How (Not) to Make a Grandchild

By Maryanne Ross

Lilac Loveday is fifty and fabulous. Since her husband died, she has brought up her two children alone and created a thriving landscape design business. But something is missing—Lilac wants a grandchild to cherish! The tricks and traps she sets up for daughter Lily to meet a suitable man backfire and throw Lilac instead—literally—into the arms of construction giant Harris MacAulay.

Lilac soon finds that her daughter is more precious than an imaginary grandchild, and that love and life choose their own ways of surprising us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Feb 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781509235360

Maryanne Ross

Maryanne Ross is totally addicted to reading. She adores writing contemporary and historical romances laced with adventure, sparkle and spice, featuring independent heroines, swoony heroes and satisfying endings. She has a science degree in horticulture, and many of her stories are set in gardens and gorgeous wild landscapes. Her award-winning short stories appear in Romance Writers Australia Little Gems, Award Winning Australian Writing and Sisters in Crime Scarlet Stiletto. The rom-com novella "How (Not) to Make a Grandchild" (TWRP) is currently available from ebook retailers. Maryanne works as a public relations consultant for a major Aboriginal organisation, and prior to that indulged her love of nature while working as a communications advisor with National Parks.

Book preview

Inc.

Long pause while we look at each other, my mind whirling desperately for likely excuses. Kind, I think. He seems kind. Gentle. Large across the shoulders. Strong. But this damsel doesn’t need rescuing. Hasn’t for a good long while now.

I look down at my far-from-elegant tracksuit pants, now spattered in mud from crouching, and old, sport sneakers. I rub my two-days unwashed hair, now crispy with dirt. Two leaves flutter to the ground. Something sticky on my hand—spider web? I flick it urgently and, suppressing the small shriek, try to unobtrusively wipe my hand on my pants.

His eyes travel to my thighs.

Thanks, I say, to get his attention back from my track pants. Thanks for offering to help. I emit a fake laugh. I’m sure my naughty cat has taken himself home now. Pause. Enjoy the rest of your walk.

He reaches out a hand, plucks a small twig from my hair. A little shiver courses through me, no doubt the reaction to the sudden proximity of a strange man.

As I turn to go, I see him staring at the twig in his hand in bemusement. A giggle ripples through me.

Praise for Maryanne Ross

Emotional and adorable. Ross hits all the right notes.

~Bestselling author Ebony McKenna

First published in Be Mine Valentine (Ed: Ebony McKenna) February 2020, which attained a rank of #1 worldwide on Amazon in anthologies.

How (Not) to Make

a Grandchild

by

Maryanne Ross

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

How (Not) to Make a Grandchild

COPYRIGHT © 2021 by Maryanne Ross

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Diana Carlile

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2021

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3536-0

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To Graeme, Brigid, and Patrick

Chapter One

Mew, mew! My kitten-in-danger meow has a definite rasp of arthritic chainsaw. Not quite the cute feline effect I am aiming for.

The thick canopy of leaves makes it difficult to see the path. Suddenly my lovely daughter is framed in a gap, rosy-cheeked and mid-jog. I shift position, and a stick jabs my butt. I manage to turn my startled curse into a strangled Meowww!

Lily zooms past without even turning her head. Her blonde ponytail switches back and forth, and her pert bottom disappears into the distance.

Worse, engrossed in the music pumping through her earbuds, she barely notices the two handsome joggers running past her on the other side of the track.

Can I help you? says a gravelly male voice.

I freeze. Perhaps he’s talking to someone else. If I just stay quiet in this clump of shrubs…

Footsteps approach. Are you stuck?

Oh no, this plan is turning into an even worse disaster. It isn’t meant to be me being rescued, but my daughter.

I crawl backward out of the thicket of wild apple and plum into which I have inserted myself, twigs tangling in my hair and wet patches of mud adhering to my pants in all the wrong places.

A man is standing near the track: a little older than me, weathered, and slightly battered in a charming kind of way. A pair of shrewd blue eyes meets mine.

Red suffuses my cheeks. My heart rate picks up. Ah…I’m looking for my cat, I offer, the desperate note plain in my voice.

What does he or she look like? His voice is polite, pleasant. Perhaps with just the edge of a little laugh in it. He looks around.

Nice, the he or she. Likes animals, I think. Which probably makes it all worse. He might keep trying to help. Ah…it’s okay…he’s probably gone home by himself now.

Are you sure? That blue stare is curious and amused.

Long pause while we look at each other, my mind whirling desperately for likely excuses. Kind, I think. He seems kind. Gentle. Large across the shoulders. Strong. But this damsel doesn’t need rescuing. Hasn’t for a good long while now.

I look down at my far-from-elegant tracksuit pants, now spattered in mud from crouching, and old, sport sneakers. I rub my two-days unwashed hair, now crispy with dirt. Two leaves flutter to the ground. Something sticky on my hand—spider web? I flick it urgently and, suppressing the small shriek, try to unobtrusively wipe my hand on my pants.

His eyes travel to my thighs.

Thanks, I say, to get his attention back from my track pants. Thanks for offering to help. I emit a fake laugh. I’m sure my naughty cat has taken himself home now. Pause. Enjoy the rest of your walk.

He reaches out a hand, plucks a small twig from my hair. A little shiver courses through me, no doubt the reaction to the sudden proximity of a strange man.

As I turn to go, I see him staring at the twig in his hand in bemusement. A giggle ripples through me as I make rapid strides back to the car and home.

Mission Grandchild, first foray: Massive Fail.

****

Mum, but you hate cricket, Lily says. She bends down and looks at me. Yanks my hair a little.

Careful! Don’t get that dark dye everywhere! I bounce on the fitball. Lily and I have found it is the perfect height to sit on while applying color tint to each other’s hair. I’m dark with auburn streaks, and she has blonde highlights in long, light brown, curling hair.

Lily says, You always say it can’t be a sport if commentators have time to talk about what they ate for lunch.

But it’s different in the country, I answer hopefully. "I’ve decided it might be exciting.