True. But do facts matter? “Are you a lavender farmeranda bodyguard?”
His gaze slides down to the pretty purple flowers in his arms, then back to The Slippery Dipper. “Evidently, I just became one.”
I head into the market, Banks next to me the whole time as I head toward Salma, who waits at the floral counter, a little impatiently. She’s always punctual in opening and closing her store and has been for the decade she’s been running it, so I know she likes me to be on time too. Her steady green eyes crinkle at the corners as she adjusts her hijab, making sure it’s snug, which it always is.
“I thought you were going to miss the delivery,” she says when I reach her.
“Me too. I’m sorry to leave you hanging,” I say genuinely.
“It’s fine. You made it.” She tips her chin toward the man by my side. “Who’s this?”
I could say he’s my new employee, maintaining the joke, but I think I’ll keep him on his toes. “My guard dog. Banks.”
Salma snorts. “Perhaps you need a collar then. Aisle ten is for pet supplies.”
And I’m forgiven for being late. She takes the bouquets and brings them to the front of the store.
When I catch Banks’s gaze, he’s rolling his eyes.
“Well, if the shoe fits,” I say.
His dark eyes level me. “Sweetheart, I’ve been called so much worse.”
And I guess we’re over the explanation phase. I tilt my head. I don’t blink as I say, “Guess your desire toexplaindidn’t last long.”
“No, I listened to you.”
Please. Like he’s the mature one. Like he’s the adult.
Two can play at his game. When we exit, I spot my bike right where Banks left it, resting in the bike rack.
Safe and unharmed. Like a beacon.
I don’t map out a plan. I just grab it from the rack. Like I’m escaping from a robbery, I hop on and pedal at the same time, then ride as fast as I can down the sidewalk and far away from my guard dog.
Take that.
11
THAT KIND OF FINE
BANKS
So this is how we’re doing it.
Fine by me. It’s not as if I can’t follow her easily on foot. Or, hey, by car. I did bring wheels, and I walk to them across the street.
But I let her get a head start so she can think she’s gotten the better of me. I’m sure a wicked thrill is rushing through Ripley’s veins right now as she looks right, then left, then rides across the street, the wind in her hair, clearly figuring she’s escaped me.
Resting my elbow on the roof of the car, I watch her, a smile tipping my lips. It’s so damn cute the way she thinks she’s lost me. Once her purple beach cruiser whizzes down the next block, I hop in my car, turn it on, and follow her.
People are creatures of habit. They like routine. They stick to the familiar.
Someone like Ripley, who runs a farm that’s a fixture in Darling Springs—a tourist destination at that—isn’t likely to ditch town,let alone work.Maybeshe’ll visit a friend.Possiblyshe’ll ride out to the beach.
But I’ll take my chances. My gut tells me she’s heading to home base, so I drive slowly, letting her ride ahead. I follow the GPS directions there, passing the sign for the local university on the edge of town, and a few minutes later, I cut the engine outside Lavender Bliss Farms at the top of a hill. I take off my shades, smiling victoriously when I catch a glimpse of a woman in a white tank and jeans cutting across the gorgeous front lawn, teeming with purple flowers.
There’s a spring in her step. No, it’s more like a victory dance. But we’ll see how long that lasts.
