Page 46 of My Not So Wicked Boss (My Not So Wicked 3)

“I’m hooked.”

“Music to my ears. So where to?” He faced forward.

“It’s still early; not much is open except places to eat, doctor’s offices, and banks.”

“Where would Isabella eat?”

“Well,” I thought for a moment. “She does love tea and out-of-the-way quiet places.” Just like me. “There is a little bakery that’s only open in the mornings in the older part of Carrington Cove. My dad used to take me there sometimes on Saturday mornings. The woman who owns it uses old family recipes and, you will be happy to hear, tea leaves, not bags.” Miles had complained that he couldn’t find “real” tea in the grocery store here. Except he called it the supermarket.

“I must meet this woman. Lead the way.”

“Take a left at the next light.”

Bernadette’s had a fair number of customers. Mostly locals who only came in to grab a sweet roll or two and a cup of coffee or tea before they headed off to work. She did have a cute nook filled with an entire bookcase of classics, with limited seating for those who didn’t need to rush off. It was weird how I could picture Isabella and Dexter sitting there making notes or casting furtive glances at each other across the table. Kind of like how Miles and I were doing while we picked at our blueberry scones and he jotted down notes for his book in his leather-bound notepad.

Henry gobbled down his raised donut. It looked as if he had dipped his mouth in a sugar jar.

Miles reveled in his Darjeeling tea with milk. “I may love America after all.”

“You didn’t think you would?”

He set his tea down with a longing sigh. “No. I miss misty mornings and old things. Everything here is so new. Even this place.”

I looked around at the old place that had seen better days and probably hadn’t been updated since the eighties, with linoleum floors and burgundy curtains. To me this was old, but when you lived around architecture and buildings that had survived for several centuries, I could see his point. “New can have a certain charm.”

“That is true, but we Brits love traditions, even ones that don’t make sense, like putting young Henry in shorts every day.”

“I’ve been meaning to ask you if he has any pants. It’s only going to get chillier here.”

“You mean trousers, darling.”

“No, I mean pants.” I pushed back, playfully.

He ran his finger along the rim of his china teacup. “Sophie would have liked you. She loved to contradict me. Nudged me to be better.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“I believe so.”

I had to turn from his smoldering look. Holy mother did he do that well. I picked Henry up and set him on my lap almost like a security blanket. “So, tell me why this little man only owns shorts.”

“For the aristocracy, it is a tradition that goes back several centuries, when young lads would be dressed in gowns until they were ‘breeched’ and put into shorts. They didn’t wear trousers until around eight years old. As much as Sophie didn’t like the rules of growing up titled and wealthy, she did appreciate tradition.”

“Would she be upset if Henry wore pants?”

Miles’s brow crinkled. “Hmm. That is a very good question. What do you think, Henry? Would you like some trousers?”

He puffed out his chest. “I’m a big boy.” He must have known on some level that getting trousers was a rite of passage. “Daddy wears trousers.”

Oh, my heart. I kissed Henry’s head.

“Would you like some trousers like Daddy?” Miles asked.

Henry nodded vigorously.

“Trousers it is.” Miles glanced up at me. “Does Carrington Cove have a children’s boutique?”

“They do.”

“Let’s add it to the list of places to visit today. Now, where to next?”

An unexpected tiny thrill ran down me with the thought we would be spending even more time together today. “I’ve been thinking about where Isabella and Dexter might stay, and I think I know just the spot.”Chapter EighteenMiles looked around Carrington Ranch with wide-eyed wonder as he got Henry out of the car. I knew it was the right choice as soon as we turned into the entrance and drove far enough in to see some of the cabins that were available to rent in the summer. Miles had pulled over to the side of the road and jotted down several notes, not saying a word, but his furious scribbles said it all. I wondered if that mean Isabella was speaking to him again.

“Your friend Emma grew up here?” Miles set Henry down and took his hand.

“She still lives here.” I pointed down the gravel road. “She and Sawyer are staying in her late mother’s cabin while their new cabin is being finished.”

“Her mum’s cabin? What about her father?”

I met him around the car. “There’s a story there. Her biological father and mother lived there, but he died when Emma was a baby. Mr. Carrington, who was best friends with Anders, the biological father, stepped in to help take care of Emma and Mrs. Carrington,” I choked. Did I ever miss that woman. She was like a second mother to me, to all of Emma’s friends. “From there, their love blossomed, and they married.”

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