“Enough with the old-fashioned talks,” I said, stepping into the room.
Claudette’s blush deepened when I met her gaze, knowing exactly what I meant.
“Old-fashioned?” Grandfather scoffed. “You’re thirty-three, Michael. Time to think about what actually matters.”
“Pretty sure what matters is the company you’re leaving me.”
“Money isn’t what matters. Family is what matters.” He looked at Claudette, then back at me. “Besides, she’s too good for a rascal like you. Beautiful and smart. I hope you know that.”
“I’m very aware,” I said, moving to sit beside Claudette.
“Good. Keeps you humble.” He settled back, satisfied. “Now. I’m hungry. Let’s have dinner.”
“I was just about to make an order.” I reached for my phone. “What sounds?—”
“Already handled it. Sandra’s picking up food.”
He said, pulling out his phone, squinting at the screen. His hands shook slightly as he typed. The tremor was subtle, easy to miss if you didn’t know to look for it.
I knew. I’d been looking for it more and more lately. Trying—and failing—not to think about what it meant.
He was on the phone before I could respond, giving detailed instructions about which restaurant, which dishes, how much spice. His voice was firm, commanding. The same voice he’d used in boardrooms for fifty years. But his free hand rested on his knee, fingers trembling slightly against the fabric.
The call ended. He looked at us like the matter was settled.
It was. By the time Sandra arrived with food, Grandfather was already asking about our honeymoon like he hadn’t just ambushed us in the living room.
Sandra, his assistant and caretaker, hesitated in the kitchen with the white takeout bags in hand. Late fifties, silver hair pulled back neat and severe. She’d been managing his schedule and health for years, probably knew him better than anyone.
“I should get back to the hotel,” she said.
“Nonsense. You flew across the country with me.” He gestured toward a chair. “Sit.”
She sat. He looked entirely too pleased about it.
We loaded plates with rice and chicken and dumplings. Grandfather took one bite, nodded his approval. His hands were steadier with food on his plate, something to focus on. He ate slowly, not savoring—conserving. Every movement measured, deliberate, betraying energy that wasn’t what it used to be.
He asked Claudette questions between bites. Where she grew up. What she studied. Our plans after Vegas was over. His tone was warm, genuinely interested, and I watched Claudette relax into the conversation.
She chuckled at something he said, and I watched them—feeling strangely outside their easy rapport.
Under the table, I stretched my leg out carefully. Searched for Claudette’s ankle, needing that small connection. That reassurance.
My foot connected with something solid. Definitely her leg, I thought with misplaced confidence. I pressed gently, a silent hello.
“What?” Sandra said, blinking in confusion.
I froze completely. Every single muscle in my body locked.
Claudette’s head snapped down to look under the table. Then slowly, so slowly, her gaze came back up to meet mine. Her eyes went impossibly wide. Then her mouth twitched—once, twice—before she lost the battle entirely.
Sandra glanced down at her own leg. Then she looked at me. Understanding dawned across her face, followed immediately by barely suppressed amusement.
I jerked my foot back like I’d been burned.
Claudette made a small sound—half snort, half giggle—that she tried desperately to muffle behind her napkin. I shot her a look that I hoped conveyed my mortification.
Sandra took a very deliberate sip of her water, her own mouth twitching as she fought her smile.
