Page 31 of Royal Agenda

Grandma’s statement filled in the questions Grace had about Grandma being so supportive of Elizabeth and Chad. Not that Grandma didn’t support them, but Grace would have bet her Irish breakfast tea set–currently in storage–that Grandma would have encouraged Elizabeth to forgo romance for a few more years as she settled in as CEO.

Of course, now that she knew more about Grandma’s and Grandpa’s courtship, she had a peek into Grandma’s heart. She stumbled a little as she realized that genealogy wasn’t just about collecting information from or about people who were dead, but about creating memories to share later. The thought hit her like a revelation, and she barely righted herself, narrowly avoiding face-planting in the dining room in front of the residents.

Grandma took them to a table, and they were soon laughing and chatting with her friends. “Where’s Don and the others?” Grace asked.

Winnie leaned forward. “Harry has a haircut this morning. They went for . . . emotional support.”

Grace giggled. She’d need support while in Ryker’s capable hands too, though of a whole different kind. Her knees would give out if she was ever under the influence of his fingertips again. She could only imagine what he would do to her if he brushed his thumb down her jawline or across her collarbone.

“I won’t trust Harry’s hair to anyone else.” Virginia’s tone brokered no arguments and snapped Grace from her fantasy of Ryker and her all alone after hours in the barbershop. The lights are low. Jazz music plays. There’s only one chair, so of course she’s sitting on his lap, her nails scraping up the back of his neck as he–

“Ryker sure knows his stuff,” Virginia said.

Grace swallowed. “I’m sure he does,” she said, quite out of breath.

The others chimed in. They were a hoot going on about Ryker’s abilities with a pair of scissors as if he were the half-child of the Greek god of haircuts. They didn’t have to sell her on him–she was paid for, the receipt printed, and out the door.

If only she could find the guy. Besides the day he ruined all other men and hair stylists for her and the quick wave, she hadn’t been able to accidentally bump into him on purpose. They said absence makes the heart grow fonder, but all it had done was make her ansty. She needed her some Isoladian accent and a dose of those green eyes if she was going to make it through the rest of the day without combusting.

The servers brought out plates laden with delicious food and kept their water cups full. They chatted with the residents who were interested in them as much as if they were their own grandparents. Bless these kids for their openness.

The feeling around the table was one of family, and Grace soon found herself wrapped up in it all. Perhaps Elizabeth wasn’t far off when she’d said this place was magical. Of course, no prince charming had shown up at her door–yet. And no barber had so much as walked through the dining room. Didn’t he get a lunch break? Slave drivers.

Samantha tripped over a chair leg and dropped the armload of files she carried, interrupting Grace’s musings. She scooted her chair back and dropped to her knees to help retrieve the papers that had fanned across the floor. Her hands slowed as she realized what she was looking at: pedigree charts. She shuffled through the ones in her hand, tracing the family line back to the 1700s. “Is this your family?” she asked Samantha.

Conversation at the table had stopped, and everyone stared at them. Grace made sure her skirt wasn’t up around her backside. The last thing she needed was Ryker seeing her underpants. She always wore grandma panties when she had on a knee-length skirt–just in case of a freak wind storm. But she didn’t want him to know that!

Samantha flicked a hand. “Heaven’s no. I mean, I wish. I’m an orphan. This is one of our residents.” She accepted the proffered folder and stacked it with the others. “And these are several more. I’m afraid I’m over my head with all this, and it’s starting to show.” She brushed off her skirt, a beautiful number made in deep green with silver accents. It had a royal look to it—much like the traditional uniforms for soldiers from Isola de la Famiglia—especially with the tassels hanging off the gathered sleeve. But perhaps that was more Grace’s current obsession with a certain Isoladorian and not so much the dress itself. “Betty is stuck on her family line—it’s a dead end.”

“There’s no such things as dead ends,” Grace quipped. “The lines continue—we just have to find the right thread to pull.”

Samantha huffed, blowing a piece of hair off her forehead. “I’m a disaster with thread.”

“It’s true,” Winnie threw out. “She’s hopeless.”

A small line appeared between Samantha’s eyebrows. “Thank you, Winnie. That was very helpful.”

Winnie winked.

“Anyway,” Samantha brought the attention back to her. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to suspend the ancestry searches here at The Palms.”

Winnie gasped and clutched her pearls. “You can’t do that, Samantha. People count on that class.”

Samantha didn’t seem ruffled by Winnie’s pronouncement. “I don’t know what else to do. My workload has increased, and the classes take up an hour a day.”

“But people love them,” argued Virginia.

Polly side hugged her.

“What was that for?” Virginia asked.

“Because you’re helping.” She grinned.

“Helping what?” Virginia asked.

“Uh,” Polly glanced at Grandma.

“Helping keep the classes going,” Grandma supplied. Her eyes darted to Grace. “What if we found you a substitute? At least until your schedule calms down a little.”

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