After breakfast, Joanne sifted through her luggage—three whole bags worth—and realized with growing dismay that…
She had nothing to wear for Wimbledon.
"This dress won't count as smart formal, will it?" she asked, holding up a pale pink one. She frowned at it like it had personally betrayed her. "Too soft."
Then she pulled out a bold green number. "And this one is too bright. I'll blind people under the sun."
Jeffrey burst into laughter, doubling over as if her fashion crisis was the best thing he'd heard all day. "Are we going to Wimbledon or the Met Gala?" he teased, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
"You don't have a suit either," she pointed out flatly.
He just shrugged like it didn't concern him at all. "Your honorary grandpa sorted me out. I've been suited by royalty."
She rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't get stuck. Her honorary grandfather—his actual grandfather. How long was he going to keep up this charade?
