But his main concern right now was Fernsby.
He sent out an urgent text on the family loop, making sure to take Fernsby off the chat. Emergency video chat. Something’s up with Fernsby. I fear it’s bad. Meet in the chat room in half an hour.
That should give them all time to see the text and answer his call for help. Right on cue, they all showed up, and he explained the situation. “I asked Fernsby to help with a dinner party. I told you all about that at our last family mastermind. I planned to hold it for a week from Friday, and I asked Fernsby if he could come by and help that night.” Dane never minded sharing Fernsby’s expertise. “But he said he had a prior engagement. None of you have anything going on with him, do you?”
Shaking heads and shocked faces filled up his big-screen monitor.
“And worse, when I asked him what his ‘prior engagement’ was—” Troy air-quoted to show his disbelief. “—he ignored the question.”
A few jaws dropped. With Saskia, the love of his life, sitting on his lap, Clay asked, “Has Fernsby had a stroke or something?”
On the screen, Dane shook his head. Cammie sat next to him. Troy wondered fleetingly when the hell Dane planned to marry her. Though he’d finally admitted he was bonkers for her, he had yet to put a ring on her finger. Troy hoped it wouldn’t take another twelve years for Dane to follow through.
“He asked me for a night off,” Dane said. “But I thought he was going to help you out, since you’d mentioned the dinner party.”
“Fernsby shouldn’t have to ask for time off on a Friday night,” Ava said. Troy’s beautiful older sister pushed a lock of red hair behind her ear.
Ransom Yates, sitting next to her, leaned in to add, “Do you all really think he should be at your beck and call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week?”
Gabby, the subject of the bet—which made Troy think of Michaela again and almost threw him off track—said, “Of course we don’t. It’s just that he’s always there whenever we need him. He never says no to anything. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him asking for a night off before. Something’s wrong.”
Troy and Gabby were in agreement. But Clay said, “Why didn’t you call us immediately, Dane? This is so freaking strange.”
Saskia added, “Wow, you guys are all very proprietary about Fernsby.”
Dane jumped in. “It’s only because we care about him.”
Cammie held up her hand, focusing the attention on her. “I believe I know what it is. I saw a flyer in the mail for a book signing by Mathilda Sullivan, which is being held in San Francisco on that Friday.”
“Mathilda Sullivan?” Troy could only echo.
“She’s a British mystery writer,” Dane explained. “Fernsby has all her books.”
Cammie added, “In print, e-book, and audiobook.”
Another mouth gape by all.
Saskia tipped her head, her dark hair falling over her shoulder. “He was carrying Mathilda Sullivan’s new book the first day I met him.” She patted Clay’s chest. “Remember? We were talking about Charlie Ballard’s brilliant new sculpture in your warehouse lobby.” Clay had commissioned Charlie, who’d married Sebastian Montgomery, one of the Mavericks, only a month ago—in Las Vegas, no less. They’d all been in attendance.
Clay nodded. “I remember.”
Ava’s eyes suddenly held keen interest. “That makes a lot of sense, then. He’s dying to get her autograph.”
Troy switched over to his internet browser and looked up the woman’s most recent book. And lo and behold… “Holy crap! The main character’s name is Fernsby. It’s a woman detective, but her last name is Fernsby.”
“Good Lord,” Ava said, her stunned expression mirrored on all their faces.
It was Ransom, chef extraordinaire and the man Ava loved with her whole being, who said, “Mathilda Sullivan and Fernsby must know each other, maybe even from back when Fernsby was in England.” His gaze shifted to what Troy thought was Dane’s video panel. “Do you know how long he’s been in the US?”
Dane looked sheepish. “I don’t know when he left England. He’s never talked about it.”
Then they all appeared a little sheepish. Because none of them knew much about Fernsby—not his age, not his first name, not how long he’d been in the country. He was ageless Fernsby, who’d dropped into their lives fifteen years ago. And he’d been with them ever since.
Maybe they took him for granted. Maybe they loved his baking too much to push for his private details.
“And maybe,” Ava said on a stern note that sounded like it might have come from Fernsby himself, “none of this is any of our business. Especially not why he wants to go to a book signing instead of helping you with your supplier dinner.”
The faces on his monitor suddenly appeared chastised. Because Ava was right.
