Page 101 of The Unwilling Bride
We take the lift to the top floor and walk down the quiet hallway that leads to Margot’s office.
Margot’s on the phone and motions us to give her a second.
I nod. Having been here many times, I know the drill. I guide Harper to the seating area tucked away in a corner of the office.
She smooths down her dress, then tucks her hair behind her ear. A tell that she’s nervous. She’s also unusually quiet.
When she presses her lips together and clutches at her handbag, I can’t bear it anymore.
I feel the need to steady her.
“Would you like a cup of tea?” I ask, mainly to put her at ease.
It’s the only way I know to take care of her—through practical gestures rather than emotional reassurance.
She nods. “That would be great. Thanks.”
I head for the little counter adjoining the seating space and busy myself. By the time I place the cup of tea in front of her and a coffee for myself, Margot is still on the phone. Her voice is low enough that we can’t hear the words, but it forms a steady hum in the background.
Knowing my grandmother, it’s a power play. She is quite the tactician and knows exactly how to position herself as being in control. Hence, her making us wait.
She takes a sip and sighs. "Thank you, I needed that."
"Don’t be nervous." I reassure her.
It’s not normal for me to be so aware of another person’s moods and reacting to it. I’m making allowances for her I wouldn’t for anyone else.
"I’m meeting the matriarch of the Hamiltons. The one who holds the keys to you launching your new restaurant. Of course, I’m nervous.” She widens her gaze.
"She’s going to love you."
She rolls her eyes. "I'll be happy, as long as she doesn’t hate me."
I sip my espresso. "Even if she did, it doesn’t make a difference. This is a courtesy visit."
"I suppose, I should be glad I still warrant one of those." Both of us look up to find Margot standing in front of us.
Damn, she's soft-footed.
My grandmother’s eyes shine with intelligence and a hint of speculation. She looks between us.
"You must be the woman my grandson has decided to marry."
I begin to speak, but Harper beats me to it. She rises to her feet. "I’m Harper Richie. And yes, James asked me to marry him."
Margot looks her up and down, her gaze equivalent to that of a scientist examining a specimen. The assessment in her eyes is the kind that makes grown men confess to any wrongdoing they may not have committed yet.
It prompts me to straighten my backbone.
A pulse jumps at Harper’s throat. I can sense she’s nervous, but her shoulders stay square. She doesn’t flinch under Margot’s scrutiny.
The two of them seem to measure up each other for what seems like hours but, in reality, is seconds.
Then my grandmother sniffs.
My heart sinks. If she insults Harper in any way, then contract or no contract, I’m not going to stand for it.
Margot's chin lifts, the angle that signals she's about to deliver a verdict. The regal tilt that's preceded every significant pronouncement she's made in my presence for the past thirty plus years.
