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)
“My point exactly,” I say, then add, “and the last few years, I spent in intelligence.”
“Brains and brawn,” she says approvingly.
“Let’s hope so.”
She stops folding, fixing me with an intense gaze, not at all unlike her granddaughter’s. “Now tell me something. Why can’t I have a bodyguard? I’d ideally love a hot, swoony, older gentleman who can hold his own in the kitchen.”
“Then we should find you one.” I tilt my head toward my laptop as if I’m about to make a start on that project.
“Just kidding. I know self-defense, plus I have my own mon cheri across the ocean.” Her whole face lights up as she tells me about a man in Paris named Laurent. They FaceTime every day, play trivia games online, and binge TV shows together too. She’s hoping to see him there at the end of the summer. “We want to take pastry-making classes together in the sixth arrondissement.”
“That sounds lovely, Lila,” I say.
She sighs hopefully. “We’ll see if it works out for him to be my French bodyguard who bakes.” She nods toward the mixing bowl. “Try it. I plan to have pastry competitions with him. I need to beat him.”
I take the mixing spoon and sample some of the batter. It’s sweet and full of promise. “Delish.”
She arches a brow. “You really think so, or are you lying to get me to say nice things to my granddaughter about you?”
And I can see where Ripley gets it from—her skepticism. “Both.”
Lila’s quiet for a beat. She stares out the window at the fields of purple, the sun dipping low in the sky, Ripley off in the distance working. “She’s my fearless girl. Full of energy too. I swear there’s nothing she won’t try to fix. Nothing she won’t try to do. She doesn’t stop,” she says, her tone full of maternal pride, but something wistful too. Like she wants Ripley to slow down perhaps.
As we watch, I wonder if Ripley needs to keep going all day long for some reason. I wonder what drives her. It’d be good for me to know her more, I reason. It’ll help me do my job, so I turn to Lila. “Who was that guy here earlier? The one who brought the books?”
“Are you worried about him? She won’t need to break out her self-defense moves for that man.”
I laugh. “I was just curious. And I’m glad to hear that—that she knows them and that she won’t have to use them.”
“He’s William O’Connor. He runs A Likely Story in town. Cute little bookshop. Nice young man.” Then she smiles, the kind that says she can see right through me. “Jealous?”
Where the hell did my poker face go with Ripley’s grandmother? I pride myself on being unreadable when I have to. Valiantly, I try to erase any emotions from my face. “Just curious.”
She pats my arm. “Sure. Of course.”
As we finish arranging the dough for the madeleines on trays, a voice carries from the other room, growing closer. “There’s no way I’m not eating dessert first tonight, Grandma, and you only have yourself to blame.”
Ripley strides into the kitchen, nose up in the air, drawing a deep inhale. When her gaze lands on me in the bumblebee apron, sliding a tray into the oven, she sighs like she can’t believe it. “And you help grandmas too?”
Not her type, my ass. I flash a smile right back at her. “You bet I do, sweetheart.”
13
APOLOGY ADJACENT
RIPLEY
I still can’t believe I said that.
Not the helping grandmas comment. But the You’re not my type zinger I fired off earlier today.
It’s been weighing on me all afternoon as I worked, and it weighed on me through dinner with Grandma. Banks helped with the meal, slicing green beans from the garden while I made a salad, and Grandma whipped up a summer squash and quinoa dish. But then he took off to run an errand, reasoning I was safe and sound during dinner in my house.
As I’m cleaning up, scraping the remains of the salad into the compost bucket on the counter, I sigh.
“All right, that’s your fifty-ninth sigh tonight,” Grandma says as she loads the dishwasher.
“You’re counting my sighs?”
“Actually, I lost track somewhere between the salad and the madeleines. My point is—out with it.”
I wash my hands free of compost, then check the window. After I confirm Banks hasn’t yet returned, I meet Grandma’s kind eyes as she leans against the counter, patiently waiting.
But I’m not sure where to start. Yes, the comment’s been weighing on me. I’m not a mean person. I was just frazzled but also still embarrassed. The way he stood me up hurt so much. Even though I understand his reasoning, it’s taken me a while to forget the embarrassment of opening the door and saying spank me to a stranger.
Especially when I thought I was saying it to a man who understood me. A man who liked my humor, my mouth, the things I said. A man I could finally share some of those secret bedroom desires with.