Grease Babe by Elle Aycart
Series: The OGs #2
Publication date: September 15th, 2020
Synopsis:
Alden is not only home to the gorgeous Bowen brothers, but also to the OGs, three hilarious octogenarian grandmas who believe age is nothing but a number. After their success helping on grandchild find love, they've decided to move on to the next. Nothing will stop them. Not even jail...
Rachel's upbringing was rough, but at 34, she loves the life she's built for herself. She adores her grandmother, Alden, and her job as a mechanic. Now, if her grandma and her friends would just stop getting into trouble, everything would be perfect. She's doing her best to keep them on the straight and narrow, but she spends more time arguing with the sheriff than working in her garage. Case in point the OGs' latest stunt, which got all of them, Rachel included, sentenced to community service. So now she has to keep an eye on the crazy grannies and on the street teenage thugs she's been court-ordered to teach mechanics to.
And all thanks to the sheriff and that huge, unbendable stick up his ass.
Adrian Skehan, a top-notch detective in Boston, enjoyed putting dangerous criminals and drug kingpins behind bars. He loved his fast-paced, glamorous city life, but after his estranged grandfather had a major stroke, he moved to Alden, became the sheriff and now he spends his days chasing after senior citizens and dealing with the OGs--the bane of his existence--and Rachel, their obnoxious defender.
Terrific career move, really. Way to screw up his life. And his mental wellbeing.
As if life wasn't hard enough, now the OGs have decided to work on their bucket list... meaning the granddaughter and the sheriff must join forces to survive the mayhem.
He likes his women... ivory-tower delicate. Not loud, highly opinionated and smelling of gasoline.
She likes her men... easy-going. Not arrogant know-it-alls and sticklers for rules.
Keeping these two together is a recipe for disaster. Too bad the OGs don't see it that way.
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Excerpt
"Chief, we have a situation," came over the radio.
"Code?" Adrian Skehan, Alden's sheriff, asked, tapping on the steering wheel impatiently.
"Unclear. Old McPherson is seeing blinking lights in the wilderness," Holly, the sheriff's office dispatcher, explained. "Couldn't find a code for that."
Of course not.
"Stationary or moving?" he asked, without eve flinching.
That was something he would have never said in his previous life as a Boston police detective.
A scoff. "Stationary, boss. Stationary. We have a code for moving lights, don't you remember?"
True. They came up with it after Mrs. Hayden got into documentaries about extraterrestrial life and believed her lapses in memory had nothing to do with her fondness for cherry liqueur but that she was actually being kidnapped by aliens.
Kids playing with a laser pointer hadn't helped at all.
CIA was the code. Cherry Induced Abduction.
How he ended up in such a crazy town, where law enforcement needed a special code list, he had no clue.
Well, he did. He just didn't want to think about it.
"He said it's coming from the old B&B. Sparkly, white-bluish lights."
"On my way."
Probably teenagers messing around.
Alden's B&B had been closed for many years, but now that it had a new owner, it was being renovated and reopening in a couple of months.
He parked the patrol car in front of the building and walked toward the swimming pool area, where, as reported, a bluish flickering light was coming from. As he approached, he heard the chatter, the clicking of glasses, and someone yelling LOLOOO.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Dispatcher had been wrong; they did have a code for this: OG WMD. Original Grandmas Weapons of Mass Destruction. In his previous life, he'd been chasing terrorists and narcos. Now? Now he chased senior citizens. And more often than not, they managed to escape him. Not running, though, simply smiling and patting him on his arm as they faked ignorance.
The bane of his existence, Rebecca, Wilma and Greta were in the swimming pool, on the jacuzzi side, wearing very indiscreet flowery bathing caps and drinking what looked like champagne. They'd turned the lights on the bubbles too. Music played from somewhere--one of the grannies' cells, probably.
Man, he thought that once these bunch got Mike, Rebecca's grandson, and Kyra, his first love, hooked up, they would have calmed down, but no.
The second they saw him, the grannies glanced at one another, each drawing in a big breath, and with cheeks full of air, dove into the water, looking like crazed chipmunks.
For the love of God.
He crossed his arms and stood by the pool, waiting for them to come up for air.
It took a while before those damn bathing caps resurfaced. He had to give it to them; for eighty-year-olds, they had great pulmonary capacity.
"Well?" he asked with a glare, his voice as stern as he could muster.
Silence. Then Wilma, the one with the flashy red cap, turned to her partners in crime. "Didn't work, girls. He's still here."
"Code?" Adrian Skehan, Alden's sheriff, asked, tapping on the steering wheel impatiently.
"Unclear. Old McPherson is seeing blinking lights in the wilderness," Holly, the sheriff's office dispatcher, explained. "Couldn't find a code for that."
Of course not.
"Stationary or moving?" he asked, without eve flinching.
That was something he would have never said in his previous life as a Boston police detective.
A scoff. "Stationary, boss. Stationary. We have a code for moving lights, don't you remember?"
True. They came up with it after Mrs. Hayden got into documentaries about extraterrestrial life and believed her lapses in memory had nothing to do with her fondness for cherry liqueur but that she was actually being kidnapped by aliens.
Kids playing with a laser pointer hadn't helped at all.
CIA was the code. Cherry Induced Abduction.
How he ended up in such a crazy town, where law enforcement needed a special code list, he had no clue.
Well, he did. He just didn't want to think about it.
"He said it's coming from the old B&B. Sparkly, white-bluish lights."
"On my way."
Probably teenagers messing around.
Alden's B&B had been closed for many years, but now that it had a new owner, it was being renovated and reopening in a couple of months.
He parked the patrol car in front of the building and walked toward the swimming pool area, where, as reported, a bluish flickering light was coming from. As he approached, he heard the chatter, the clicking of glasses, and someone yelling LOLOOO.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Dispatcher had been wrong; they did have a code for this: OG WMD. Original Grandmas Weapons of Mass Destruction. In his previous life, he'd been chasing terrorists and narcos. Now? Now he chased senior citizens. And more often than not, they managed to escape him. Not running, though, simply smiling and patting him on his arm as they faked ignorance.
The bane of his existence, Rebecca, Wilma and Greta were in the swimming pool, on the jacuzzi side, wearing very indiscreet flowery bathing caps and drinking what looked like champagne. They'd turned the lights on the bubbles too. Music played from somewhere--one of the grannies' cells, probably.
Man, he thought that once these bunch got Mike, Rebecca's grandson, and Kyra, his first love, hooked up, they would have calmed down, but no.
The second they saw him, the grannies glanced at one another, each drawing in a big breath, and with cheeks full of air, dove into the water, looking like crazed chipmunks.
For the love of God.
He crossed his arms and stood by the pool, waiting for them to come up for air.
It took a while before those damn bathing caps resurfaced. He had to give it to them; for eighty-year-olds, they had great pulmonary capacity.
"Well?" he asked with a glare, his voice as stern as he could muster.
Silence. Then Wilma, the one with the flashy red cap, turned to her partners in crime. "Didn't work, girls. He's still here."
About the Author:
After a colorful array of jobs all over Europe ranging from translator to chocolatier to travel agent to sushi chef to flight dispatcher, Elle Aycart is certain of one thing and one thing only: aside from writing romances, she has abso-frigging-lutely no clue what she wants to do when she grows up. Not that it stops her from trying all sorts of crazy stuff. While she is probably now thinking of a new profession, her head never stops churning new plots for her romances. She lives currently in Barcelona, Spain, with her husband and two daughters, although who knows, in no time she could be living at the Arctic Circle in Finland, breeding reindeer.
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