know what I’m doing, even if I haven’t a clue. I just want to try and ease his worry, but I get no further than opening my mouth before he’s off again.
‘Let me enlighten you on something, Eleanor.’
I sit back again, wary, and he sighs.
‘My Mags, that’s Becker’s grandmother, fell ill while I was away looking for that damn missing piece of the map. Cancer. Given weeks, but she didn’t tell me. She left me gallivanting around the world while she suffered alone at home.’ He shakes his head sadly, looking off into the distance. My heart breaks for him. ‘I got home and found half the woman I left. It had only been weeks. Aggressive, it was. Ravaged my beautiful girl.’ His voice breaks. I have to swallow down the lump in my throat, thinking about my father. Just like Mr H’s wife, my father kept his suffering from us until it was too late.
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘So am I,’ he murmurs. ‘I’m sorry I made her believe that my search for that blessed map and sculpture was more important than she was.’
‘I’m sure she didn’t think that,’ I offer, anything to ease the crippling guilt he clearly lives with.
He forces out a laugh. ‘Thank you for your compassion, however wasted it is. I’ll never forgive myself for squandering precious time looking for that damn map. Let me tell you this, Eleanor. Becker won’t allow himself to get attached to anyone.’
‘He doesn’t want anyone holding him back?’
‘Or breaking his heart. He has no sentimentality when it comes to living, breathing things, Eleanor. Hasn’t allowed himself to since he lost so many people important to him. Heck, he barely shows me any affection any more. He’s obsessed with finding that sculpture and won’t get himself attached to anything that will hamper his search.’ I deflate, and I know he sees it. Love is an inconvenience that Becker neither needs nor wants. It’ll just add a risk of guilt to his mission, guilt like his grandad is living with. If Becker is on his own, he doesn’t need to worry about the needs and wants of another person. ‘So, dear girl, the only way this thing between you and my grandson can end is badly. He’s a lone ranger, sweetheart. You’d be silly to think you can change that.’
‘Thanks for the advice,’ I whisper dejectedly, my stomach turning.
‘I love my Becker boy with all my heart, but when it comes to women, the man is an arsehole. Emotionally incapable. I like you, Eleanor. I’d hate to see you turn into a desperate, bunny-boiling fruitcake. Don’t think you can make him feel as strongly for you as he does for his treasure.’
Jesus, please stop. ‘I don’t think that.’ I drop my eyes to the table. I’m aware of the lack of buoyancy in my tone. I’m also aware that this dear old man’s grandson has already sent me somewhere close to crazy. He must have. I’m still here, tumbling deeper into his world. But I can’t seem to stop myself. Becker has a strong hold. Not that I’m exactly fighting him off.
I frantically search my twisted mind for something to say, anything to try and reassure the old man, but the kitchen door opens and we’re both distracted by who enters.
The prodigy himself.
Becker’s eyes flick between me and his grandad. Mr H doesn’t bless his grandson with his attention for long, sniffing and returning to his breakfast, whereas I, despite the crushing conversation I’ve just had, can’t help but fall into a pathetic daydream, my elbows meeting the table and my chin resting on them. He looks buff, not a word I’d usually use, but with worn jeans and a black T-shirt that hugs in all the right places – and there are a lot of right places – Becker looks drool-worthy, as per usual, but in a different way. And instead of the usual dress shoes, he has boots on. Sturdy, brown leather boots, and his jeans are caught in the tops haphazardly. Not intended, which just makes his whole scruffy outfit that little bit extra sexy. Don’t get me started on the glasses. Or the stubble. Shit, I’m in deep, complicated shit.
‘Gramps,’ Becker greets formally, face straight, lips pursed.
‘Becker,’ Mr H replies, perfectly polite but as huffy as can be.
Oh dear. I want to hide under the table. ‘Morning,’ I sing, earning doubtful looks from both men in the room.
Becker sighs his exasperation. It fills me with hope, but that’s dashed