Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 117740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 392(@300wpm)
Deb reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of gin. “I’ve got the gin.”
“I’ve got the mixers,” Craig said, producing a wine carrier box from under the table and putting it in front of him.
“And I’ve got the cups!” Lisa brandished a stack of paper cups decorated with unicorns and little gold stars. “I swiped the leftovers from my niece’s fifth birthday party. Aren’t they colourful?”
Paula blinked at them. “I thought Colin banned alcohol in these meetings after George fell asleep in his shed and Rose almost got arrested for blasting silly string all over the gates of the Hanbury Estate.”
“Rose always gets arrested. It’s fine,” Richard said.
“Once again, I do not always get arrested, I get taken for a time out to calm down,” I said. “If you check my record, I’ve only ever been officially arrested three times, and one of those wasn’t even my fault. It was a case of mistaken identity.”
Deb paused midway through pouring us all a drink. “How does anyone mistake your identity? You have red wavy hair. You’re the only person in Hanbury with red wavy hair. How does anyone mistake your red wavy hair?”
“For the love of God, Deb, stop saying ‘red wavy hair.’”
“Is that really the point here when she has been legitimately arrested twice?” Alan asked. “What were you arrested for, Rose?”
Being drunk underage and having sex in a car in a public place.
Not that I was going to tell them that.
I coughed into my hand, turning my attention to my folder. “Can we please get back to the meeting? If not, I’ll be forced to take the gin until you behave yourselves.”
Colin cleared his throat. “All right, let’s behave. We know she will.”
“Only because she took it home last time,” Paula grumbled.
“And it was delicious, thank you for asking,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Now, let’s discuss the naked calendar.”
George grinned. “My schlongs are ready for you, Rose.”
“You’re better off saving your marrows for Susan, George.” I peered over at him. “And please, please stop calling them schlongs.”
George did not stop calling his marrows schlongs.
For the entire rest of the meeting.
I could not express how tiring it was to keep these people in line. I wasn’t even the craziest person there, and that was saying something, given my track record.
Honestly, sometimes I felt like their mother. Given that I could be the grandchild of at least four or five of them, it was a bit on the icky side. Then again, my grandmother had once told me that the elderly often reverted to toddler mentality and used it as an excuse to get away with murder, so perhaps I shouldn’t have been as surprised as I was, given their general personalities.
It was also overwhelming. Any one of the other committee members was far more qualified to be the chair than I was, yet they’d all voted me in when the temporary chair had retired.
Not that it mattered who was in charge if the allotments were going to be shut down.
Now, that was my biggest problem, not George’s use of casual sexual innuendos for vegetables.
Namely, I needed to meet with the new Duke of Hanbury. There really were few things I wanted to do less than lay my eyes on his stupid handsome face, but I had no other choice.
I had to meet him to clear this up.
I’d been too pissed off when he’d handed me the closure notice to hold anything resembling a civil conversation with him, but I was smart enough to know that I needed to find out where we stood before speaking with him.
It was easier if I could justify my rage.
Otherwise, I was just a crazy, angry woman.
It was more acceptable to society to be a justified crazy, angry woman.
Not that I gave two hoots about what society thought of me, but it was nice to give off that opinion every now and then.
It confused people when I was reasonable, after all.
I tapped my fingers against my steering wheel and stared at my phone screen. I didn’t have a direct contact number for him, and that was both very pleasing and very irritating in my eyes.
Pleasing because I didn’t actually want his phone number—for more than one reason—and annoying because it meant I had to go through God only knew how many people to get hold of him.
If there was anything I wanted less than Oliver de Havilland’s personal phone number, it was having to jump through hoops to speak to him.
Such was the conundrum of my life.
Did I get the phone number of the person I’d hoped to never see again? Or did I force myself to go through hell every time I needed him for something?
Either way, I was sure to suffer.
Ugh.
Why had I let my inner slut take over that night?