Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80035 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 400(@200wpm)___ 320(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
“I didn’t sleep on a sofa,” I said, sipping my lukewarm coffee.
“Ah-ha! Now we’re cooking with gasoline. Who’s the new girl? Is it Penny’s niece? The one with the small tits and a big smile?”
I choked on my coffee. “Jesus, Grams. No, I’m not seeing anyone else.”
“Hmph. Well…then where were you? Don’t spin a yarn, kiddo. I was listening at the screen door like a proper snoop when you were talking to Mary-Kate. I heard all the good parts. She left early last night and you stayed, but you weren’t with the boys.”
“How do you know that?”
“I ran into Niall at the bakery this morning and he told me you had a few too many, but not to worry ’cause Mary-Kate took good care of you.” She took another drag, arching one brow as she stamped out her cigarette. “So…what’s the deal? You can tell me anything. I’ll confuse it with another story by tomorrow anyway.”
Not true at all. She was sharp as fuck.
“I don’t want to tell you. It’s embarrassing,” I admitted.
“Oh! That’s my favorite kind of story. Feel free to embellish. Your idea of embarrassing is cute.”
I barked a laugh. “Okay, I recognized the guy who runs the mill from Denver. We were talking outside but I was drunk and thirsty and I didn’t want to go back to the bar, so I had water in his hotel room…and passed out.”
Grams frowned. “You passed out?”
“Yeah, I told you, it’s embarrassing. One minute, I was fine and the next…not so much.”
“That’s not like you at all. I saw a Dateline episode about scumbags putting drugs in drinks. They get you at your most vulnerable, take photos, and bribe you to keep them out of social media. And does this so-and-so know you play professional hockey?”
“Sure, but—”
She gasped theatrically. “Who is this fucker? Let’s get him. I’ll call Bud. We’ll get the police to swarm his room and—”
“Whoa! Hold up. He didn’t do anything wrong, Grams. That was me.”
“Oh. Did he take pictures?” she asked, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“No.” To be determined, I amended to myself.
“Hmm. Well, what the hell is wrong with you?” Grams stood abruptly and swatted me upside the head.
“Ow.”
“Drinking too much, passing out, crawling home like a zombie…you’re old enough to know better than to give the wheel to Jim Beam or Johnnie Walker, for fuck’s sake.”
“It was Jose Cuervo.”
“Jose’s a real schmeckle too. The world is full of ’em. You gotta be on your guard. I can’t do it for you. Believe it or not, I’m not going to be around forever. I’m on what you call borrowed time, Den. Don’t make me blow it worrying about you landing on the front page of the Forest Tribune in your damn birthday suit.”
“I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t publish a naked pic in the Tribune,” I said gently, patting the chair she’d abandoned in her tirade. “And don’t start up with the borrowed time stuff. You’re going to live forever. You’re too mean to die, remember?”
I added that last line ’cause it always made her smile and I really didn’t want to think deep, scary thoughts involving a world without Annie Mellon. Not now.
Grams toddled over and took her seat, surprising me when she grasped my wrist in a firm grip. “I got ’em fooled, Den. I’m not as mean as I used to be. I had my hand raised in case God was looking for any volunteers to cut the line to the pearly gates…until you came along and gave me a reason to stick it out. I intend to be here for as long as possible just to make sure you end up okay. Either that or I will haunt your ass from here to eternity, so work with me and don’t do anything stupid. For my sake…please.”
Okay, I think that was a guilt trip, but don’t quote me. I wasn’t in the best mental shape.
“I was a little stupid last night, but it’s nothing to worry about.”
She rolled her eyes. “Tell that to my ulcer, my arthritis, my bursitis, and my aching back.”
I hid an indulgent grin, relieved she’d moved on to her cranky old lady routine. It was better than dwelling over the ugly facts of life.
I wanted to preserve this moment in bubble wrap and revisit it again in ten years, twenty years, thirty years—minus the hangover. The smell of coffee, cigarette smoke, and Dior perfume, the hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the ancient cuckoo clock over the kitchen sink. I wanted to memorize every wrinkle in my grandmother’s face…the crow’s feet she claimed she’d had since she was twenty-one, the laugh lines around her mouth, and the loose skin under her chin. I wanted to remember her smoke-tinged voice and the girlish tone she took when she spoke of my grandfather.