Beauty and the Black Sheep. Jessica Bird
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She looked down at her bare ring finger. If she kept up the teenage fantasy, she knew she was on the winding trail to spinsterhood. She’d probably end up weird Auntie Joy who’d never married and smelled like mothballs and denatured perfume.
Now there was a picture.
If they could only leave White Caps and move somewhere with more people her own age, she might be able to get Gray Bennett off her mind. Maybe it wasn’t his fantastic good looks or his dark, sexy voice or those pale blue eyes.
Maybe it was just a lack of viable alternatives.
“Did you know that my fourth great-grandfather built that gazebo?” Grand-Em inquired. She wasn’t looking for an answer. It was an invitation for a prompting.
“Really. Tell me about it,” Joy murmured, putting her hand down in her lap.
“It was in 1849. There had been a terrible winter that year and the old one had collapsed because of the snow. Great Grand Pa-Pa declared the structure unsafe….”
Grand-Em spoke with a proper intonation, her words carefully considered as if they were a gift to the listener and therefore must be chosen with respect and affection. And Joy usually found them fascinating. She loved listening to the old stories, particularly about the balls and the clothes.
But not today.
After nearly a decade of pining for a man she couldn’t have, Joy was struck with how pathetic her attraction to Gray was. Pinning hopeless dreams on a fantasy was like feeding yourself with chocolate. A great short-term buzz with no lasting value.
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