Chapter 43 Trust Your Gut
TRUST YOUR GUT
BANKS
Ripley utters an oh when she sees Dean. She’s just come out of the bathroom in a tank top and shorts, rubbing a towel in her wet hair.
Hudson barks, but he’s wagging his tail too.
For all intents and purposes, this is an innocent scene.
It’s no secret we’re sharing the cottage. Naturally, we’d both shower here.
Still, my first instinct is to lie. I can feel the false words climbing up my throat. She was just showering. That’s all.
The sentence jostles around in my mouth, and it feels all too easy to say. Briefly, I part my lips to utter the cover-up. Because she was just showering isn’t even a lie.
It’s true.
But in those few dangerous seconds where lies seem easy and truth slinks far, far away, I grow ashamed.
This is what my father did.
He lied for years about his nights, his days, his whereabouts. He built a second house of lies, and he slept in the king-size bed in the center of it all.
I’ve vowed to never be like him.
The fact that I even considered a lie makes my cheeks heat with red-hot shame as I meet the confused eyes of my business partner.
Dean Ortiz is six three and brawny, with a shaved head and inked vines snaking around the light-brown skin on his arms. He’s one of my closest friends, and I’ve known him for more than a decade—yet I feel like we’re worlds apart.
Since I’ve been fucking around and potentially harming the business we’ve built.
“Hey,” I say on a strangled breath. “What are you doing here?”
My business partner cocks his head, saying nothing, clearly trying to make sense of the scene before his eyes—the very domestic scene of Ripley and me in the morning, casual and comfortable in front of each other.
Ripley clears her throat. “I should go do…um…farm stuff. Yeah. That.”
Dean blinks again, then takes another beat, brow knitting, gesturing to the bed.
“I take it you didn’t get my text?”
Shit. I wince. “Is the Webflix meeting canceled?”
But why the hell would he come here today to tell me a meeting set for tomorrow had been canceled? Why wouldn’t he call?
“No. I texted you to tell you I was coming in early, Banks,” he says with an unusual emphasis on my name. “Figured it’d be good to see the movie set, say hi to the Ruby Horizons client, and catch up. I texted so you’d know I’d switched to an earlier flight.” He pauses. “But seems you have company.”
He says it pointedly and then waits, giving me an opportunity to explain. There could be a reasonable explanation. But there isn’t.
I can’t avoid it any longer, especially since Ripley says, “I was just leaving.”
A minute later, she and her dog hustle out, and it’s just me and the friend I’ve been lying to. Lies always catch up to you.
I shut the door, a pit widening in my stomach at the ominous click of the latch. Dean scratches his jaw as he stares at me like he doesn’t even know me. The silence stretches for years.
Time to man up. I meet his eyes and own this problem. “It’s what you think it is.”
Dean shakes his head, letting out a long, frustrated, “Fuuuuuck.”
Trudging to the couch, he sinks down and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Seriously? That is so risky, man.”
“I know,” I say heavily. I don’t really feel better for having admitted it. Owning the truth was necessary, but it doesn’t absolve me. Neither does the voice saying, What’s so wrong with falling in love?
I shut up that voice. Now is not the time for the poets to convince me the heart always wins.
“That’s like the golden rule of our business,” Dean says. “Don’t fall for the person you’re protecting.”
Like I weigh a ton, I sit next to him, “I know. I should have—”
“Told me the truth before it got this far so I could have taken you off the job.”
When he puts it like that, more shame creeps up my neck. “Yes,” I mutter.
“You know the deal in our line of work. When you fall for the client, you make mistakes. Get distracted. You think with your heart instead of your gut.”
It’s ingrained in me, and in him, so we say it together: “Always trust your gut first.”
That awful feeling coils tighter in my stomach. “I let you down.”
“You did. You let us down. But we’re in this together,” he says, apparently ready to roll up his sleeves and fix the mess I made. “Does anyone know?”
I shake my head. “Just some of her friends.”
He blows out an annoyed breath. “I really wish you’d said no one.” But then he shakes his head, like he’s shaking off his frustration. “We’ll tell Ruby Horizons you got pulled to another job, and I’ll handle Ripley for the rest of the shoot. No one will have to know.”
What did I do to deserve a partner like this? His triage skills are unparalleled. “Thank you,” I say, grateful, embarrassed it’s come to this, but relieved all the same.
“And then we’ll move on, and you’ll be more careful. Right?” He asks it like a cop letting you off with a warning.
“Of course,” I say, and I’m about to add falling for a client won’t be a problem since I’ll be with Ripley when my phone buzzes again. It’s as persistent as someone punching a doorbell over and over. It’s my sister again, and I click open the text.
Emily: You’re seeing Haven Addison’s sister?
“The fuck?” I drop the phone like it’s on fire, then scramble to get it from the floor. Yup. The same damning text still mocks me.
“What’s going on?” Dean asks.
What’s going on is a photo on VIP Vibes of Haven, Ripley, Bridget, and Chloe dancing at Prohibition Spirit last night. I’m in the background next to Wanda.
Why would my sister assume we’re together from this shot?
I also didn’t realize Ludwig was there last night. He must have been since he regularly sells to VIP Vibes.
Dammit, Dean was right. Falling in love does make you lose focus. I should have paid more attention to the other people in the bar.
But my sister sent another link, this one to a social media feed of hashtags from the movie.
And that pit in my gut turns into a gaping maw.
That’s why my sister asked if I’m seeing Haven’s sister.
Because there’s a picture making the rounds of Ripley and me getting out of the car, my hand in hers, our gazes locked.
I hate to admit it, but it’s a good shot.
If a photo tells a story, this is the tale of two people fighting like hell to resist each other as they fall hard. This picture doesn’t lie at all.
My only hope is that the paparazzi assumed Ripley was Haven again, like they’ve done before.
But they’re not stupid.
Last night, Ripley wore a strappy tank, and her birds were visible, flying down her upper arm.
That explains why this photo isn’t running in VIP Vibes—neither of us are celebrities.
VIP Vibes wouldn’t pay News Site Ink for a shot of the star’s sister and her bodyguard.
This was just one of many images under the hashtag for Someone Else’s Ring.
Ripley and I are a sidebar. A footnote. An interesting little scandal with the caption: Better look twice!
If you thought Haven Addison was having an affair with her bodyguard, you’d be wrong.
Her identical twin sister is, though, and was seen canoodling with him before she and her star sibling went dancing at a local hot spot.
It had to have been Eric Patrick who posted this online. No wonder he flashed me that smug smile. He’d probably saved this pic somewhere else on his phone after taking it off his camera roll. “Her fucking ex,” I mutter.
“This was taken by her ex?” Dean asks.
“I’m guessing so,” I say. “The one inside must have been shot by a pap. This was probably shot by her ex. He’s into food photography, so I guess he knows his way around a camera. And then he dropped it online because he was pissed she’s not helping him get an intro for his restaurant.”
Dean runs a hand over the back of his neck as I tell him about last night’s encounter. “This is such a mess.”
Then his phone beeps, and he checks it, groaning heavily. “What is it?” I ask, though it feels like putting my finger in the fire.
He waves his phone like he wants to chuck it. “I just got an email from Webflix. The meeting is canceled. They’re looking elsewhere for security.”
I fucked up everything.