Frannie fanned herself with a paperback that featured a buxom woman and a shirtless man. “I was made to talk. It’s like my oxygen. I feel faint already. Can someone take my vitals?”
“Are you okay?” Hattie asked, and it took a moment before I realized she was talking to me.
“Myoxygen is fine.” Though I was ready to kick off my heels.
“You look a little wired tonight,” Hattie said.
“She’s always wired,” Sylvie told her. “Have you seen how many energy drinks and espressos she downs in a day? I get A-fib just thinking about it. And do you know why Olivia has a drinking problem?”
“I do not have a drinking problem.” Good heavens.
“Because that boss of hers runs her ragged,” my grandmother continued. “If she doesn’t give you the promotion this time, Frannie and I will take care of her ourselves. Right, Frannie?”
My aunt said nothing.
“Right, Frannie?” Sylvie asked again, with no response. “Fran?”
Frannie released her clamped lips. “What? I’m practicing the not talking thing.” She walked away grumbling. “I’m already terrible at this.”
“Back to you, Olivia.” Hattie directed her hazel eyes my way again. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
Hattie was a therapist, and if she asked you if you were okay, you worried your answer would somehow earn you a place on her counseling schedule. “Just busy, as usual.” I waved at a friend from church. “I’ve been doubling up on Lachlan’s media training.”
“Is that what you honeymooners call it these days?” Sylvie cackled like a bridge troll. “Just doing some ‘media training’?” Then her eyes narrowed as she studied my face. “Oh. That really is what you meant. How dull.”
“But necessary,” I said, explaining theGood Morning Americadevelopment and Lachlan’s bombed interview. “He’s got a possible slot with Anderson Cooper, then there’s that podcast with Jason Bateman, and then—”
“We get it,” Rosie said. “It’s a lot. But Lachlan couldn’t be in better hands. And while I don’t want you to move, I can’t imagine anyone else deserving that job in New York more. I mean, you did all of Celeste’s Christmas shopping last yearwhileworking twelve-hour days.” Her attention snapped to a group of women who shuffled inside. “I better go mingle and help customers find spots. Next time I’ll need way more chairs. I hope we have enough cupcakes.”
“I’m going to sit down.” I eyed a place in a far corner of the children’s section right under a giant bunny painted on the wall. “I can’t stay long. I left Lachlan three videos to watch on nonverbal communication, and I need to get back home to debrief.” My hand shot out in the general vicinity of my grandmother. “And no, that’s not a euphemism.”
“I raised her better than this,” Sylvie told Hattie as I left them both to claim my spot.
Ten minutes later, I sat with my back reclined against a wall, my tailbone moderately protesting, and completely transformed to London, 1740. Historical romance was one of my favorite genres, but I knew the reality was not quite so romantic—corsets that could serve as torture devices, no indoor plumbing, and a criminal lack of the Dairy Barn drive-throughs.
I’d waited fifteen chapters for this couple to finally kiss, and the author had made the delay completely worth it. If only dark alcoves hadn’t gone out of vogue.
The hero had just re-upped his commitment to the kiss when my mind detoured to another tall, handsome leading male—Lachlan. That thought leapfrogged right to another thought—kissing. More specifically,ourkissing. Our romantic interlude may have lacked a drafty castle alcove, but wow, it had still been worthy of a novel. That kiss had also set off a confusing spiral I’d thought I could manage—the dissolution of my strong dislike for Lachlan. I rather liked the man now, and just what did I do about that? I guess that meant we could part ways as friends, right? That was something.
But I’d gotten to see his vulnerable side, his kindness, and let’s not forget his cooking skills. Lachlan had made me laugh every day since I’d moved into his golf course manor, and how many times had my ex Taylor made me laugh? I could probably count the instances on both hands. When I was with Taylor, I’d always felt a pressure to tone down who I was. For him, I was always too anxious, too ramped up, too serious, too regimented. He once told me he wished he could find my intensity dial and turn it down. Words like that tended to stick with a girl—more thanTaylorhad stuck with a girl…
Capturing my wandering thoughts, I returned my attention to my book.
Two pages in and a shadow darkened my page. Sylvie.
My grandmother, ever elegant in slender black pants, a sparkly sweater, and enough diamonds to require her own security detail, eased down beside me. She peeked over at my book and nodded her approval. “How’s married life treating you?” she whispered.
“Do you mind?” I held up my novel. “I think Felicity’s about to tell Lord Bradford she loves him.”
“I’ve read that one. Brad’s brother kidnaps her first.”
Darn it. “Now why’d you go and ruin the plot for me?”
“I didn’t,” Sylvie said. “That author has plenty more twists coming.”
“Well, keep them to yourself.” Whitney Nicole was a favorite author of our book club, though her true identity was a bit of a mystery. “No more spoilers.”
“Now I’ve saved you from having to read about fifteen pages,” Sylvie said, “and we can use that time to talk.”
