“Yes, Banks. That sounds great. Ireallywant to get coffee with you,” she says dryly.
This is going to be so fun. Both sisters probably hate me. But at least Ripley knows my name. That has to be a good sign. When my firm first landed the gig with the film last month, the plan was to provide security for the shoot itself. Now, with Chris Carlisle on the movie, coupled with the rumors about Haven and him, the key players are getting close protection officers. Tabitha asked me to personally handle security for Ripley when she called a few minutes ago. That call was brief, but Tabitha said she’d given my name to Haven, so Haven must have passed it on to her sister. At least Haven hasn’t canned me yet, but it seems she’s definitely given Ripley the low-down on our almost rendezvous.
“We should get away from crowds,” I say, keeping my tone so goddamn calm and relaxed, like I’ve been trained to do.
“No.” She’s emphatic as she wiggles her fingers at the bouquets in my hand. “Gimme my flowers and we can go. Like I told my sister, I don’t need a babysitter.”
Ah, hell.
They both definitely hate me. Of course they hate me. Fuck my life.
“I’m sure you don’t, but let’s chat in the shop, and I’ll give you your things,” I say, trying to wrest control of a difficult client.
She folds her arms over her chest, sneering at me. “You’re actually holding my Grosso bouquets hostage?”
“Gross? That seems a little harsh. I think they’re okay.” I take a deep inhale of the pretty flowers.
“Grosso, and they’re more than okay. They’re some of my customers’ favorites.” Ripley sighs. “And you’re sniffing all over them. Real nice.”
“I’m not the enemy here,” I say, frustrated, pointing toward the door.
She stares at the flowers even harder. “Butyouhave my flowers.”
For a few seconds, I’m not sure who’s going to cave because this woman is staring at me like she’s the zombie slayer and I’m the undead she’s been waiting to obliterate. But after a tense face-off, she relents, marching ahead to the shop. Fast. Likeshe’s going to race-walk in the Olympicsfast. Like she thinks she’ll lose me with her pace.
That’s cute.
But my long legs eat up the sidewalk and in seconds I’m ahead of her, reaching for the door, holding it open.
“Aww, you are a gentleman after all,” she says.
I wince but try not to let it show at the particular use of that word.
“Hey, Ripley,” a woman with a fair complexion and big black glasses calls out as she works the espresso machine.
“Hey, Callie,” Ripley says, all friendly, the polar opposite of the tone she’s taken with me.
“The usual?”
“Later. I have to deal with”—she tosses a careless glance my way—“a hiccup in my schedule.”
The woman smiles. “Hiccups are the worst.”
“Don’t I know it.”
She storms to the back of the shop, then stops by an empty table in the corner next to a worn leather couch with cracks in it. Across from the couch is a scratched wooden table, covered with stacks of vintage board games and coffee-table art books.
Ripley parks her hands on her hips. “I’d like my things. I need to take them to the store. I’m late for my delivery. That’s where I was going, you know.”
“Yes, when the paparazzo showed up. That guy with the ballcap? That’s Silas. He gives no fucks. He works a lot forPage Six. He’s been on Carlisle sinceBangabletook off. I’m sure that photo of you is going to be on the internet any minute,” I tell her, then shrug. “Until they realize you’re the twin.”
She slow claps. “Bravo. You can observe. So impressive. But observe this, buddy.” She strides away from the corner, pointing wildly to the front of the store. “No one followed us down the street. Or in here. So someone took a pic ofthe twin. Big deal. Whatever.” Then she holds her arms out wide, like she’s saying no harm, no foul. “I’m fine. Just fine. Let me be.”
At least I haven’t been fired yet. At least I haven’t screwed over Dean yet.
I try to take solace in those facts. “And it’s my job to make sure you continue to be just fine. There are going to be a ton of new people in town. Camera crews and the press. Tourists. Not to mention more paps. But that’s only the start of it. Regular people have become the paps. Everyone is a photographer. They’re going to be looking at you because you look?—”
“Just like my sister.” She stares hard at me. “Dude, I know.” Shegestures emphatically to her chest, her stomach, her thighs. “I’ve lived in this body for thirty years. I am well aware I look just like her. You don’t need to mansplain it to me.”
