Unraveled by Him Read Online Free Page B

Grandpa back, I start by asking him the obvious question: “Didn’t you meet Robert Hartwell when you read Lady Georgiana’s stars, Grandpa?”
    “Hartwell never knew of my existence, Miranda. Georgiana and I always met in secret, because she was fully aware that he would despise her for consulting an astrologer,” he says.
    “What a tyrant!”
    “An apt characterization, Miranda. However, I have given your meeting with the great and powerful Mr. Hartwell a considerable amount of thought.”
    “Thank you, Grandpa,” I say, and mean it.
    “I hope you will not think me self-serving, Miranda, but it has occurred to me that—provided you leave Lady Georgiana out of the equation and never mention my past professional relationship with her to Robert Hartwell—down the line in your acquaintance, he may perhaps be amenable to publishing Star Signs . And you of all people know exactly how much that would mean to me.”
    I certainly do. Star Signs , the astrology book I ghosted a few years back as a favor for Grandpa, was really close to his heart. But despite investing all his hopes in it, he never managed to get it published. I know that it would mean the world to him, both emotionally and financially, since he lost all his money in the Wall Street crash, if Robert Hartwell agreed to publish it.
    “Your silence tells me that being the good-hearted girl that you have always been, you have already come up with the identical idea, Miranda, and I intend to reward you for your thoughtfulness,” Grandpa says.
    “Grandpa, I—”
    “Not another word, Miranda. I intend to meet you in Manhattan in three hours’ time. And then I plan to escort you to your favorite vintage store and buy you a designer outfit to wear to your encounter with the formidable Mr. Hartwell, after which I shall drive you out to Hartwell Castle myself. And I categorically refuse to take no for an answer.”

    Five hours later and I’m on the LIE, risking life and limb.
    “You look lovely in the Chanel, Miranda,” Grandpa says, then swerves, attempts to pass a truck, and narrowly misses slamming into it.
    The only way to get through this, Miranda, is to keep your eyes shut till we get there.
    As I do, the image of Robert Hartwell swims through my mind: tall, dark, handsome, exuding power, as if he were the ruler of some far-off country. Then the image of Lady Georgiana flickers in my mind, blonde, beautiful, and willowy, a Greek goddess incarnate.
    Bad luck that I’m small like my father, not tall like my mother . . .
    I flash to long ago, when she was a catwalk model in Paris. The best time of her life, she always says. When I was very young she spent hour after hour poring over Vogue with me, teaching me to identify and appreciate the creations of the world’s foremost fashion designers. Not that I could ever afford to buy any of their clothes, but my knowledge of high fashion served me well when I became a ghostwriter—complimenting a star on her vintage Balenciaga was always the fastest way for me to bond with her and win her trust.
    “Can’t wait to tell Mom you blew your last dime on buying me a vintage Chanel suit, Grandpa,” I say, smoothing down the navy blue skirt, which might be the last word in French chic, but which, I’m forced to admit, makes me look more prim schoolteacher than Greek goddess.
    “Call it an investment, Miranda! You can’t meet the widower of one of the ten best-dressed women of all time without looking the epitome of a best-selling author. And it’s the least I can do for you when you’re braving the dragon in his den and also trying to get him to publish my book!” Grandpa says.
    “I’ll give it my best shot, Grandpa, I really will. You sure deserve it,” I say, and mean it. He was always a second and better father to me than my own; dried my eyes when my first date stood me up and told me that it was my date’s loss, not mine; encouraged me to become a writer, and has never in my entire life let me