Page 17 of The Princess and the Nerd

Chapter 9

Willow

Marching directly to the front door of the address that Dez found for me, I ring the doorbell aggressively.

I stand here, waiting, arms crossed, furious.

When the door opens, I am startled to find that H.D. McGuinty is standing there completely shirtless. Holding a mixing bowl. I try not to stare at his abs—just a quick glance, mostly at the mixing bowl. Then I look back up at his face sternly.

His handsome face with a pair of sexy glasses.

Dammit.

But wait—is he staring at me too? He seems confused.

“As you can see, I've taken your criticism to heart,” I tell him, pointing at my newly highlighted, shiny blonde locks that are flowing in the wind.

“Miss Wintergreen?” he says with surprise, almost not recognizing me.

“You were absolutely right aboutONLY ONE THINGin your entire awful, cruel, defamatory article. My hair needed some attention. It was dull and boring, and I needed a fresh look. Thanks to you, I let my best friend take me to his stylist. How do you like it?”

H.D. McGuinty stares at me for a moment. "It's an improvement."

"Thank you," I say graciously. "Can I come in and chat?"

"I'm not sure if this is a good time,” he responds. “Although I definitely would like to chat with you. No—I need to chat with you. It has come to my attention, from several sources, that I was mistaken on many accounts, and that I may have been too rash and judgmental with my comments. I wanted to take the time to revise my article and perhaps print a retraction. And I’d like to discuss it with you formally.”

My heavy heart begins to lift at this good news. “Then why is now not a good time? What you wrote is fucking my whole life upright now, Mr. McGuinty. I need to discuss this now, and I need to have this fixednow.”

“I would love to help you, Miss Wintergreen—”

“Willow. You can call me Willow. Like the restaurant I was named after. Where my parents had their first date. Almost fifty years ago.”

“Yes, yes, I realized my error. You’ll be happy to know that many people have contacted me to resolve that mistake, and I will correct it quite quickly.”

“Now,” I demand quietly, inwardly complimenting myself for ignoring the butterflies that keep fluttering at his elegant British accent. “Fix it now!”

“My mother sent over a bunch of my crazy aunties to check up on me, and they’ll be here within the hour,” he explains, gesturing to the mixing bowl. “If I don’t prepare good food and give them a proper welcome, I’m pretty sure my mother is going to have me murdered. So you can come in and talk, if you want, but you’ll have to help me cook.”

“You getting murdered would probably hurt less than what you’ve done to me,” I inform him seriously.

“I would agree with you if it were any other murderer. But you haven’t met my mother—the ways in which she would murder me would definitely be excruciating far beyond your wildest dreams. So please, join me in the kitchen or let’s reschedule a proper appointment.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll use too much butter?” I say, patronizingly.

“Luckily, Indian food is all about butter. Go crazy. I'm making biryani and dal makhani. Simmering some lamb vindaloo. Come in and help me finish it up.”

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