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“Some men don’t always say what they mean, dear. Many boys can barely read their own feelings.”
I snort. “Well, he’s made his pretty clear. Honestly, I wonder if he likes women at all ...”
Grandma was reaching for another piece—but now she freezes, blinking at me. “Oh. Oh, I see. So it’s that kind of situation.”
“No!” I hiss back immediately. “I’m not his companion beard.”
That much, I’m sure of.
So maybe I’m exaggerating, and I know it.
He may not like me as a person, but I’m still a woman, and August Marshall isn’t dead.
He’s just the next best thing—entirely wedded to his work, far too busy with his demanding empires to cast a longing look at the army of supermodels fawning over Mr. Eligible. Let alone boring old me.
Chewing my inner cheek, I eye my amused grandmother sourly.
God, I’m so confused.
It’s like being his fake fiancée has turned me into a mini version of August today. All grumps and glares and sad thoughts.
Gran’s teasing isn’t helping, either, but I guess I really am her granddaughter, since I enjoy messing with him like this far too much.
“I think he was married once,” I continue, reaching for one of her unsorted pieces. It’s dark green with yellow speckles. Part of the background, I think, where the little yellow flowers create a backdrop for the hollyhocks. I sort it into the right pile for her and sigh deeply. “I think the headlines were calling him a ‘black widow’ or something. I don’t know. I just don’t think he has any use for a woman in his life right now, practical purposes aside. Especially not me.”
“People aren’t made to be used, dearest heart. Women, like men, are made to enjoy,” Grandma says firmly. “Frankly, I can’t imagine any man who wouldn’t cherish your company.”
“You haven’t met this guy, Gran.” I cough. “I mean, you have, but you haven’t spent enough time around him.” I shrug. “If he wanted to talk to me, he’d have called me.”
“Does he have your number?” Grandma quirks a brow and fits in another puzzle piece.
I blink, sit up straighter, and replay the entire chaotic morning in my memory.
Showing up at my door, whisking me off for a shopping spree, talking in the back of the car.
Oh, plus the way he looked at me and made my stomach go weird with butterflies when I walked out in that dress, went into his office, and met his sister, and then she gave me his number, but I never gave either of them mine.
Ugh.
I smack my hand against my face—then yelp when my forehead stings. “Ow!”
“I take it that’s a no,” Grandma says wryly.
“It didn’t come up, okay?” I rub my forehead. “I have his number but never got around to giving him mine.”
“You should correct that, hm?”
“He still won’t want to talk to me.”
“Eleanor Jacqueline Lark.” There it is. Not just my full name—which I share with her—but that grandma look over her glasses. Her mouth compresses. “Since when are you afraid to go after what you want? Regardless of the complexities or this man’s history, you like him, don’t you? You’re attracted to him?”
Annoyingly attracted. Ready to keel right over on the spot.
“I ...” It’s mortifying to admit it out loud. But I can’t lie to Gran, especially not when she looks at me that way. “Maybe. Maybe, Gran. As much as you can like a guy when you barely know him. I mean, I get on his nerves, but it just makes me want to do it more because the way he grumps is so cute.”
With a satisfied smile, she nods. “Go on.”
“Like that one morning I spent with him. It was more fun than I’ve had in forever. And even if he is kind of a surly a-hole, he’s honestly a decent guy. He thinks about things other people don’t, and he just—he helps people like it’s the most natural thing ever, and then he calls it ‘practical.’ That tells me he’s someone worth getting to know. Never mind the weird way we met.”
