Page 68 of The Fiance Dilemma

I narrowed my eyes at him, the motions of my wrist turning aggressive. It was supposed to do that, yes. “I’ll be the judge of that.”

Grandpa looked unimpressed. “But—”

“No buts,” I hissed.

“Josie—”

“I am fine. I am—”

He stomped his foot. “Put that whisk away before you hurt yourself, girl!”

My arm came to a stop. I was panting. Heaving. Much like three nights ago, in the tub, when— No. Absolutely not. I was not thinking of that. Not now and preferably not with Grandpa Moe present. “I’m in perfect control of my whisk,” I announced, bringing my breathing down. “And my life, by the way. Before you ask for the one thousandth three hundred and forty-eighth time if I’m okay. I am. I’m so okay and so in control that it’s not even funny. And these egg whites are going to be subjected, dominated, and… fluffy as hell. In time. You’ll see.”

Grandpa Moe’s expression softened. There was no pity in it, just concern. Which wasn’t a relief, not really. It just made Grandpa one more person I was trying not to preoccupy and hurt with my doings. Or to show how I felt about Andrew’s announcement. About December first. The wedding.

Only Grandpa I hadn’t been able to avoid for the last three days.

“Look around you, honey,” he said. I didn’t. I knew exactly howaround melooked. He continued anyway, “The kitchen is a mess. There’s not an inch of any surface that’s not covered in lady fingers, bowls of coffee, cocoa powder, or egg splatter. This is just tiramisu. You’ve done far more elaborate recipes and made it look easy. Remember the croquembouche?”

I inhaled. “This is notjusttiramisu. I baked the lady fingers. From scratch. I brought special beans from Josie’s Joint for the coffee. I’m using the best quality mascarpone I found available in thecountyand I’m whisking the whites manually. I’m—”

“It’s still not croquembouche.”

“Stop saying ‘croquembouche.’?”

Grandpa’s nostrils flared. “Nah. Croquembouche.”

“Grandpa—”

“Croquembouche,” he repeated.

Jesus Christ. “You’re unbearable.”

“And you’re cranky,” he pointed out. “You’re acrankembouche.”

My teeth gritted. “Are you five?”

“I wish,” he grumbled.

And he reminded me so much of Matthew in that exact moment that I felt my irritation slip away. Because that was what thinking of Matthew did to me now. It made everything else melt away. Which wasn’t good. Not right now. Not after that night.

Grandpa tutted. “You’re acting like the fools in my show. Only it’s no longer entertaining watching you. It’s just painful at this point.”

“Gee, thanks,” I murmured. “And don’t worry. I’m not about to go around giving away long-stem roses to random men.”I already did that in a way,my brain filled in. And I had to shake my head, physically ridding myself of the thought.

He shrugged, unconvinced. “This thing’s messing with your head. The tiramisu, but also the video and the goddamn wedding. I don’t like it.”

I put the bowl and whisk down and crossed my arms over my chest. “Nothing’s messing with my head,” I lied.

Except maybe orgasms. And fine, a wedding day that was less than a month away. And the internet going absolutely bananas over a ten-second clip. And Andrew, and Bobbi, and Willa Wang and— Maybe Grandpa was right.

“What’s in the pantry, then?”

I scoffed. “Pantry stuff.”

“Oh yeah?”

I narrowed my eyes at him. I knew what was currently hanging from one of the racks in the pantry. I simply couldn’t explain why they were there. Or how Grandpa found out they were there in the first place. Had he seen me carry them down the stairs?

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