Page 7 of One Golden Ring
As we pass the desk and head into a big room with gorgeous wooden tables and another crackling fireplace, Margo calls out for someone to bring firewood down to the cabin.
Michael takes us to the table nearest the fire. The heat is absolutely delicious—it’s all I can do not to groan with pleasure as Mr. Lockwood pulls out my chair before moving around the table to sit.
“Here you are,” Bronson says, handing us each a leather-bound menu. “But of course I can make you anything you like.”
My menu opens on its own and my eyes catch on an entry forheavenlychicken pot pie.
“Oh,” I murmur. “Chicken pot pie.”
“Very good,” Bronson says with a smile. “And for you, sir?”
Mr. Lockwood orders what he always orders—a ribeye with vegetables and a salad.
I guess he’ll live forever on protein and veggies, but that won’t stop me from eating carbs. I think they’re some of the best things in life.
Bronson heads off just as Margo comes in with two mugs of hot chocolate absolutelydrowningin tiny marshmallows.
“Here you are,” she says with a special smile for Mr. Lockwood that he doesn’t notice at all because he’s so busy scowling at the marshmallows. “I thought you could use a little warming up.”
She’s looking at him like she can think of other ways to warm him up and my inner green-eyed monster is scrapping for a fight again.
“Thanks,” he grunts without looking at her, then turns to his grandfather. “We should talk. I have some ideas.”
“After you eat,” Michael says with a sad smile, patting his arm.
I feel a pang of grief for my boss. He lost his wife, and his parents don’t seem to be in touch often—from what I understand they travel a lot, and his daughter is away at school. It’s probably been particularly cruel for him to find out his grandfather isn’t well. And between the way Michael’s suit fits and how worn out he seems just from greeting us, I’m guessing he hasn’t taken a miraculous turn for the better.
“Would you two like some privacy, M—Derek?” I correct myself at the last moment. He might be all business, but something tells me his sweetheart isn’t supposed to refer to him as Mr. Lockwood.
His eyes flicker with interest, and I wonder if it’s because this is the first time I’ve called him by his first name.
“Of course not, my dear,” Michael tells me right away, patting my hand from his place beside me. “I’m so glad you’re here with us. What a wonderful treat.”
Half an hourlater I’m absolutely gorged on the most delicious chicken pot pie I’ve ever eaten.
Mr. Lockwood—Derek also pushed his mug of hot chocolate toward me when I finished mine. My delight must have shown on my face because I swear the corner of his mouth tugged up for a second in his version of a chuckle.
Now we’re all relaxing with mugs of spiced apple cider, and I’m looking forward to getting back to the cabin to sleep like a hibernating bear when my boss leans forward in his chair.
“Grandpa,” he says, his voice flat and businesslike again.
“If you two aren’t here to tell me you’re engaged then I know why you’re here,” Michael says, sounding tired.
“How could you possibly know?” Derek asks.
“I haven’t seen you in person in five years,” Michael says softly.
I almost gasp out loud. The city is a bit of a hike, butfive years? The two of them obviously have a good relationship. If my grandfather were still alive nothing could keep me away from him for that long.
“Look,” Derek says, not bothering to argue. “I heard back from Dr. Nasar. He’s willing to do your surgery, and he’ll be in New York next week.”
“My case isn’t interesting enough for Mahmut Nasar,” Michael chuckles.
“My money is,” Derek says drily, pulling out his phone. “Now, I’ve got a few apartments for you to look at. You’ll want to recover close to the clinic?—”
“I’m going to save you some time,” Michael says, cutting him off. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen anyone do that. “And I guess some money, too. I’m not interested.”
“You don’t understand,” Derek says. “This surgery can double your survival rate…”
