“He does?” Doubt weighted my voice. “Are you sure you’re not exaggerating?”

Snorted laughter crinkled her cheeks until her eyes vanished. “It’s his idea.” She crossed a finger over her heart. “I swear.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Did he have this brilliant idea before or after I told you I was going to Kermit?”

She mimed zipping her lips.

A sigh escaped me. “That’s what I thought.”

Chapter 8

Graeson arrived on my doorstep wearing a faded green button-down shirt, which still managed to complement his eyes, tucked into jeans with a crease in them. Even his scuffed boots had been dusted clean. His hair, always falling forward into his face, was slicked back and neat as a pin.

Either he was trying to impress me—mission accomplished—or Imogen had dressed him like a doll in a nice shirt of his she’d probably hung on to since high school, and pants she’d starched and ironed on his way out of her bed—I mean, house.

One person wasn’t conflicted about his sudden appearance. Aunt Dot was a blur as she streaked past me then tackled him with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Her giddy smile made my stomach curl in on itself. Isaac was right. Grandpuppies were dancing in baby pink and blue clouds over her head while she drank in the sight of Graeson.

“You must be Cord.” She patted his cheek. “You’re a pretty thing, I’ll give you that. No wonder you turned my little pumpkin’s head.” She stepped back to admire all six feet plus of him. “You clean up nice too.” Laser eyes swiped over me. “Why didn’t you dress up, hon?” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Playing hard to get?”

I slapped a palm over my face, but my neck broiled with a flush. “I didn’t realize this was a dress up kind of occasion.”

Or that it was an occasion at all. I thought we were meeting to discuss my findings and get to the bottom of this selection nonsense.

The fact he was putting so much effort into looking the part of a man calling on a date twisted my heart. I couldn’t help thinking how nice it must be to greet a handsome man who looked forward to spending an evening with you. Maybe, once Charybdis was behind me and Harlow was safe, I could dip my toe back in the Gemini dating pool, the analogy as close to water as I ever wanted to get outside of a shower stall.

“It’s my fault, Aunt Dot,” Graeson rumbled. “Can I call you Aunt Dot, or would you prefer Ms. Cahill?”

“Oh, you.” She swatted his chest playfully. “You can call me anything you want, sweetie. I’m not picky.”