“How did you know they were here?”
“I did some recon the night I arrived. Figured they’d be camped out at one of the hotels in town. But I’ve got a friend in LA—guy named Tyler—who works in private security too. Former Marine. We help each other out with intel.”
“Why wouldn’t Chris stay someplace else? Like another town? Somewhere harder to find.”
Banks shrugs as he drives past the inn. “They’d find him there too. Why make it harder for himself?”
That’s kind of sad. But also the reality of fame, I suppose. “Fair point.”
He comes to a stop at the stop sign. “But let’s hope they won’t be chasing you.” He blows out a breath. “Why don’t we make sure there aren’t others stationed outside of wherever you’re taking me.”
I scoff. “It’s not like I dropped hints on the farm’s socials about where I’d be going.”
“I know. Just let me keep you safe.”
“Fine,” I say, butmaybeI do like how intent he is on doing the job. “Just go down Main Street.”
He does a drive-by, and the coast is clear. That’s a relief. I don’t want to spend my days ducking and hiding. Besides, I have a challenge to carry out.
“Ah, this is nice,” Banks says ten minutes later, rolling up the cuffs of his jeans and dipping his feet into the bubbling water at Daisy’s Nails.
With a whole lot of panache.
Damn him. I can’t win.
“I have always wanted to get a pedicure,” he says, tossing me one of those dimpled smiles that make my chest flip.
I look away so he can’t see the cartoon hearts fluttering over my chest. I’m right next to him in a comfy, faux leather chair too. We’re both waiting for our nail techs to return from wherever nail techs go when you soak your feet.
Banks did not balk when we walked through the door of the salon, and I told him we were getting our toes done. He didn’t flinch. He simply said, “How did you know this was on my bucket list?”For such a control freak, the man rolls with my one-upmanship.
Though, admittedly, I haven’t been able to one-up him. He meets all of my challenges, then exceeds them.
I don’t know if I should be irritated or impressed.
As he stretches out his big, burly frame in the massage chair, he reaches for the controller on the arm and punches a few buttons. The back of his chair rolls. It bumps him forward, and as it does, he says, “Ahhh” in a choppy rhythm. “This is fun too. You should try it. Want me to turn yours on?”
“I can turn mine on myself, thank you.”
With a sly grin, he jumps on the double entendre, asking, “Can you now? Turn yours on?”
“You bet I can,” I say, but I don’t activate the chair. I’ve never liked the high intensity of the mechanical pressure.
“You really should try it,” Banks says, the words coming out staccato again as the chair bumps him along once more. “Or wait. Should we get a couples massage after this?” He presses his hands together in prayer. “Tell me that’s next on yourtry toditch melist.”
He has me there. I don’t know how to play chicken with him. “You’ll have to wait and see what I have planned,” I say, though I’m scrambling mentally to figure it out.
“I’ll be ready for the dare,” he says, clearly having too much fun with me as he paddles his feet in the pedicure tub. “I might get addicted to pedicures.”
A laugh bubbles in my throat. I jerk my gaze forward so I don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing my mirth. I’m exasperated with him, not amused, dammit. He’s aggravating…and yet I keep wanting to push his buttons. To aggravate him more. Why is it so much fun to press him?
I wish I knew.
“But I will give you credit for a valiant effort today,” he adds, poking the massage chair arm with a finger to emphasize his point. “Lesser men would cower at having their feet done. I am not one of those men.”
“Of course you’re not. I should have known a guy who does origami and listens to Mozart wouldn’t be scared off by a pedicure,” I say, an admission of sorts.
“I’m evolved,” he says.
