Joanna's Highlander (Highland Protector #2)(12)
“Don’t give me that ‘didna’ crap.” Joanna’s eyes flared wide and she clamped her mouth shut. Ducking her head, she turned away and white-knuckled the trolley. Before Grant could respond, she wrestled the overloaded cart up the sidewalk, not missing a step as she shouted back at him over the din of the squeaking wheels, “Breakfast at seven. At the dining room here. I’ll tell Miss Martha to add you to our group.”
Grant held his breath to keep from laughing out loud. Such fire. Aye and for certain. ’Tis definitely time t’make this woman mine.
Chapter 3
And there he was. Already seated at the dining table with his seven geriatric angels…or demons, depending on your perspective, surrounding him. The only empty place at the large, round table was to his left, the chair snugged up so close to him that it was almost in his armpit. But knowing Grant, and she felt like she did know him pretty well after a year and a half of teasing duck and weave, the poor man probably had no idea what the devious mob of grannies was up to.
“Mornin’.” Joanna pulled out the chair and shifted it farther to the left so she wouldn’t be in Grant’s lap—again. “Did everyone sleep well? Ready for a big day?” Thank goodness for the ingrained tour-guide chatter that came so easily to her she could chant it in her sleep. Grant was quite the distraction. Always had been. Always would be. Damn, I wish…
Grant jumped up from his seat, gently brushed her hands away from the back of her chair, then pulled it out a bit farther from the table and waited for her to sit. “M’lady.”
“Oh my,” Frances said in a breathless tone that greatly resembled the purring of a well-fed cat. “Such a gentleman.”
“Frances.” Hazel thumped the table with the handle of her butter knife.
“What?” Frances looked at her in wide-eyed innocence.
Hazel didn’t answer, just glared at Frances over the tops of her glasses.
“Ye think ’tis best we try to ignore them?” Grant whispered next to Joanna’s cheek as she lowered herself into the chair and allowed him to scoot her up to the table.
“Definitely,” she murmured under her breath while trying not to shiver and lean a little closer to Grant so his lips could brush her skin. She slid aside the empty place setting in front of her, then wrapped her hands around the tall travel mug she’d already filled at the coffee bar before coming to the table. He must’ve amped up his pheromones or something today. He’s getting to me worse than usual.
“Yer no’ going to eat?”
“Uhm…no.” Joanna covered a grin with another long sip of coffee. I see you scooting your chair closer. What are you up to, Mr. MacSexy? Ramping up the flirting today, are we? Putting on a show for the old ladies? God help her if he was. Her self-control would never survive it, and she’d left her battery-operated boyfriend hidden back in her room at the house she shared with her best friend Lucia and Lucia’s seven-year-old son, Tyler. “I’m not a big breakfast eater. I’ve got a protein bar in my bag if I happen to get hungry before lunch.”
“A protein bar,” Grant slowly repeated, the look on his face registering somewhere between dubious and disgusted. “Mistress Martha has the best parritch in Brady and ’twill stick to yer innards ’til supper if necessary.” He scooped up a healthy spoonful of the rich, steaming glob of creaminess in his bowl, cupped one hand under the spoon, and started toward her with it. “Here. Try it. Ye’ll find ’tis much tastier than that black muckwater yer drinkin’ or a protein bar either.”
“That’s oatmeal—right?” He’d called it something else, but she’d recognize that lumpy nastiness anywhere. “I don’t like oatmeal. Thanks, anyway.”
He waved the spoon a little closer to her face and amped up the power of the adorable dimple in his cheek to I always get what I want wattage. “Come on, lass. Just a wee taste. I ken for certain ye’ll like it.”
“You don’t ‘ken’ shit when it comes to me and oatmeal.” Joanna raised a hand to prevent the spoonful of yuck from coming any closer.
“Such language!” Annamae scolded from across the table.
“I know, Miss Annamae. Please accept my apology, or better yet…” Joanna patted Grant’s shoulder. “…blame Grant. He started it by attacking me with oatmeal.”
Grant ducked his chin and grinned as he slowly and seductively licked the spoon clean. Then he gave her a sideways glance that finished setting her blood on fire. He reached over, took hold of her hand, and pressed a lingering kiss to her open palm. With her hand still so close to his mouth she could feel the heat of his breath, he leaned forward and spoke in a low tone that only she could hear. “I’ll choose m’weapons more carefully when next I decide to attack ye.”
“Uhm…you do that,” she bantered back, struggling to breathe through the erratic pounding of her heart against her breastbone. Wow was the only word that came to mind. Grant was seriously stepping up his game from their usual innocent banter. This was all-out innuendo and paired with his deep, rich brogue, he wasn’t fighting fair. If she expected to keep her self-control intact, she’d have to initiate “clueless” mode and hope like hell that Grant fell for it. She’d admittedly grown fond of him—very—and lusted after him even more. But considering her track record with men, that was a dead giveaway that something was wrong with Grant beyond his medieval manners and the odd way he picked his words. Besides—how terrible would she be if she risked a steady flow of income for Carolina Adventures with a relationship that could possibly go so bad?