Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109299 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 546(@200wpm)___ 437(@250wpm)___ 364(@300wpm)
Even an angry one.
I’d been warned on my call with the logistics producer moments ago that the twin sister probably wouldn’t want security. But a lot of regular people don’t. Calming someone down is part of the job. “I’m your new bodyguard. I’m only here to make sure you’re safe, Ripley,” I say, trying to appeal like it’s a basic human need.
Safety is important to emphasize. It’s something we all want. Food, shelter, safety, love—things many people don’t get in life.
She rolls those pretty blue eyes next. “Right. Sure. That’s your goal.” She reaches for the bouquets of lavender I’m holding. Probably a half dozen.
Ah, my trump card while I manage a client who doesn’t want to be a client—a good game of keep-away. I wrap an arm tighter around the flowers, keeping a grip on the bag of baked goods, too, in case that’s what she’s angling for the most.
“Oh, c’mon. Give me my things,” she says. “I want to make my delivery and get my bike.”
“In a minute, of course. Let’s chat first,” I say, trying to let her know I’m on her side.
She huffs, staring me down fiercely. “What is your deal?”
Fiery doesn’t really cut it with this one. More like hell-fiery.
“I’m part of the team working on the film. I’ve been assigned to you,” I say. Just a few minutes ago, in fact. I glance around, checking behind us, down the street, across from it. Sure, there are townspeople and tourists milling about. A block away, a woman pushing a jogging stroller turns into a white-and-pink bakery. Down the road, a man stops outside a tattoo shop, checking out the designs in the window. Most importantly, though, we’re out of sight of the photogs who stalk Chris Carlisle incessantly. Still, I really don’t want to have this conversation on the street.
Near the end of the block, a pack of women in varying shades of pastel yoga attire streams into a yoga studio. Next to that is a coffee shop, and on the sidewalk outside sits a chalkboard sign with a peach-colored coffee-cup drawing. Steam curls from the top of the cup, beckoning.
“Let’s duck into Pick Me Up.”
“Yes, Banks. That sounds great. I really want to get coffee with you,” she says dryly.
This is going to be so fun. Both sisters probably hate me. But at least Ripley knows my name. That has to be a good sign. When my firm first landed the gig with the film last month, the plan was to provide security for the shoot itself. Now, with Chris Carlisle on the movie, coupled with the rumors about Haven and him, the key players are getting close protection officers. Tabitha asked me to personally handle security for Ripley when she called a few minutes ago. That call was brief, but Tabitha said she’d given my name to Haven, so Haven must have passed it on to her sister. At least Haven hasn’t canned me yet, but it seems she’s definitely given Ripley the low-down on our almost rendezvous.
“We should get away from crowds,” I say, keeping my tone so goddamn calm and relaxed, like I’ve been trained to do.
“No.” She’s emphatic as she wiggles her fingers at the bouquets in my hand. “Gimme my flowers and we can go. Like I told my sister, I don’t need a babysitter.”
Ah, hell.
They both definitely hate me. Of course they hate me. Fuck my life.
“I’m sure you don’t, but let’s chat in the shop, and I’ll give you your things,” I say, trying to wrest control of a difficult client.
She folds her arms over her chest, sneering at me. “You’re actually holding my Grosso bouquets hostage?”
“Gross? That seems a little harsh. I think they’re okay.” I take a deep inhale of the pretty flowers.
“Grosso, and they’re more than okay. They’re some of my customers’ favorites.” Ripley sighs. “And you’re sniffing all over them. Real nice.”
“I’m not the enemy here,” I say, frustrated, pointing toward the door.
She stares at the flowers even harder. “But you have my flowers.”
For a few seconds, I’m not sure who’s going to cave because this woman is staring at me like she’s the zombie slayer and I’m the undead she’s been waiting to obliterate. But after a tense face-off, she relents, marching ahead to the shop. Fast. Like she’s going to race-walk in the Olympics fast. Like she thinks she’ll lose me with her pace.
That’s cute.
But my long legs eat up the sidewalk and in seconds I’m ahead of her, reaching for the door, holding it open.
“Aww, you are a gentleman after all,” she says.
I wince but try not to let it show at the particular use of that word.
“Hey, Ripley,” a woman with a fair complexion and big black glasses calls out as she works the espresso machine.
“Hey, Callie,” Ripley says, all friendly, the polar opposite of the tone she’s taken with me.