Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 335(@250wpm)___ 279(@300wpm)
Coming off the delightful project of bringing Dane and Camille together, his little matchmaking heart was anxious to sink its teeth into another mission.
Ava was it. Fernsby knew it in his deepest innards. And he was always right. Well, except for that one time long ago.
Over the next few weeks, he’d ferret out the details. Then he’d make his plans.
The family get-together, of which he heartily approved, was breaking up, and out of the corner of his eye, he detected Gabrielle Harrington hustling over to him. They were to drive home together, since Dane and Camille would be spending the night in the city and attending the show.
Gabrielle gripped his arm. She had quite a grip for a young woman on the more diminutive end of the spectrum, but then, most men often underestimated beautiful blondes. Not that he was most men. Oh no-no-no, he was Fernsby.
“Fernsby, I know you’re taking me home,” she said ever so sweetly. “But I really wanted to have a drink with Ava before we leave. Would you mind hanging out for a little while?”
She gave him such a beseeching look that he drawled the only answer he could. “Of course, Miss Harrington, you must absolutely have a drink with your sister.” He called all the Harringtons by some sort of honorific—sir, miss—but in his own mind, he used their first names as if they were family. Though in truth, he couldn’t think of her as Gabby. She was Gabrielle. Just as Camille could never be Cammie in his mind. Why did these Americans always want to shorten such lovely names? Or perhaps that was just him. Because he had to admit the Brits did it too. Crikey.
“But I must pick up the dog,” he informed her in a drawn-out syllable. “I will remind you that he’s at the flat.”
Not that he would ever admit it to anyone, except Lord Rexford himself, but the mini dachshund was cute as the dickens.
Gabrielle beamed. “Oh good.” She clapped her hands. “Rexie can sit on my lap on the way home.”
Rexie? Fernsby shuddered. The dog was called anything from T. Rex to just plain Rex to Fernsby’s preferred moniker, Lord Rexford. But Rexie had to be the worst.
He suspected Gabrielle used it on purpose just to irritate him.
“He absolutely cannot sit on your lap,” Fernsby said in his sternest voice, applying an exaggerated eye roll. “He needs to be in his harness should we be involved in an accident.”
Gabrielle gaped at him. “We’ve never had an accident while you’re driving, Fernsby.”
The little minx was laying it on a bit thick. “Of course it would never be my fault,” he said, hand splayed against his chest. “But should a Mack truck broadside us, we wouldn’t want Lord Rexford to be creamed.” Not that Fernsby would ever allow himself to be creamed by anyone, let alone a Mack truck. However, there were safety protocols to follow.
“You’re right. He’s safer in his harness.” She smiled widely, and he knew the next request would be huge. “So, can you come back to get me in… like… a couple of hours?”
“A couple of hours. Of course, miss.” It meant they’d be driving until nearly midnight. But, as always, Fernsby was up to the task.
He was up to any task the Harringtons could possibly think of.
And next on his list was Ava Harrington.
He wanted to smile with glee. Or do a jig. On the way home, he could pump Gabrielle for information about Ava’s secret, which he was ninety-nine percent sure was all about Ransom Yates.
Gabrielle moved as if to hug him, then thought better of it. “You’re the best.” She beamed at him with those cornflower-blue eyes.
He couldn’t help a long-suffering sigh. “Of course. I’m Fernsby. And I did pass muster with my vegan Victoria sponge.” For which, naturally, he’d won the top award on Britain’s Greatest Bakers.
Her smile lit up her pretty face. “Your Victoria sponge was the absolute best.” She was most definitely buttering him up. And he suspected that as much as he might pump her for information, she wouldn’t reveal a thing.
Blond, she was a striking contrast to Ava, the redhead in the family. The Harrington men were all Heathcliff types, the tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed, and exceptionally handsome heroes typical of romance novels. The family genes were actually quite phenomenal in the appearance department.
If he couldn’t wrest any information concerning Ava from her, Fernsby would content himself with pumping her for the 4-1-1 regarding her vegan tiers on the four-tier cake they would be making together for Gideon Jones and Rosita Diaz’s wedding. He couldn’t let the little minx beat him with a better cake.
Even if he had to admit that she was a master baker almost—but not quite—on par with himself.
Chapter Three
Gabby grabbed Ava’s arm and pulled her away from the family knot near the entrance. “Fernsby’s game to wait,” she said. “We can have a nice yummy cocktail and a good long chat. He’ll be back in a couple of hours.”