Page 23 of Stuck With the Billionaire Grump

“How?” he shouts back. The huge crowd doesn’t even pause to acknowledge the exchange, too absorbed in the dozens of other conversations happening all over the place.

“Come on, honey. You’ll have to show him, too,” Carol says to me.

Pleased to have a purpose, however fleeting, I follow her over to the massive grill. It takes me only a moment to show him how to change the camera settings on his phone so that “the pictures stop moving” and then he claps me on the shoulder like I’ve done him an incredible favor.

Unfortunately, by hanging around the mother and father of the bride, I’m too close to the metaphorical flames. I need to extricate myself before I’m surrounded by more people and risk getting stuck near the center of attention.

“Any chance you know something about grills, son?” asks the man who looks almost identical to Joe Montgomery.

I blink in surprise at the casual use ofson. Even my own father doesn’t use such terms of endearment with me.

“I’m afraid not, sir,” I manage to answer.

He sighs, then sticks out his hand for me to shake. “Bummer. Well, anyway, I’m Paul Montgomery, uncle of the bride. Lucy’s dad. You’ve had the chance to meet Lucy already, I’m sure. She’s the maid of honor. Allergic to sitting still.”

“Well, I—”

“And this is my wife, Lottie.”

A petite, dark-skinned woman offers me a shy smile and a handshake of her own. Just like that, all the details I tried to forget from Camp Hannefort come rushing back. This isn’t Lucy’s mother, because she once shared in a group therapy session that her mom passed away when she was a kid. It was her father’s second marriage, and the ensuing divorce, that landed her in camp that summer. Which means that Lottie must be Paul’s third wife. At least.

And all of those things are details that I shouldn’t really be privy to, considering nobody but me and Lucy are aware of the unfortunate connection between us.

I struggle to search for something to say, something casual and easy that won’t give away how much I know about this man’s personal life, but then his brother Joe butts in.

“Paul, the issue isn’t with the grill. I’m telling you that the ridiculous organic charcoal you brought is the problem. It won’t light.”

“All charcoal is organic, Joe,” he grumbles back. “This stuff isbiodegradable. And non-toxic. Much better for the environment.”

Joe scoffs loudly. “My point still stands. You should be using the real stuff. There are billionaires taking their private jets for trips down the street; the environment can withstand this one little barbecue. I’ve got a full bag down in the basement.”

Carol nods in agreement. “And if we don’t get the peaches and poundcake going soon, both Gigi Lee and your daughter will give us an earful.”

“Why I’m even being asked to grill peaches and cake is beyond me,” mutters Paul.

“And that’s why you’re not a professional chef,” Joe remarks. “Gigi insisted that this be on the dessert menu.”

I watch the entire exchange like a tennis match. Before I can brainstorm a way to extricate myself, a curvy redheaded woman enters the scene with her hands on her hips.

“Is there a reason this grill isn’t fired up?” asks the woman, who is wearing a white apron withLee Cateringembroidered on it. “Just because the main courses have been served doesn’t mean—”

“It’s the charcoal, Gigi,” Carol lightly interjects. “The boys are arguing over what kind to use.”

Gigi throws up her hands in exasperation. “What kind have you been using this whole time?”

“Biodegradable and non-toxic,” Paul replies defensively. “It’s better for the—”

“I was wondering why the char on those franks was so bad,” Gigi huffs, wagging her finger at Paul. Beside him, Lottie does her best to hide a smile. “I should’ve insisted I bring my own set-up, but you boys told me you had it handled! ‘It’s just a backyard get-together, Gi!’ you told me. But look at this place! You’re feeding a small army!”

Although Gigi seems to be around the same age as Paul and Joe, they look adequately chastised.

Then, for some reason, without communicating with my brain first, my mouth opens and starts spilling forth words.

“I can go and grab the charcoal, if you’d like,” I offer.

“Please do, handsome,” sighs Gigi. “I’m quite literally begging at this point. And, Paul, I swear, if you burn these peaches like you burnt those hot dogs…”

Carol sidles up next to me and murmurs, “If you go around the side of the house, the basement door is right there. Can’t miss it.”

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