“I don’t know.”
“You do know,” she says.
I dip my face so she can’t see me. “Because I’m bossy and difficult,” I grumble.
“You’re not difficult.”
I latch on to what’s unsaid as I lift my face. “But I am bossy?”
“You are the boss. You run a business.”
I’m the girl who knows how toget things done. The person whodoesn’t back down from a challenge. Banks said as much the night I met him. But maybe he didn’t like those things after all. “I’m not the sweet sister like Haven. I’m the know-it-all. I’m thetoo independentone. I’m the pushy one.”
“And I love you both madly,” she says.
I believe that with my whole heart, but I’m on a roll, dammit, and nothing is stopping me. “And then I think I was kind of mean this afternoon,” I admit.
“Why? What did you do?”
I wince. “I said to his face that he wasn’t my type.”
She gives me the look—the look that saysyou didn’t do your best. “Apologize then,” she says.
“I don’t want to.” I pout.
“You do have to work with him over the next few weeks,” she points out.
This whole situation gets messier by the minute. “I just want to move past that night.”
“And why can’t you? Is it because…he’s exactly your type?”
Way to see inside my soul, Grandma.
I close my eyes, a whoosh rushing through my body. That man drives me wild and turns me inside out. “It’s hard to be around him.”
“Because you want him to swoop you up and carry you up the stairs?”
My eyes fly open. “Grandma!”
“I’m seventy-five. I’m not dead.”
“I’m shocked.”
“Why do you think I’m trying to go to Paris to see Laurent?”
“To make croissants,” I say immediately. Innocently.
The saucy minx winks. “Sure, if that’s what you call it these days.”
I cover my face. She comes in for a hug, and I breathe it in, letting her comfort me. Maybe I needed this. No, I’m sure I did. I’m glad I got the truth off my chest.
After we finish cleaning up, Banks’s car crunches on the gravel driveway, and a few minutes later, he knocks on the door, then strides in.
“How’s it going?” His dark eyes find me immediately, roaming up and down like he’s assessing me. They linger on me a little longer than is necessary, and my stomach doesn’t just flip. It cartwheels.
Attraction is such a pesky thing. Especially when it’s written all over your face, and I’m sure mine is a billboard.
“It’s all good. I’ll show you to the cottage,” I say, because at least I can be a good hostess, even if I’m having a hard time apologizing.
