking forward to shooting there. ”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying Darling Springs.”
“It’s extraordinary,” Chris says while his bodyguard scans the aisle. He must be satisfied that there aren’t any paparazzi nearby. “And I think we’ll do it justice in the film,” Chris adds.
“That’s great to hear,” I say.
With another heartfelt smile, he moves a hand to my elbow. “Permission to pat your elbow in thanks?”
My god, he’s fucking adorable. “Absolutely.”
He squeezes it, smiling. “Thank you, again. And I don’t want to keep you from your flower delivery.”
“It’s no problem. I’m glad we met,” I say as Chris takes the sandwich from Natasha, thanking her as if she’s saved a kitten.
As he turns to leave, I go the other way and hand my flowers to Salma, who’s wearing a summery scarf over her head. “No guard dog today?” she asks.
“He’s outside.”
“Ah, did you make sure to give him food and water?”
I cover my mouth as if I made a horrible faux pas. “I knew there was something.”
“Next time,” she says, then tips her forehead to the door. “Business is good today. The place is packed.”
“With paparazzi?”
“Probably some, but mostly tourists. Everyone wants a glimpse, and everyone wants some of my world-famous sandwiches.”
“You do make the best sandwiches.” That gives me an idea. Banks and I do need to eat later. Maybe I’ll make a little picnic dinner in the cottage.
I head to the deli, order some sandwiches for pickup tonight, and a few minutes later, I’m back in my truck with the bodyguard who’s worlds sexier to me than a movie star. Yet another reason someone should base the lead in a flick on this man.
I toss him a pleased smile. “I pulled that off without any trouble from the paps.”
“Yes, you did,” he says.
Except…
“I mean, we did,” I add as he pulls away from the curb and turns down a side street.
When we’re safely away from the tourists downtown, he lifts a hand and slides a thumb down my jaw. “I’m still forgetting all about last night.”
A shiver runs through me. “Me too. Want to forget about it over a picnic dinner?”
His smile is smug, deservedly so. “You like me.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs. “You really like me.”
“You’re just being mean now pointing that out.”
“You really like me so fucking much.”
“Oh my god, just play Beethoven instead,” I say.
He hits the button on the console and blasts something with joyful piano and violins as he drives me home.
That evening, I wash my face and scrub off my sunscreen after working on the farm all afternoon.
Then, with my hair pushed back in a lavender—naturally—cotton headband, I settle onto the couch with Banks.
As we’re forgetting all about last night thanks to the dinner I ordered which he picked up—a chicken sandwich for him and an artichoke and cheese for me—Haven calls.
I lunge for it. Her tone’s an apology. “There’s a photo of you and Chris going viral.”
“What?” I ask, sitting up straight on the couch. Hudson lifts his snout from where he’s lounging on the floor. “There weren’t photographers in the store.”
But Banks drags a hand down his face, grumbling, “Everyone’s a photographer.”
A minute later, I’m staring at a shot on some random person’s social media of New Chris and his “new woman.” Since the mock turtleneck with the short sleeves means that Haven doesn’t know about my allegedly amazing new skin care routine on my neck, but also that no one knows I’m not my sister.
The sleeves hit at my elbow, and they hid all my birds.
Because the caption reads: Little did I know who was in the produce aisle! And he looks at her like she’s the one!