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“I appreciate it. Your grandad was always better with numbers than I was.” Babs narrowed her gaze. “Now, what’s going on with you, little miss? You’ve been skulking around the house and inhaling bonbons for the last week, like when you were a teenager, and you worked yourself into a frenzy going back and forth over whether or not you were going to mail that fan letter to—”
“Babs,” she interrupted, not wanting to hearhisname, “I’m recovering from my piano teacher convention.”
“Really?” her grandmother replied, clearly not convinced, as she removed a mug from the cupboard. “I’ve been a musician my whole life. I know we can party. How do you think I met your grandfather? And why do you think he married me after three dates? I was a damned good time fifty years ago,” she added, then flicked a lock of her long dark hair over her shoulder.
“Babs, I cannot stomach thinking of you and Grandad Reeves,” she lamented as a picture materialized in her head. “Ew!” she moaned.
“Stop, love is love—even if it does happen thanks to a tequila bender,” Babs answered, humming a cheery little tune as she poured herself a cup of decaf.
She couldn’t even blame alcohol for her choices. She blamed music and a man who’d insisted she sing for him. Sensing his desire and having those soulful brown eyes trained on her had weakened her defenses. And when he’d handed her the bouquet, she was lucky she hadn’t melted into a pool of swoon.
She’d promised herself she’d never lose her mind over a musician again.
Stupid sexy pop god musician.
“What’s going on, Harper?” Babs called over her shoulder.
Too damned much.
She concentrated on the familiar sound of her grandmother making coffee and inhaled the heady scent. The predictability of the routine brought a sense of peace. The clink of the spoon in the sugar bowl and the splash of cream brought her back to a time when her legs had dangled from this very chair.
Mug in hand, Babs looked her over, then studied the bakery box. “You’re a mess. I’m surprised Mr. Sweet hasn’t cut you off.”
Oh no!
“Wouldn’t that be something—banned from bonbons,” she answered, trying to play it cool.
“I wonder how his wife is doing?” Babs mused.
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s been a while since I’ve seen her,” her grandmother replied, then sat down across from her and grimaced.
“What is it, Gran? Does something hurt? Is it your ankle?”
“I told you, my ankle is fine. It’s my nose that’s bothering me, missy.”
“Your nose?”
The woman nodded. “Between the scent of the bonbons and your body odor, you could stop traffic with that smell. If the Olympics had a body odor event, you’d take first, second, and third prize. Unfortunately, the hazmat team wouldn’t allow anyone inside the complex to present you with your medals, thanks to the overpowering stench. You have heard of soap, haven’t you? It’s that little white object in the shower.”
What a comedian.
She’d inherited her sass and mouthy vibe from good ole Grandma Barbara, but it could be a real bitch when the woman dished it right back.
“Somebody woke up like a ray of sunshine,” she deadpanned, then discreetly sniffed her pits and…holy shit! She smelled like death by chocolate—and not the delicious dessert. No, she smelled like what happens when a chocolate bar falls into a port-a-potty in the sweltering heat. She nearly gagged at the thought.
“Tell me what’s got you riled up and binging bonbons,” Babs pressed. “You haven’t even touched the piano since you returned. You know that’s your tell.”
Harper drummed her fingers on the kitchen table.
Even if she wanted to spill the beans, where would she start?
Still, it wasn’t like her blistering irritation was unfounded.
She had a decent number of reasons to be well and truly pissed off.
Four, to be exact.
