I step back and take a look at the woman in front of me with the straight nose, high cheekbones, and sleek, shiny blond hair, twisted up in an ever-so-casual bun. Then, the artful mascara sweeping across her eyelashes, the polished peach nails, and the fair complexion.
She’s a mirror of me, minus the nails. I never polish mine if I can help it. Plus, I’m a little tanner from working outside, and a lot more covered in ink, since, well, why have naked skin when you can have art? I have an armful of ink, while Haven has one tiny bird tattoo on her shoulder to match my flock.
But she insisted I have my nails done when she dragged me to the spa earlier today for facials and mani-pedis. Haven picked the color—a bright, girly pink, like a gumball. I can’t wait to take it off when I get home.
Haven glances apologetically at the time on her phone, then gives me one last hug. “Sorry to cut our weekend short. The suite is booked for one more night, so use it. Take a bubble bath and order champagne, on me.”
I snort. Bubble baths are her thing. “I don’t have time for that. But go.” I shoo her out. “Get out of here. The security line at SFO will be ridiculous. Tell the Lyft driver to take Nineteenth Avenue, not 101.”
“I know, I know. Always take Nineteenth Avenue,” she says as she heads off.
As the door creaks shut behind her, I turn around, ready to work. I brought my laptop, so I can do some research and look up everything I’ll need to tidy the farm before I meet with her producers next week on site.
But the bed is strewn with camis and yoga pants, jammies and myBees Do It BetterT-shirt. There are books, too, and a water bottle with the farm logo on it. I can’t think straight in this room. It makes my brain messy and cluttered. The lobby bar is arctic, so I grab a white hoodie and my phone. Snagging my clutch purse, I head downstairs, stuffing my arms into the hoodie as I go, following the soft hum of jazz melodies and the glow of pendant lights.
I can do this. I’m a glass-half-full kind of woman, so at the bar, I order a glass of rosé, and as soon as the bartender pours it for me, I thank him, then start brainstorming ways to fix up the farm on a budget.
I grab a napkin, start searching on my phone, and begin mathing.
How much more money will Lavender Bliss be able to make with this kind of exposure? On the flip side, how much of the meager savings will we have to spend to get the place ready for a film crew?
Maybe I needed a stiffer drink than rosé.
I scan the mirrored shelves of liquor, briefly considering an upgrade to bourbon. But the bartender’s busy mixing margaritas on the other side of the U-shaped bar.
A few stools away from me is a slick, blond dude wearing one of those business shirts with a different-colored collar—blue stripes against white, like the kind the douchey boss wears in a movie. A few stools away from him, a pair of women are huddled close together, lifting pink drinks and sharing secrets. Over there, on the other side of them, is a hulk of a man with dark eyes and broad shoulders that tell me he probably juggles refrigerators for fun. He’s got an amber drink set neatly next to a tablet, and he’s making…whatishe making?
I try to stare without being too obvious, and I’m pretty sure he’s doing origami. Maybe a butterfly.
Which reminds me. The butterfly lavender essential oils we sell in the little shop attached to the farm—the shop that’s become the most dependable part of the business—will I be able to sell them in the shop with a film crew there? And where will the crew stay? Does Bridget have room at The BookHouse for everyone? There’s The Ladybug Inn, too, which adds eight or so rooms. Are there enough Airbnbs in town? How big is a film crew? A dozen people? A hundred?
As I’m writing details down on my napkin, there’s a scratch of metal against the concrete floor, then footsteps, then a cleared throat next to me.
“Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
The voice is fratty. Bet it belongs to douchey boss. And as far as opening lines go, it’s pretty demanding.
I barely look up. “No, you don’t.”
“I do though,” he says, grabbing a stool and sitting too close to me. The scent of patchouli and sandalwood clings to him. I thought we left body spray back in the last decade. I guess I was wrong. “Did you go to Brown?”
Great. It’s one of those lines that’s supposed to be a compliment.Like, I’m not going to start with your eyes, but your brain, babe.
“Nope.”
“Well, let me buy you a drink, and we’ll figure it out.”
It’s best to be direct in these situations, so I turn, and no surprise, it’s douchey boss, and I meet his gaze head-on. “No, thanks.”
He makes no move to go though. He leers, his slick eyes roaming from my face to my chest, then back up. A smirk forms, victorious and irritating. In no time, I’m cycling through my self-defense moves, picturing the throw I’d use to take this creep down in a parking lot when he snaps his fingers, highlighting a tan line where a wedding ring once belonged. “Wait.Wait.I’ve seen you in a movie.”
Oh.
For a few seconds, I’m disarmed. This is a first for me. This never happens in Darling Springs since everyone there knows Haven and me. And while my identical twin sister isn’t a householdnameyet, she’s well on her way. She finished two successful seasons on the streaming ensemble hitThe Dating Games, and she had a supporting part in a breakout Webflix movie,Top-Notch Boyfriend.
Still, I don’t want to be rude in case he tells people IamHaven, so I toss him a bone, managing a small smile as I start to say, “Actually, that’s?—”
“The one where you, you flashed your…” His hands cup imaginary melons at pecs-level.
