Anica pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh. I watched her take in the house, curious about her reaction. The Burkhardt mansion wasn’t flashy by billionaire standards. No gold toilets or tiger pits. But it was undeniably elegant and historic. It was an old money house with new money living in it.
“Your home is beautiful,” she said to Gram, her gaze lingering on a particularly hideous vase that some art connoisseur had convinced Gram to buy once my first app sold. Anica’s lips twitched, and I knew she was too polite to comment on its resemblance to a diseased kidney.
“It’s excessive and drafty,” Gram replied. “But I’ve lived here too long to bother moving. The bathrooms alone are bigger than the apartment Callan’s grandfather and I started out in. Would you like a tour while Callan fusses over dinner?”
“I’ll make sure to slip a chicken bone on your plate if you’re not careful,” I muttered, glaring at the woman who’d all but raised me.
“He’s making his famous roast chicken. He only does that when he’s trying to impress someone. Last time was when the Prince of Monaco came to dinner, and before that was that lovely supermodel. What was her name, darling? The one with the legs up to her neck and the tits the size of cantaloupes?”
“Gram!” I snapped, my gaze darting to Anica, whose eyes had widened to saucers. “I am not—” I began, then stopped and took a deep breath. “The chicken is already in the oven. Gram’s cook started it and I’m just making sure it’s cooked all the way.”
“Sure. I didn’t make sure the cook followed your explicit instructions, delivered via three separate text messages,” Gram countered. “Including one about the precise temperature and another about the lemon-to-rosemary ratio.”
Anica’s lips curved into a smile. “So the baking expertise extends to roast chicken as well?”
“I’m a man of many talents,” I said, winking at her. “Baking, roasting, grilling. I’ve been known to sauté once in a while. Really, I’m basically one cooking show away from being the next Gordon Ramsay, but with better hair and fewer anger management issues.”
“And more modesty, clearly,” Anica replied raising an eyebrow.
“Modesty is overrated,” I shrugged. “Especially when you’re as good as I am. At cooking,” I added hastily when Gram raised an eyebrow. “I meant cooking.”
“Of course you did, dear,” Gram patted my arm. “Cal could have been a chef if he hadn’t been so determined to make all that money,” she said to Anica. “Come, I’ll show you around while he finishes in the kitchen.”
I watched them walk away, Gram already launching into what was undoubtedly the first of many embarrassing stories. I was so screwed.
Retreating to the kitchen, I checked the chicken. It was perfect, because I’m not an amateur. I finished the sides and poured myself a generous scotch. Gram had already made it clear that I would need help to get through the evening.
When I returned to the living room twenty minutes later, I found Anica and Gram sitting on the sofa, heads bent over what appeared to be a photo album.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
“—and this is him at his eighth-grade science fair,” Gram was saying. “He built a program that could predict stock market patterns. The teachers thought he’d bought it until he explained the algorithm.”
“That’s impressive,” Anica said, grinning. “Did it work?”
“Well enough that I turned it into my first app at sixteen,” I said, making my presence known. “Though I believe I was wearing significantly more flattering pants at the time.”
“I don’t know,” Anica mused, studying the photo. “The high-waters have a certain charm. Very ‘floods are coming but I’m going to save the economy first.’”
“They were not high-waters,” I protested. “I was growing too fast for Gram to keep up with pants that fit.”
“He was a weed,” Gram agreed. “All limbs and no coordination. He once tripped over his own feet and knocked over an entire display of peanuts at the store.”
“I was twelve!”
“Thirteen,” Gram corrected, ignoring my protest. “And it wasn’t the first time.”
Anica laughed. “I’m having trouble picturing Callan as anything but perfectly composed.”
“Oh, he cultivated that later,” Gram waved dismissively. “After the Great Science Camp Disaster.”
“We don’t need to discuss?—”
“He tried to impress a girl by creating a small controlled explosion,” Gram continued without mercy. “Set his eyebrows on fire and singed off half his hair. Had to wear a baseball cap for the rest of the summer.”
