“No, you’re not. Without me, you’d probably be wearing mismatched socks and that horrible tie your college roommate got you as a joke.” Erika stepped into the room, gently pushing my hands aside to take over the tie-knotting process. “The blue one is perfect. It brings out your eyes and complements your suit without being flashy. Trust me.”
I sighed, relenting. “Since when do I care about being flashy? Flash is practically my middle name. Callan ‘Flash’ Burkhardt.”
“No, it’s not. And you’re nervous because this isn’t just any date. This is the woman you’ve been talking about non-stop for weeks.”
“I don’t talk about her non-stop. You haven’t even been here. What do you know?”
“Yesterday you spent thirty minutes telling me about what her hair smells like.’”
“I was making fun of her!”
“You were practically writing sonnets about it.” Erika finished with my tie and stepped back to assess her work. “Perfect. Now, are you going to call your grandmother for the pep talk I know you want, or should I dial her for you?”
“How did you?—”
“Please. You call her before every major decision or event. It’s sweet, actually. One of the few genuinely endearing things about you, along with your secret donations to animal shelters and the fact that you cry during Pixar movies.”
“Just for that, I’m cutting your Christmas bonus,” I grumbled, but I was already reaching for my phone.
Erika smirked. “No, you’re not. You already approved it. In writing. I have copies. In three different secure locations. Plus I’ve told my mother about it, and she’s already planned hercruise. You don’t want to disappoint my mother, Mr. Burkhardt. She’s still recovering from her non-stroke stroke.”
“Get out before I make Gram rate your outfit.”
As soon as she left, I dialed Gram’s number. She answered on the second ring.
“If you’re calling to cancel Sunday dinner again, I’m writing you out of my will and leaving everything to that cat who keeps breaking into my garden to shit in my petunias.”
“Hello to you too, Gram. And no, I’m not canceling. I’m calling about... something else.”
“The gala with Anica,” she said immediately.
“How did you—never mind. Yes. The gala. With Anica.”
“You’re nervous,” she observed. “That’s new.”
“I’m not nervous,” I lied. “I’m just–“
“Callan Anthony Burkhardt, I’ve known you since you were an overcooked potato in a hospital blanket. Don’t try to fool me. You get the same squeaky voice you had when you asked Lia Jennins to the eighth-grade dance and she said yes, then you threw up in the ficus plant.”
I sighed, sinking onto the edge of my bed. “Fine. I’m nervous. I don’t get nervous. Not about women. Not about anything. But she’s different, Gram. She sees through all the noise and she doesn’t care about the money at all. She treats me like I’m just a guy, not a bank account with legs.”
“That’s because you are just a guy,” Gram said simply. “A very lucky, very privileged guy with more money than sense sometimes, but still just a man. And from what I’ve seen—which, may I remind you, was quite a bit more than I anticipated during our last video call—she likes that man.”
“She ran out of my penthouse.”
“After I caught you two half-undressed on the couch like horny ruffians. Can you blame her? The poor girl was mortified.I saw more of her décolletage than her own doctor probably has.”
“She hasn’t mentioned it since. The kiss, I mean.”
“Have you two talked?”
“Well... no.”
“Men,” Gram sighed. “You need to talk to her, Cal. Tell her how you feel.”
“I don’t know how I feel,” I admitted. “I just know I want to see her again. I want to spend time with her. I want to kiss her again. A lot. Possibly for hours. Maybe days. In multiple positions and locations.”
“Thank you, grandson. That was exactly what I wanted to talk about. Please bury me with white orchids.”
