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‘Do you mind me asking how old you are, Mr H?’
He lets out that sweet-sounding chuckle again, lifting his teacup to his lips. ‘Ninety-three. Too old for you, lovely.’
‘Well, damn.’ I slap the table, screwing up my face in disappointment, making Mr H throw his head back on a laugh. I smile fondly across the table at him, my mind racing with a hundred questions I’d love to ask about the history of the Hunt Corporation and the magnificent treasures he must have seen in his lifetime. I bet millions of pounds must have passed through his fingers.
My beam remains fixed in place while the old man calms his laughter down, wiping under his glasses. But then his smile falls away, taking mine with it. He’s gone from hysterical to super-serious in a nanosecond. ‘And my adorable grandson might only be thirty-two, but he is too unruly for you.’
I purse my lips. ‘That’s a bit of a random statement,’ I say, taking a sip of tea as I furiously fight away the blush creeping up on to my pale cheeks. Mr H’s slight cock of his head and knowing smile tells me I’ve failed in my endeavour. I don’t help my cause when I glance away to avoid his probing stare.
‘You have fire in those brown eyes, Eleanor.’
I have no idea what he means. I sag a little and give up the ghost. ‘Mr Hunt, forgive me, but your grandson is a little—’ I snap my mouth shut when the only words that automatically come to me are insulting. I need to remember that this sweet old man is Becker’s grandad, and Becker Hunt is, unfortunately, my boss. ‘Testing,’ I finish, pleased with myself for finding a replacement word for twat, bastard, arsehole, or knobhead. Or tempting, gorgeous, sinfully sexy and enticing.
His grin widens. ‘You don’t need to hold back with me, Eleanor. I love my grandson more than life itself, but I’m not deluded. The man is a maverick.’ He leans across the table, and I find myself inching closer, intrigued. ‘He’s a modern-day Casanova.’
I snort impulsively, then, embarrassed, quickly apologise for it. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. You don’t agree?’
‘Casanova? Wasn’t he a smooth-talking charmer?’ Becker’s no smooth talker. He’s a womaniser. His grandfather has said himself, not that I can raise that point since he’s totally unaware I overheard that conversation.
‘Yes. Famous for his love affairs.’
My brow furrows. ‘Has he had many?’
‘Casanova or Becker?’ He’s trying to conceal the twitch developing at the corner of his mouth, but I can see it as clearly as he can see my rosy cheeks. I’m asking too many questions for someone who couldn’t care less.
‘Becker,’ I utter, and then hold my breath. Why didn’t I say Casanova? Because I sure don’t want to know the ins and outs of Becker’s love life. I can check Google again if I fancy torturing myself.
He sighs, giving me a compassionate smile. ‘Oh, dear me, Eleanor.’
What? Something tells me that I don’t want to know. I’m kidding myself, I do want to know. ‘What?’
‘Just . . .’ He stands, and my gaze lifts with him, my eyes demanding an explanation. Using the table for support, he leans over towards me slightly. ‘Oh dear, dear, me.’
I jump up and scoot around the table to assist him. ‘What do you mean, Mr H?’
‘Oh dear.’ He shakes his head in genuine despair, and it hits me.
‘Oh no,’ I say. ‘Oh no, no, no. Really, no “oh dear” whatsoever.’
‘Oh dear,’ he says once more. I want to scream my frustration. ‘Casanova strikes again,’ he quips. His attempt at humour isn’t funny at all. There is genuine despair underneath it.
‘But he hasn’t.’ I laugh nervously. ‘Honestly, I’m immune.’ I’m about to tell him exactly how immune to his grandson I am, but I’m interrupted by the kitchen door opening, halting another delusional lie from leaving my lips.
Mrs Potts stands in the doorway with her hands on her hips. I’m relieved, despite her looking rather cross. ‘Eleanor, dear, would you mind peeling some carrots for me?’
‘Of course,’ I answer swiftly. Carrots I can do – anything to escape more oh dears.
‘Donald, you’re supposed to be having a nap.’
‘Put a lid on it, woman,’ he grumbles. ‘We have a problem.’
‘We do?’ she says, ignoring his order.
‘Yes, we do.’ He takes my hand from his elbow and gently holds it, affectionately patting the back of it with his free hand. ‘Eleanor here thinks she’s immune to Becker boy.’
The overjoyed smile that jumps on to Mrs Potts face actually makes me feel better. ‘That’s wonderful.’ She scurries over and takes my hand from Mr H’s, repeating his move and rubbing furiously. ‘I’m so pleased.’
‘Me too,’ I agree, soaking up the praise. Even if I don’t deserve it. Because I’m a fraud.
‘Oh, for the love of Hercules.’ Mr H pulls my attention away from a pleased Mrs Potts. ‘No, Dorothy.’ He rolls his eyes. ‘She thinks she’s immune.’
