“…Gran.”
“Don’t take away my joy in my last stretch of life, dear.”
I snorted. “That stretch of life is longer than your doctor’s list of things you’re not supposed to eat.”
“Excuse me? Why would I listen to that baby-faced moron? What does he know? I made it to eighty-seven just fine without his lists. If tasty food is what kills me, then so be it.”
Gran sniffed, pointedly scooped up more of the mixture and stuffed it in her mouth.
I rolled my eyes in exasperation.
“Why are you baking for Kai, anyway?” She dramatically sank into her chair. “Thought you didn’t like him.”
“I don’t,” I replied immediately.
She raised an eyebrow, and heat rushed to my cheeks.
“I don’t,” I repeated stubbornly, cutting the fruit with unnecessary force.
“Ah yes,” she mused. “The classic ‘I don’t like him but I know his birthday and also his favorite dessert’ situation.”
“He kind of told me it’s his birthday,” I admitted quietly.
“How does one kind of tell you about their birthday?”
I waved a hand impatiently. “He was … talking. And smiling. And being all sweaty with his big dumb muscles and his stupid smile.”
Gran bit back a grin. “So you do like him.”
“I don’t. He’s too … nice.”
“Ah, yes. It’s awful when they’renice.”
I huffed. “He’s invasive.”
“And handsome.”
“Gran.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. If she kept this up, I’d be the one to end up in an early grave.
She shrugged. “Just saying. I’m old, not blind.”
Neither was I, and what was worse, now I knew how he felt.
The heat and weight of his body.
The way he’d breathed against my neck.
The way he’d looked at me as if he wanted to memorize me, burn my image into his brain forever.
And, being the soft-hearted fool I was, I was now making him a fuckingbirthday pavlova. As if this couldn’t get any weirder.
When I looked up again, I found Gran eyeing me thoughtfully; her eyes were as sharp as a fox's.
“Darling,” she said softly, “if someone makes you feel alive … it means something. You can’t live your life for other people. Especially not for me.”
I ducked my head, hiding my expression as I pretended to scrape the bowl.
“It’s just a pavlova,” I muttered defensively.
