Page 4 of The Grump I Slept With
“Don’t start,” I warned, cutting him off with a threatening finger before he could bring back the nickname from when we were boys.
Alistair chuckled, and even if it was at my expense, I was glad to hear it. His life had been hell lately—no doubt, he could use a laugh.
“C’mon,” Weston said, gesturing toward the door. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
I frowned, checking my watch again. “Isn’t the ceremony starting? Speaking of, why isn’t everyone seated?”
“We’ve got time,” Weston assured me. He lowered his voice like he was telling a secret. “There was a bit of a faff with the photographer. We’ve got it sorted now, but we’ve pushed the ceremony back by half an hour.”
“Just enough time for you to change out of your Shite Butt disguise,” Alistair teased. I gave him the finger as we left the tent.
“You know there’s a Shetland pony tied up in one of the tents?” I said.
Weston grinned. “Aisling insisted Bonnie be part of the ceremony.”
“Foster daughter strikes again,” I said. “And how does Lena feel about that?” She fondly referred to the horse as “demon pony.”
All Weston did was laugh as we swung by my Bentley for a change of clothes, then headed over to the meeting hall to use the bathroom facilities.
“You gonna expand on what happened with the sheep?” Weston asked, standing outside the door as I shrugged out of my suit jacket and my pants, trading them out for another set.
“There was a whole damn herd of them,” I muttered, grabbing some paper towels to wipe the dirt off my shoes. “Kicking up mud all over the place.”
“Flock.”
“What?”
“A group of sheep is a flock.”
I rolled my eyes. Weston and his goddamn animals. I told him all about the insufferable woman and her junk heap of a car while I stuffed my shoes onto my feet. Looking in the mirror, I straightened my jacket before swinging the door open. “She argued with me for so long, a farmer had time to bring his entire flock over the hill and upon us. That was when a sheep started to eat my shoelaces.”
“What did she look like?”
“The sheep?”
Weston barked a laugh. “Don’t be daft. The woman!”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Tall. Blonde hair probably hiding demon horns. Fit as hell. Drives a blue Toyota.”
Weston’s eyes widened for a beat, then his lips twitched, a familiar spark of mischief flitting across his face.
“What?” I demanded.
“Nothing.” He clapped me on the chest. “Despite the many horrors you’ve faced to get here, you clean up all right.”
“So do you,” I assured him as we wandered back outside. “I’ve certainly never seen you look happier. Can’t believe it’s already been a year of you and Lena.”
“A year without Grandad,” Weston said, rubbing at his clean-shaven jaw.
Lord, I missed that man. He wasn’t just the one who’d run the camp that had brought us all together—he was the one who’d taught us about the kind of men we wanted to be: strong, loyal, honorable, and resolute.
“So much has changed,” Weston mused.
“For the better, I’d say. You’ve done Pete proud.” I clapped Weston on the shoulder, and he grinned, as I’d known he would. Nothing pleased him more than hearing that he was honoring his grandad’s legacy.
There was a flurry of shouting from across the street, like pots banging together. Then an indignant whinny followed by that Shetland pony tearing through the side of one of the tents.
“Oi, Bonnie!” Weston shouted, darting into the middle of the high street to chase after the pony.
