your mother?’
‘She’s great, thank you.’
‘Marvellous. I’m sure she’s missing you.’
‘A little,’ I admit, though she would never tell me so. ‘I’m going home in a couple of weeks.’ I’m not looking forward to it at all and keep stalling to book my train tickets, but Edwin Smith has chased me yet again. There’s only so long I can avoid clearing out Dad’s store. And not only that, my ex is in Helston and apparently wants to make amends. Fat chance. I know as soon as I set foot off the train, news of my arrival will probably reach him before I arrive at my mum’s house. I don’t need to hear his apologies. They stand for shit and won’t change a thing. Just waste my time.
Mr H adds milk to my tea. I try to ignore the chinking of porcelain as he hands it to me, but when his lips straighten and his face screws up in concentration, it becomes impossible.
‘Are you okay?’ I relieve him of the cup and saucer and place it down quickly, watching as he shakes his hands and head at the same time, clearly frustrated.
‘Getting old has got to be one of the worst things to happen to a human being,’ he says, forcing a smile as his old eyes find me. I try not to look sympathetic, knowing he probably won’t appreciate it. His fingertip taps the side of his temple. ‘Everything up here is sound as a pound. It’s the rest of me that’s the problem.’
‘Do you mind me asking how old you are, Mr H?’
He lets out that sweet-sounding chuckle again, lifting his teacup to his lips. ‘Ninety-three. Too old for you, lovely.’
‘Well, damn.’ I slap the table, screwing up my face in disappointment, making Mr H throw his head back on a laugh. I smile fondly across the table at him, my mind racing with a hundred questions I’d love to ask about the history of the Hunt Corporation and the magnificent treasures he must have seen in his lifetime. I bet millions of pounds must have passed through his fingers.
My beam remains fixed in place while the old man calms his laughter down, wiping under his glasses. But then his smile falls away, taking mine with it. He’s gone from hysterical to super-serious in a nanosecond. ‘And my adorable grandson might only be thirty-two, but he is too unruly for you.’
I purse my lips. ‘That’s a bit of a random statement,’ I say, taking a sip of tea as I furiously fight away the blush creeping up on to my pale cheeks. Mr H’s slight cock of his head and knowing smile tells me I’ve failed in my endeavour. I don’t help my cause when I glance away to avoid his probing stare.
‘You have fire in those brown eyes, Eleanor.’
I have no idea what he means. I sag a little and give up the ghost. ‘Mr Hunt, forgive me, but your grandson is a little—’ I snap my mouth shut when the only words that automatically come to me are insulting. I need to remember that this sweet old man is Becker’s grandad, and Becker Hunt is, unfortunately, my boss. ‘Testing,’ I finish, pleased with myself for finding a replacement word for twat, bastard, arsehole, or knobhead. Or tempting, gorgeous, sinfully sexy and enticing.
His grin widens. ‘You don’t need to hold back with me, Eleanor. I love my grandson more than life itself, but I’m not deluded. The man is a maverick.’ He leans across the table, and I find myself inching closer, intrigued. ‘He’s a modern-day Casanova.’
I snort impulsively, then, embarrassed, quickly apologise for it. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be. You don’t agree?’
‘Casanova? Wasn’t he a smooth-talking charmer?’ Becker’s no smooth talker. He’s a womaniser. His grandfather has said himself, not that I can raise that point since he’s totally unaware I overheard that conversation.
‘Yes. Famous for his love affairs.’
My brow furrows. ‘Has he had many?’
‘Casanova or Becker?’ He’s trying to conceal the twitch developing at the corner of his mouth, but I can see it as clearly as he can see my rosy cheeks. I’m asking too many questions for someone who couldn’t care less.
‘Becker,’ I utter, and then hold my breath. Why didn’t I say Casanova? Because I sure don’t want to know the ins and outs of Becker’s love life. I can check Google again if I fancy torturing myself.
He sighs, giving me a compassionate smile. ‘Oh, dear me, Eleanor.’
What? Something tells me that I don’t want to know.