“I’ll sleep in my car if I have to. Or I’ll get a tent and sleep in that,” I say. She’s not getting rid of me that easily.
When her eyes widen, possibly in surprise that I’d be willing to do either of those, she waves a hand, like she’s dismissing the options. “There’s no need to sleep on the ground or the car. You can stay in the cottage. It’s for guests anyway.”
That’s nicer than I’d thought. I guess she really is moving past that night. I should let her know I’ve done that too. “Thank you. And listen, we can pretend that night never happened,” I say, since I’m pretty sure that’s what she wants.
She heads to the kitchen door that leads back outside and stopsin the archway, tossing me a carefree smile. “Works for me. You’re not my type anyway.”
Damn. Talk about knocking me down a peg.
12
BRAINS AND BRAWN
BANKS
But I can’t let her parting shot get to me. There’s too much to do. That afternoon, I power through emails and proposals to other clients, including some for our cybersecurity services, an area that’s already become mission critical to our business in a short time. Then I check the gossip sites, especiallyPage SixandVIP Vibes. Nothing featuring Ripley yet, but that doesn’t mean something won’t show up later.
That carries me through the next few hours while I keep my eye on the client, who never stops moving. One minute Ripley’s pruning flowers, the next she’s spraying them, then she’s pushing them in a wheelbarrow to the shed. After she unloads the wheelbarrow, she stops, wipes a hand across her brow, then stretches her neck from side to side, like she’s working out some tightness. Even from a distance, I can tell she’s wincing as she leans her head to the right for several seconds, then the left.
Soon, she resumes her pace through the property, stopping to throw a tennis ball to that dog. That much I can see through the window. Pretty sure she’s taking care of customers, too, who stop in at the store.
Right now, it looks like she’s just left the shop, walking down the stone path next to a man in jeans and a short-sleeve button-down who lifts a finger as if to say he’ll be right back.
That catches my full attention.
I stand, head to the big window, then watch him like a motherfucking hawk as he trots to a black bike, resting against the white fence. He grabs something from a saddle bag under the seat. Ah, it’s a couple of books. With them in hand, he heads back across the lawn.
The fucker has a chiseled jaw. Light-brown hair with russet tones. A toothpaste-commercial smile.
Is that her boyfriend? Does she have a new dude?
Are you surprised?You’re the jerk who ditched her with a vague-as-fuck letter.
I suck in a tight breath through my teeth, hating him on principle as he hands her the books and returns to his bike, strapping on a helmet before he goes.
Which reminds me.
I grab my phone from my pocket and unlock it to google a couple local businesses. I check the hours, then make plans to run an errand later. When that’s done, I tell myself to put Ripley’s possible romantic life out of my head. It’s not my business, no matter how much I once wanted to touch her, kiss her, throw her on the bed.
After I tuck the phone away, I return to the counter right as the soft shuffle of bare feet approaches from the hallway.
A woman, with even blonder hair than Ripley’s, turns into the kitchen. Her warm eyes are lined with wrinkles, and while she’s clearly much older than her granddaughter, the similarity is uncanny. “Good afternoon,” I say.
“You must be the bodyguard,” she says with a cheery smile.
“I am,” I say, though the preferred term is close protection officer. But there’s a time and place for corrections. This isn’t one of those times or places. “Banks Kendrick.”
“I’m Lila Addison. The girls’ grandmother,” she says.
“Nice to meet you,” I say, and extend a hand.
After we shake, she nods to my laptop on the counter in front of a few jars of honey I’ve no doubt was produced by those little winged workers in the fields. “Hope this won’t disturb you, but I have some madeleines I need to make.”
My stomach growls, Pavlovian thing. “Those scallop-shaped cookies that taste like heaven?”
Mom used to make them after football practice.
Her smile magnifies as she starts rummaging through the cupboards for baking supplies. “We’ll get along just fine, Banks.”
