Page 8 of The Best of Times
She shifted uncomfortably. “Actually, Josh Winterton and I were on a stakeout and I got carried away.”
“I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Don’t you start. The Professor has been chastising me ever since,” she said. “Even so, it fired him up enough to propose, so all’s well that ends well.”
“I think I’m probably going to end up on the side of the Professor with this one. You look well despite the arm, Granny,” he said as he flopped into the comfy armchair by the fireplace.
“I’ve been having facials and all sorts,” she said. “As soon as he heard about the wedding, Alexander took control.”
Aron peered closer. “You haven’t had Botox, have you?”
She primped her hair. “Only a little.”
“Granny!”
“I’m not anywhere near as bad as your new friend, Madeline Morrison. She can barely register emotion. I’m sure even her limited acting abilities require facial movement of some description.”
Aron chuckled. Of course, his arrival had been closely monitored. Madeline had been bang on the money.
“No Prof?” he asked. “I had hoped to break up a lover’s tryst. Send him packing with threats of guns at dawn. That sort of thing.”
Mrs Wimpole beamed. “You get cheekier instead of more mature. He’s at a meeting about a book or something. You would know better than I. Don’t you worry about him. You should be more concerned with the list of jobs I’ve got for you.”
Aron shuddered. Not only was he the eldest grandchild, he’d also been nominated as unofficial wedding planner.
“Aren’t you paying someone to do such things?”
“I’m paying them to do the easy stuff,” she replied. “I’m not having someone I don’t know help me pick out colour schemes. Or taste canapés. Or choose floral arrangements.”
So much for having a lie-in with a good read. He’d evidently entered Beatrice Wimpole’s Boot Camp. Not that he really minded.
“I’m surprised you’re letting anyone else do that. Even me.”
“I’m too old to be chasing around town,” she continued. “And we’ve hardly any time.”
“Granny. Is this a shotgun affair?”
This time she threw a cushion at him with precise aim.
“I only trust you to help. You don’t mind, do you, darling?”
The inflection at the end of that speech combined with dewy eyes made him putty in her hands.
“I’m a moth to your flame, Grandmama. Whatever you need.”
She produced a neatly typed piece of paper from her handbag and proffered it to him.
“Nothing like being prepared,” he muttered.
He took it and gave it a scan. To his horror there was a lot of text.
“Granny. I can’t do all this on my own.”
“I know,” she said. “You’ll be working with Paul. It’s all arranged.”
Butterflies swarmed around his belly and down his legs.
“Oh. I see,” he managed.
