Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76664 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Belinda’s hands go completely still, and I’m sure dreams of being the lucky florist who lands the next royal wedding dance behind her eyes.
“I mean, if you would have time to fit in a few centerpieces and something for the entry hall.” I examine my nails with studied casualness. “I know you’re very busy. What with all the holiday parties and events and crushing the dreams of accident-prone, but very hardworking, very apologetic Americans…”
She wrinkles her nose. “Subtle, Featherswallow.”
“No, just hopeful, darling,” I counter. “I’ve never seen a woman so broken up about tripping over her own feet. And that’s all it was, Bel. Just a silly accident.”
Belinda sighs, setting down her stem as she turns to face me fully for the first time. Then, with the air of someone making a great and noble sacrifice, she pulls out her phone.
“Fine. One last chance. One. I’ll shoot her an email, offering her another opportunity for a consultation.” She types quickly, her thumbs flying with impressive speed. “But if she destroys anything else, I’m billing you personally.”
I grin, some of the tension easing from my chest as I thank her.
Profusely.
“I’m serious,” she adds as she finishes the email and sends it on its way with a final tap to her screen. She sets the phone down before pinning me with a stern finger, “If she’s late or pushy or shows the slightest sign that she’ll be difficult to work with, I’m done.”
I nod, sobering. “Understood. But I’m sure she won’t be. Emily’s delightful. Completely delightful. Once you get to know her, of course.”
“Clearly, you think so.” Her lips hook up in a knowing smirk. “But try and keep your enjoyment of her ‘delights’ indoors from now on, all right, Oliver? I don’t know about you, but if shots of me snogging by a lamppost were all over social media, my mother would be having a meltdown.”
“My mother doesn’t pay much attention to social media. Or any media at all, really,” I say, before adding with a dry smile, “But my grandmother has texted a dozen times.” I lift my cell as I back toward the door. “Speaking of, I should get back to her before she sends the mounted police to fetch me. As for the New Year’s Eve party, I—”
“I’ll have sketches to you by early next week, and you can forward them to your mother.” She waves me off. “Go on. Call your grandmother and beg forgiveness for being a slag.”
She softens the words with a laugh, which I appreciate.
I have no shame about being a slag, but I’m grateful that I’m no longer on Belinda’s shit list. She really is the best florist in London.
As I step outside, the cold hits me afresh.
The sight of another text and two missed calls from my grandmother increases the chill. Her meddling makes my mother’s attempts at matchmaking seem quaint by comparison. Her mother, the Dowager Baroness Plimpton, is a shameless bully who steamrolls through her grandchildren’s lives with zero apology. When you’re on her good side, she can be an invaluable ally and fantastic, silly fun.
But get on her bad side…
Bracing myself for another charm offensive, I tap her contact, booming a warm, “Grandmother! Happy Christmas, how are you?” when she answers.
“Oliver. Good gracious! Finally!” Her voice carries the kind of authority that once commanded diplomatic missions and now leads the Corgi Appreciation Society with zero tolerance for shirking or shenanigans. “I was beginning to think you’d been kidnapped. Or worse, were avoiding me…”
“Never, Grandmother. Simply had some business to attend to.”
“I imagine you did.” Her tone shifts to barely contained delight. “I’ve seen the photographs, darling. Everyone has. Lady Prescott called to ask if you were having some sort of breakdown, and the duke next door is convinced you should join his support group for wastrels who can’t handle their liquor.”
I close my eyes with a wince. “I’m so sorry, Grandmother. Truly, I never—”
“What on earth are you apologizing for, child? Honestly, I couldn’t be more delighted.” She lets out a musical laugh that stops me in my tracks. “What a gorgeous creature. She’s absolutely stunning, Oliver. And so refreshing! None of that skin-and-bones-lugging-a-designer-handbag nonsense you usually parade about. This is a real woman with real appetites and a genuine passion for my grandson. And I, for one, think that’s fantastic. When do I meet her?”
“Oh, well, I—” I clear my throat as I duck into a small pocket garden for privacy. The snow is already melting, but still deep enough that I’m alone on this crystal-clear morning. “She’s in town on business, so I’m not—”
“Business is well and good, but a woman has to eat,” Grandmother cuts in. “Bring her to dinner. Tonight. I’ll have Deirdre make that lamb with mint that you like.”
“I’d love to, but things are a bit more complicated than that, I’m afraid.”