I scoff. “He does not.”
Banks shifts to his side, giving me a look. “He was checking you out.”
“Then he wants Haven too,” I say.
His brow knits. “Just because you look alike doesn’t mean someone is attracted to both of you.”
I know this to be true, but it’s rare to hear from someone else. “You think so?”
“Yes. I know so,” he says. “Case in point—me.”
My chest warms dangerously, so naturally I push back. “But you thought I was Haven the night we met.”
“Correction: I thought you were Ripley, then I thought you were Haven pretending to be Ripley. Then I met you again. It was always Ripley I was attracted to.”
The temperature in me shoots up. I should leave this topic alone, but I don’t. “Glad you’re not into both twins.”
“I can tell you apart.”
“You couldn’t at first.”
He levels me with a dark gaze. “I can now. I can tell here,” he says, tapping his chest. “Only one of you turns me on.”
It’s official—I’m on fire. I can’t even speak.
“And Sam was definitely flirting with you,” he says, a little irked.
I can’t resist. “Did that bother you?”
The tension in his forehead says it did. The tightness in his jaw is another sign. “What do you think?”
“A little,” I say, smiling.
A laugh bursts from him. “You love to fuck with me.”
“Youlove to fuck withme.”
There’s a weighted pause, then Banks nods at the book I brought. The cover is midnight blue, with a stark-white serif font for the title. “That bookstore guy brought that for you.” There’s still some jealousy in his tone.
“I ordered it from his store.”
“Does he hand-deliver books to all his customers?”
“He’s one of my customers! He has lavender bouquets at the counter in A Likely Story.” I take a moment, then add, “And when he brought the book I purchased, he brought one for Haven too. It was marked up with favorite lines and stuff.”
“Ah.” Banks nods, his shoulders relaxing like that settles that issue for him.
“I guess they’re friends,” I add. But I don’t want to talk about my sister or other guys. I glance around the cottage. “You don’t like messes, do you?”
“I hate them,” he says, then scrubs a hand through his hair, messing it up—an incongruous move.
“Why?” I ask softly.
“I just like order. I like things the way I like them. I like to be able to control my environment.”
Earlier he said the situation with his parents splitting up wasmessy. That he had to step up. “Is that because there was a time when you couldn’t?”
He’s quiet at first, then sighs. But it’s not a frustrated sound. It’s more thoughtful, and so is his gaze as he says, “Definitely. The thing I told you earlier? In your truck?”
