“I’m early for important things,” I called back, grinning despite myself.
“Since when is dinner with your grandmother important?” She appeared at the top of the stairs, still fastening an earring. At eighty-two, Vivian Burkhardt was five-foot-two of pure elegance and wit. Her silver hair was styled in a sleek bob, and she wore a bright blue cashmere sweater that I remembered costing a pretty penny. Not that she cared about the price anymore. Gram wore what she liked, cost be damned.
“It’s always important,” I replied, climbing the stairs to kiss her cheek. “But especially when you’re meeting my wedding planner and will no doubt spend the evening trying to embarrass me.”
“Me? Embarrass you?” She patted my cheek a bit harder than necessary. “That would require me to tell stories about how you used to take off all your clothes and run through the garden sprinklers at age four, penis flapping in the breeze, screaming ‘I’m a helicopter!’” The grin on her face was pure evil. “I’d never embarrass you.”
“And yet, somehow you just did.” I sighed. “Please try to remember that Ms. Marcel is a professional, here in a professional capacity, and doesn’t need to hear about my naked childhood exploits.”
“Professional, hmm?” Gram adjusted my tie. “Is that why you’re wearing the tie I gave you for Christmas and have changed your aftershave to the one that doesn’t smell like, what did I call it? ‘Nightclub desperation’?”
“I’m not—” I started, then caught myself. Arguing with her was like trying to negotiate with a particularly clever cat. “I’m going to check on dinner.”
Her laugh followed me down the stairs. “The chicken’s in the oven. I told the cook to leave early for the night off so you could show off your domesticity to your not-bride.”
Of course she had. Because Gram never missed an opportunity to meddle in my life.
In the kitchen, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. The roast chicken, my specialty, was already perfuming the air with rosemary and lemon. I began prepping the sides, chopping vegetables with perhaps more concentration than necessary.
Why was I so nervous? It was just Anica. The same Anica who’d threatened me with PowerPoint-related torture, who’dpinned pictures of potential brides to her wall like a serial killer, who’d looked at me in that wedding dress and...
No. Not thinking about the dress. Not thinking about her in the dress. Not thinking about how the silk had clung to her curves or how for a moment I’d forgotten how to breathe. Definitely not thinking about that.
I was not nervous because of my wedding planner. I was nervous because Gram had a gift for saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time.
The doorbell rang precisely at five o’clock, and I nearly sliced my finger off with the knife I was using to julienne carrots.
“I’ll get it!” Gram called from the living room. “You keep playing with your vegetables!”
“Just let Norbert. Don’t—” I began, but she was already at the door.
I wiped my hands on a dish towel and hurried after her, but it was too late. Gram had the door open and was already pulling Anica into a hug like they were long-lost friends rather than complete strangers.
“You must be the wedding planner,” Gram said, holding Anica at arm’s length to examine her. “My grandson didn’t mention you were so lovely. Though I suppose that was strategic. If he’d told me how beautiful you were, I’d have been even more suspicious about this ‘professional relationship’ nonsense.”
“Gram,” I cleared my throat, appearing behind her. “Let the poor woman breathe. And maybe save the inappropriate comments until she’s at least inside the house with a glass of something stronger than wine.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Gram asked innocently.
Anica looked slightly stunned by the greeting, but recovered quickly. She wore a simple blue dress that somehow managed to be both appropriate for Sunday dinner and completely distracting. Her hair was down for once, falling in soft wavespast her shoulders, and I had the sudden, inexplicable urge to run my fingers through it. For experimental purposes only, of course. To determine if it was as soft as it looked.
“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Burkhardt,” Anica said, offering a small bouquet I hadn’t noticed until now. “Thank you for inviting me.”
“It’s Vivian or Gram, dear. Mrs. Burkhardt was my monster-in-law.” Gram accepted the flowers with a predatory smile. “These are lovely. Come in, come in. You’re right on time, unlike my grandson who’s either forty-five minutes early or an hour late, with no in-between.”
“I’ve never once seen this man be that early. But late? That does seem to be the recurring pattern,” Anica agreed, shooting me a look as she stepped inside. “Though, I suppose, lately he’s been surprisingly punctual. I’m still deciding if it’s character growth or if he’s been replaced by a very convincing doppelgänger.”
“Definitely the doppelgänger theory,” I said, closing the door behind her. “The real Callan Burkhardt is tied up in a closet somewhere. I’m actually his evil twin, but I’m much better with scheduling.”
“The evil twin would be an improvement,” Gram stage-whispered to Anica. “At least he might call more often.”
“I called you yesterday,” I protested. “And this morning.”
“Well, who else am I supposed to talk to? Norbert has a life. You don’t,” Gram countered, linking her arm through Anica’s as if they were already co-conspirators in the ‘Torment Callan Club.’
“I have a life. A very busy one,” I said, fully aware of how weak the excuse sounded. “Running multiple multi-million dollar companies takes time.”
“Yes, terribly difficult, having all those minions to do your bidding,” Gram replied with a dismissive wave. “I’m sureAlexander the Great said the same thing about conquering Persia.”
