At least the Ice King appeared to be melting a bit more. I had to admit he was very attractive.

I reminded myself why we were sitting in Scoops on a dank November day and returned my attention to Lily’s letter. Something told me Flynn Talbot wasn’t as cool and detached as he pretended to be. Despite him glossing over my question, I still believed he had experienced a prick of conscience and that was one of the reasons why he had decided to talk to me. “She needs to move on and move away from Merry Wood.”

Moving on. As if it were that simple, I reminded myself with a small inner smile.

Flynn studied me. “And you’re sure that Merry Wood hasn’t been sold? There hasn’t been some sort of mistake? My parents were told it had been.”

“I’m sure. I checked with the council and they confirmed that the property is still owned by a Mr & Mrs Flynn Talbot.”

Flynn digested this, a shocked look stealing across his features again. He dragged a hand through his curls. “I can’t believe my grandparents’ house is still sitting there like that after all these years.” A concoction of thoughts drifted through his light eyes. “Even though it pains me to say so, I think it’s time I made contact with the old man to find out what the hell has been going on.”

He rose up and out of his café chair, insisted on paying, and then vanished to the sound of the gulls swooping over the waves.

Chapter Twenty-Three

“The grumpy old sod wouldn’t speak to me,” Flynn revealed down the line to me later that day. “He asked his housekeeper to tell me he was busy finishing off his latest piece of work and was indisposed.”

“Piece of work?”

“He’s an artist,” he clarified. “A painter. I think his ego ballooned after all the attention he began receiving after he started this Chandler—” Flynn stopped, his voice withering. “Goddam it!”

I drew myself up at the end of the line. I blinked several times. I was certain I had misheard him at first. “Sorry. Did you just say Chandler?”

Flynn fell silent, irritated with himself.

“Let me get this straight,” I managed, my heart beginning to gallop. “Are you saying that your grandfather is actually Chandler, the street artist?”

Flynn made a frustrated grunt into my ear.

Excitement flared inside me. “Are you being serious? The Chandler is in fact your grandfather?”

I could hear Flynn was struggling to decide whether to confirm, deny, or just gloss over what he had said. There was a strangulated groan. “Me and my bloody big mouth!” He let out an agonised sigh. “Yes, he is Chandler, but that is strictly off the record, ok?”

“Wow,” I squeaked, my thoughts racing. Oh my God! I couldn’t process this. I pulled myself together. “Yes, of course you can trust me.”