Chloe beams, evidently loving the nickname. “What are friends for?” Chloe says, then extends a hand.
Banks shakes it. “Nice to meet you, Chloe,” he says, then offers a hand to Bridget. “Pleased to meet you too, Bridget. I’ve heard so much about both of you.”
“I swear none of what she says is true,” Bridget says, pointing to me after she lets go of his hand. “Ripley was the one who Saran Wrapped Scott Nelson’s truck back in twelfth grade.”
I snap my gaze to her. “Dude! That was you, Bridge!”
Chloe bounces on her pink Converse-clad toes. “And Ripley was the one who insisted, too, that we remove the door to the science lab and hide it in the boys’ locker room.”
“Again,notme. That one wasyou,” I point out. “Also, I stopped you from doing that, Chloe.”
She frowns. “I know. I’m still sad about it.”
After scanning behind us, then across the street, Banks smiles her way. “Tell me more. What was Ripley like in high school, and do you have pics?”
“Of course,” Bridget says, then digs into her pants pocket for her phone. I slap her hand away.
“Anyway, as I was saying, we need to go,” I say tightly, then try to send them mind messages toplease leavebecause I can only imagine what they’re going to reveal about me next. Photos of me in braces. That video they took when I tripped on my own sneakersafterscoring a goal in a soccer game in twelfth grade. My prom hairstyle. (Sadly I was not able to make retro 80s hair come back in.)
But Chloe’s brain receiver must be on the fritz since she waves off my protest, saying to Banks, “We have lots of time to hear more about all your hot bodyguarding and to show you Ripley’s hairstyles through the years.”
“I am going to Saran Wrap your car,” I hiss out at her.
Chloe grins evilly. “And please take the passenger door off while you’re at it. It’s dented so maybe I can claim it was stolen and get a new door.”
“And we really need to go, because with friends like these…” I say, exasperated.
If Banks was enjoying himself before, he’s having the time of his life now, his amused gaze ping-ponging between my two friends.
They’re not even close to done since Bridget clears her throat. “But don’t leave until you two share all the on-the-job stories of how this hot-bodyguarding thing works. Don’t skimp on a single detail, please.” Bridget slides close to me. Actually, it’s more like she plasters her body to my left side while Chloe wedges herself to my right. What the hell are they up to?
They’re sandwiching me as Bridget looks to Banks, saying, “Like, for instance, what would you do if her two besties crowded her on the street and you needed to tug her close to keep her safe?”
I blink, and then I’m looking at the sky. In no time, Banks has roped one big arm around my back, the other around my hamstrings, and he’s lifted me up. He carries me in his arms down the street away from the salon and them.
Bridget and Chloe squeal and clap.
“Again! Do it again,” Chloe calls out as we go.
“Best show ever,” Bridget hoots.
From all the way across the street, Noah at The Slippery Dipper has stepped out of his shop and is shouting his approval, “Nice move, man.”
Even Salma has a front-row ticket to the show. She’s outside the market, laughing at my friends’ antics.
“You two are in so much trouble,” I shout at them as Banks grips me tighter, then turns down the alley behind the salon.
He doesn’t set me down. I’m still in his arms, his warm skin against my bare legs in my shorts. He doesn’t need to be carryingme. There was no real threat. There weren’t even any photographers around. None that I saw at least, and I suspect Banks didn’t either since he was scanning the street while my friends were giving me a hard time. And yet, he’s still holding me close, striding down the alley, arms wrapped around me like he won’t let go anytime soon.
I don’t protest either. I let him carry me because I like it. Because his arms feel so good wrapped around me. Because his chest is a strong, safe place, and I can feel his heart beating against my shoulder. Because his arms anchor me to him, almost,almostlike he wants me close. When we’re several feet away from the street, he finally sets me down, away from them, away from everyone.
With my flip-flopped, freshly pedicured feet on the ground, I smooth a hand over my shirt. Try to collect my thoughts. My racing pulse too. It takes a few seconds before I ask, “Were you just…flexing?”
“Maybe I like challenges,” he says.
“I knew that about you.”
“And maybe I likedthatchallenge.” His deep, dark eyes don’t look away.
