“Did it work?”
“Let’s just say the city of Newark is still finding random doves with tiny sequined vests,” I replied. “Your grandmother can’t be worse than that.”
“Vivian Burkhardt makes those women look like amateurs,” he warned. “Consider yourself warned. She once made the CEO of Goldman Sachs cry during a charity auction. With just her eyebrows.”
“Impressive,” I admitted. “But I have a secret weapon.”
“Which is?”
“I plan weddings for a living. I’m professionally trained to handle unreasonable expectations and emotional manipulation. It’s basically my superpower.”
“Your funeral,” he said cheerfully. “Wear something nice. She judges outfits more harshly than Tim Gunn on a bad day.”
Eloise returned with the final cake samples, but I was no longer thinking about frosting ratios and flavor profiles. I was wondering what exactly I’d gotten myself into by agreeing to Sunday dinner with Callan’s grandmother.
The one person, apparently, who could make the unflappable Callan Burkhardt flap.
“We should try the chocolate ganache last,” Callan suggested, returning to cake mode as if the grandmother invitation had never happened. “It’s the richest.”
“Save the best for last?” I asked, grateful for the change of subject.
“Always,” he replied.
“In that case,” I said, picking up my fork, “I better pace myself. Too much richness at once can be overwhelming.”
“Or exactly what you need,” he countered, his eyes meeting mine.
CHAPTER 8
It’s All About The Wrist Action
CALLAN
“Sir, I’ve taken the liberty of hiding the merman bathtub photo,” Norbert announced as I entered my grandmother’s house, causing me to nearly drop the bottle of wine I was carrying. “However, I should warn you that Madam has made copies. Several copies. One of which is now her phone background.”
“Of course she has,” I sighed, handing my coat to the butler. “Any chance of a convenient house fire before Ms. Marcel arrives?”
“I’m afraid arson would violate both my contract and several state laws,” Norbert replied without missing a beat. “Though I did attempt to persuade Madam that the naked sprinkler photos were perhaps too intimate for dinner conversation.”
“And?”
“She suggested I focus on polishing the silver instead of her conversational choices.” Norbert’s expression remained perfectly neutral, but I swore I detected a hint of sympathy in his eyes. “The chicken is roasting to your preferences. Madam is upstairs applying what she referred to as her ‘matchmaking lipstick.’”
“Her what?”
“I didn’t inquire further, sir. There are some questions even I know better than to ask.”
I’d arrived at my grandmother’s house forty-five minutes early, which was rare.
“Madam is still getting ready,” Norbert observed as he accepted the wine.
“I thought I’d help with dinner,” I said, heading toward the kitchen.
Norbert’s eyebrow lifted approximately two millimeters, which in Norbert-speak was the equivalent of falling to the floor in shock. “Indeed, sir. The kitchen is, as always, where you last left it.”
I headed straight for the kitchen, loosening my tie as I walked. The house was exactly as it had always been; immaculate, elegant, with just enough warmth to stop it feeling like a museum. Photographs of me at various ages lined the hallway, a visual timeline of my evolution from skinny kid with too-big glasses to... well, me.
“Callan Anthony Burkhardt, is that you arriving before the night has actually started?” My grandmother’s voice called from upstairs. “Should I check the sky for flying pigs? Or perhaps call my doctor to ensure I haven’t died and gone to an alternate dimension?”
