“Are you hungry, Miss April? Because I made lunch and it’s a lot of food, even for Jordan.”

“I’m not sixteen anymore. I don’t eat like I used to.”

“Not even my homemade shepherd’s pie?”

Jordan grinned. “Okay, you might have me there. I think I’m drooling.”

“Give me a few minutes. Sit down at the table. And be a gentleman, please, and pull out the chair for Miss April.”

Jordan rolled his eyes and his grandfather scoffed. The older man was adorable, and I giggled as Jordan did exactly as his grandfather asked with a long-suffering sigh. “So your grandpa lives here? Susan said you grew up in San Luis Obispo.”

“I did. My parents are still in SLO. My grandpa had his ministry here until he retired.” He pronounced SLO like “slow”—as many from the area referred to it.

“What a pretty place to live and work. What denomination did he minister for?”

“Methodist. And I swear if you crack any jokes about it, Weiss—” He had a playful smile on his sexy lips.

I kept my face as straight as I could manage. “Does that mean I can’t ask about his beliefs regarding fornication involving pink fuzzy handcuffs? My spiritual education is at stake.”

He only narrowed his eyes, but I could tell that he was trying to keep from laughing.

“It’s all right. You can laugh. You won’t spoil your reputation as Grumpiest Boss on Earth. But don’t think I’m not going to try and get some dirt on you from your grandpa.”

He shook his head. “You won’t get anywhere.”

“Ah, but I am half Jewish. We have our ways of wheedling the truth out of the most unlikely places.” Not that I was in tune with my Jewish half at all. It was pretty much the entirety of what I had in common with that part of my family.

I couldn’t deny the slight twinge I felt when I’d watched him hug his grandpa. Or when I watched other people connect with their family members. I had no real idea how that felt. So I joked about Jewish stereotypes instead and laughed it off, because putting the other person at ease was more important than my own feelings.

I stole a glance at him. Now that his words were in my head, they seemed to color my perception of all my interactions. I took a deep breath and met his gaze. Get out of my head, would you?

Jordan hopped up to help his grandpa bring in the plates and food. He soon reappeared carrying a fragrant casserole dish and placed it on the waiting trivet.

The shepherd’s pie—a casserole of meat, potatoes and cheese—was delicious, and the company, given that his grandpa’s presence had a mellowing effect on Jordan, was pleasant. Reverend Fawkes mentioned that it was an old family recipe, passed down from England. Legend had it that they were descendants of the infamous Guy Fawkes of the Gunpowder Plot. The man who’d tried to blow up Parliament hundreds of years ago.

Jordan rolled his eyes to the sky when his grandfather brought it up.

The Reverend turned to me. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He doesn’t like being reminded that he’s named after him.”

“What?”

Jordan grimaced. “My middle name is Guy. My father’s idea of a sick joke.”

“Don’t they burn Guy Fawkes in effigy in the UK?” I asked, thankful I’d been paying attention during my European studies class.

“Every November fifth,” Reverend Fawkes said. Then he leaned toward me conspiratorially. “It happens to be his birthday.”

I leaned back, laughing, and Jordan’s face clouded. “Okay, you have to admit, having the name Fawkes and being born on November fifth…I can totally see why your dad thought that was a sign.”

Jordan scowled and I remembered Susan’s words. Except the dad. There’s something up with his dad.

That joking reference had brought him some sort of unwanted feeling or memory. I wanted to reach out and touch his arm, but I stopped myself, my hand twitching atop the table.

The Reverend seemed to sense the sudden change in mood. “Let me get the pitcher of iced tea for refills.” He stood and went into the kitchen.

I smiled, trying to cheer him up. “You should have thought twice before bringing me to visit your grandpa. I’ll have all your secrets out of him soon.”

He opened his mouth to reply when the doorbell rang. Jordan’s grandpa called out to ask Jordan to get the door. He slid out of his seat, but before he could get there, the door opened. “Pop, we’re here!” a young lady called.

Jordan froze and they met each other’s gaze. She was about eighteen, tall and willowy with long, light brown hair and a pretty face. Upon seeing Jordan, she shrieked and leapt at him. “What are you doing here? I was wondering whose shiny new car that was!”