Holiday In the Hamptons (From Manhattan with Love 5)

Brooding on it, she ended the call and wandered back into the house. She removed ice packs from the freezer and then lifted a jug of iced tea from the fridge and took it to her grandmother, who was resting in the living room.

Sunlight spilled through the large windows, illuminating the soft, overstuffed sofas that faced each other across the room. The pale blue fabric was worn in places, but they were soft and comfortable—built for snuggling. Her grandmother had believed in the importance of reading time, and Fliss had spent many hours curled up with a book. She’d pretended she’d rather be outdoors on the beach, but secretly she’d enjoyed the quiet family time that was absent at home. Harriet had preferred Jane Austen or Georgette Heyer, but Fliss had veered toward adventure stories. Moby Dick. The Last of the Mohicans.

“Grams?” She paused in the doorway, and her grandmother turned her head, a smile on her face.

Fliss felt a stab of shock. “The bruising on your face is bad. Is it worse?”

“Just changing color.” She held out her hand for the tea. “Don’t fuss.”

“I don’t fuss.” And then she remembered that if she was Harriet, she’d be fussing. “Poor you. Let me help you ice it.”

She put a thin cloth between the ice pack and her grandmother’s skin as the doctor had demonstrated. “I’ve never seen bruising like this.”

“It will fade.”

“Maybe you should stay out of the garden from now on.”

“Nonsense. I was looking out of the window a moment ago, worrying about what’s happening to my plants while I’m trapped here immobile.”

“If you tell me which plants, I can do whatever needs to be done.” Fliss poured tea into a glass.

“You’re a good girl.”

Fliss felt like a fraud. She wasn’t a good girl. She was a liar and a fraud.

She had a sudden urge to blurt out everything to her grandmother, but she couldn’t face seeing disappointment on her face. Or finding ways to dodge the inevitable questions about Seth.

“Anything you need,” she murmured, and wandered back into the kitchen to throw together a salad for supper. As long as she didn’t actually have to cook anything, she could keep this up for a while. Even she couldn’t burn salad.

She was chopping tomatoes, focused on trying to make each piece as neat and uniform as Harriet would, when there was a knock on the door.

Her heart sank. She hadn’t factored in visitors. This deception was spreading before her eyes, like a drop of ink spilled into water.

She tipped the tomatoes in with the lettuce and hoped whoever it was would go away.

“Harriet?” Her grandmother’s voice came from the living room, and she bowed to the inevitable.

“I’ll get it.”

Hopefully it would be one of the neighbors with a casserole. At least then she’d only have to reheat. She was a champion reheater. And accepting a casserole could happen without worry about anyone suspecting her identity.

She opened the door, replacing her “why are you bothering me?” look with what she hoped was a reasonable imitation of Harriet’s wide, welcoming smile.

The smile died on the spot.

It was Seth, standing shoulder to shoulder with another man she’d met only once before in her life. At her wedding.

Chase Adams.

Holy crap, she was totally and utterly screwed.

It didn’t help that Seth leaned his arm against the doorjamb, all muscle and male hotness.

“Hi, Harriet, we just wanted to drop by and say that if you need any help, all you have to do is ask. You already know Chase, of course. He has a whole team of people who can fix anything that needs fixing in the house.”

“We haven’t met in person, but my wife, Matilda, talks about you a lot.” Chase shook her hand. “It’s good to finally meet you, Harriet. I’m sorry for your grandmother, but her misfortune is my fortune because it brought you here and I need a favor.”

A favor?