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I did.
Not the man we buried today, but the grandfather who took in two orphaned grandsons when their parents died.
I have to hand it to him, even after death, Joseph Prince still wants to rule my life.
Of all the people my grandfather could have picked, why Clementine Bright?
She isn’t royalty. She’s not an heiress. She’s nothing.
She’s stunning, though—a natural beauty—with an air of innocence about her petite frame that my grandfather would have pegged for weakness. Is that why he chose her for me? Part of me thinks he fully underestimated her. He always had a weakness for a pretty face. Beautiful women are a dime a dozen, and I’d never fall for a woman like her. Her attitude is one in need of work.
Major work.
The next afternoon, when Clementine doesn’t show, I drive to the outskirts of town, past overgrown lots, to a small house on Pineloch Street. I smile at the potted plants blooming underneath the light blue awnings on each windowsill.
At least she tries.
I ring the bell.
Clementine opens the door, and shocked doesn’t even begin to cover the expression on her face. “What are you doing here?”
“You wouldn’t come to my home, so I decided to come to yours.”
“How did you even know where I lived?” She steps aside, letting me into her quaint cottage.
“I know a lot of things, Miss Bright.”
A small dark-haired child runs up, with his arms outstretched, yelling, “Mommy. Mommy.”
She shuts the door behind me, and already I feel like I can’t breathe. He plows into Clementine, wrapping his arms around her knees as she bends over to hug him.
This, I didn’t know.
Chapter 3
Clementine
Tiny humans have strange effects on people. From what I’ve experienced, they either morph into baby-talking personal space invaders or stay-away-from-me kidphobes. By the way he’s staring at the barely over three-foot tall child in front of me, Gabriel falls into the latter category. He looks like he just lost his fortune.
I’ll admit, I’m feeling a little smug. “I’m guessing that proposal doesn’t seem like such a good idea now?”
His dark eyes finally pull away from the little boy checking him out to mine. “Is he yours?”
“Yes.”
“How old is he?”
“Four, and his name is Tennyson.”
“Hi,” Tennyson says, holding up four fingers.
“That’s a big name for such a little guy,” Gabriel tells him.
“What’s your name?” Tennyson asks.
“Gabriel.”
“Want some pizza?” Tennyson asks, trusting like only a child can. “Mommy got half-cheese, half-pepperoni.”
