What’s she doing here? She’s supposed to be in Greece with her new boyfriend. If this were anybody else, I might assume he dumped her the day before the trip, and she needs moral support. But Athena Grant doesn’t need that kind of feather-unruffling.
I pull on shorts and a T-shirt, then go down to the foyer to open the door. She lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Took you long enough,” she says as she enters. She drags two huge suitcases inside.
“It’s six a.m. What’s going on?” I take her in. She’s in a loose gray tunic, skinny jeans and fashionably scuffed cowboy boots. Huge golden chandelier earrings hang from her ears, and her strawberry-blonde hair is long and loose around her face. Her skin, as usual, is glowing.
Marching past the foyer to the living room, she takes off her sunglasses and sticks them in the front pocket of her tunic. She loathes being recognized. According to her, being recognized means she might have to interact with “stupid people”—i.e., ninety-nine percent of the population, as far as she’s concerned.
“Last time we spoke, you were going on vacation with your boyfriend,” I say, following her.
“Yes, well, that was before he splattered the walls of my home with goat blood,” she says, like things like that happen all the time.
“Goatblood?” It’s way too early for this shit.
She sits in one of the plush armchairs and crosses her legs. The motion is smooth and practiced, like she’s a model. “Yes.”
I park myself in an armchair set perpendicular to hers. “Okay. I know I’m going to regret asking, but why did he splatter goat blood all over your home?” Mom’s dated outrageous men before, but none this insane.
“Some sort of voodoo love spell. Apparently, he’s decided that I don’t care for him enough.”
The man is more perceptive than most of Mom’s boyfriends. They all think that she’s in love with them. But she never is, not really. And even if she were, she wouldn’t love them the way most people think of “loving” someone.
In her worldview, the fact that she’s deigning to interact with you at all means she loves you. Expecting more is unreasonable.
“So I dumped him,” Mom says. “I plan to sue him for damage to my home, wasting my time and causing me immense discomfort and inconvenience.”
“Are you going to ask Jeremiah to take the case?”
“Yes.” She sighs. “Which is why I’m suing him for discomfort as well. But I intend to win, so there’s really no choice.”
Figures. Mom hates losing more than having to work with Jeremiah. Losing means being proven wrong, and Athena Grant can never be wrong.
“He dropped to his knees—literally, not metaphorically—and begged me to take him back, but I told him I couldn’t. He’s simply too dumb. He makes donkeys look like nuclear physicists. Alovespell? It’s as if the Enlightenment never happened. Who believes in such sheer idiocy now?”
I’m not surprised by her reaction. You can’t persuade her by appealing to her emotions, because she has less than most. Not that most women would take back a guy who splattered their home with goat blood, even in the name of love. “So why are you here instead of managing the cleaning crew at Malibu?” This is now the most critical question.
She stretches her fingers, studying her immaculately lacquered nails. “I’m not just having it cleaned. I’m also remodeling and putting in better security. I obviously don’t have enough security cameras and alarms. Otherwise, I would’ve known that he was bringing in animal blood.”
I don’t know what kind of security system could detect animal blood, but…okay. Whatever makes her happy.
“It’s disgusting, although I suppose I should be grateful it wasn’t fish blood. The stench wouldnevercome out.”
My stomach is sinking. “So…you want to stay here?”No, no, please no.
“Of course,” she says, like it’s a foregone conclusion.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” No way. There’s no way I can let her stay here for however long it takes to install the security of her choice. I love her, but I can’t live with somebody who can never, ever be wrong. “Let me have the concierge arrange for a hotel. It’ll be more comfortable and convenient.”
“You don’t have to be so cold.”
I almost choke. Cold is a word invented for her!
She continues, “And rude. I already checked, and no one has anything I like. Just be agreeable, sweetie.”
Uh-oh.She only calls me “sweetie” when she knows she’s about to ask for something unreasonable and has nothing to trade for it.
“I let you use my house when you were in college to impress a girl,” she adds.
“That was fourteen years ago!”
