“I’d like to,” he says. His tone is firm, sturdy, but there’s a bit of a plea in it, like this is important.
But I have things to do. “As fascinating as I’m sure your explanation is, I have to make a delivery. Pretty sure it’d look bad for your”—I flap a hand at his brick wall of a big, strong frame—“bodyguarding if your client falls behind on her work, right?”
I’m winging it, making up things as I go along. But logic and all—a bodyguard should help you not hinder you.
His face is stoic for a minute, then he nods tightly. “Fine, but I’m going with you.”
“I can find the store myself.” Maybe the more I irritate him, the more I can scare him off. Hell, it worked once already, and I wasn’t even trying.
No one ever warns you what it does to your relationshipself-esteem to run into a hookup who ran out on you. I already have a speckled history of men leaving me. Like Eric Patrick Waterstone—he of the two first names—from San Francisco. A chef, he romanced me through my stomach, making mouthwatering dishes in his San Francisco apartment when I came down to visit him on weekends. He took amazing pics of his food, too, for social media, and created quite the following that he then used as a springboard for the next step in his career. “Darling Springs is just too small for me, baby,” he’d say. But I was in love—or so I’d thought—so I kept driving to the city every weekend to see him. He even said he was thinking of opening a place in Darling Springs, but then he changed his mind, took off for New York to start a fusion café, and never looked back.
Leaving me standing like a fool in the dust.
But I don’t want to linger on the guys who can’t stick around. Especially ones who can’t even stick around for one night.
“I know you can find it, but I’m going with you, and I’m going to make sure no one knocks into you again, so get used to it.”
I scoff. “Get used to it?” Does he think that line works?
“I’m here to protect you. You’re mine,” he says, his voice calm, deep, reassuring. “It’s that simple.”
I hate that my stupid pulse surges from those two possessive words.You’re mine.
Why do I have a thing for men swooping in and saving me? But that’s a topic for another day. For now, I don’t bother to stare him down. I give a careless shrug. “Let’s go then, babysitter boy.”
The corner of his mouth twitches, but not for long. He’sstony-faced. As we head out of the shop, I smile as I pass Callie at the counter. “Hiccups not quite gone yet, but I’m trying to shake them,” I say.
“Try biting on a lemon.”
I smile brighter at her. “Pretty sure that’s what I am doing,” I say, then toss a sour smile at Banks.
Once we’re out on the sidewalk, he says dryly, “I like lemons.”
“Of course you do.”
Clearing his throat, he turns to me as we walk. “Listen. I’m sorry about that night. I wanted to explain.”
“No worries. I didn’t think twice about it,” I say breezily, chin up, armor on. Like I’ll let him think I was stewing on it.
No way he is getting the better of me.
Not this man in his jeans that hug a firm ass I could bounce a quarter off, those arms made of rocks, that face chiseled from a sculptor’s tool.
“Still, it’s been weighing on me,” he says, but then his attention shoots elsewhere. He jerks his gaze across the street, then up the block. The guy in the hat is turning down the street, I think. Maybe heading toward The Ladybug Inn. Hmm. I bet New Chris is staying there.
Banks turns back to me, like he’s ready to resume this convo. But as we near The Slippery Dipper, I spy my chance to dodge this topic again.
Noah’s outside, spraying the window with cleaner and wiping it down. He wears a blue polo and jeans—his dad outfit, he told me, and it’s pretty much become his uniform since he became one acouple years ago. He catches my eye, then spots the bouquets Banks is holding. “New employee?”
That gives me an idea. If this goon is going to stick around, maybe I can use him to pick up some slack at the farm. Like moving the rototiller. Or pushing the wheelbarrow. Spreading the weed barrier cloth. I mean, if he has to be so close to me, he might as well help. “Something like that. He’s carrying heavy things for me. Boulders. Tractors, that kind of stuff.”
“And bouquets?” Noah asks, clearly amused, eyes straying toward the nearly weightless flowers in Banks’s arms.
“Training wheels,” Banks deadpans.
Noah nods to him. “Welcome to the Lavender Bliss team.”
“Thanks,” he says. Once we resume our path to the store a few feet ahead, he says, “You don’t have tractors.”
