“Of course. I’m still the new guy around here. Be nice to have someone real in my corner.”
“Real? What do you mean?”
I nod. “Yeah, someone who sees me for who I am instead of a fictional part I once played.”
“I can do that.”
I’m full-on smitten, unable to control the smile that makes my cheeks ache. I can’t remember the last time I felt this happy.
“In that case, I need Dumpling’s meds, some of her food, and your telephone number.”
I tell myself it’s practical, helping with Dumpling. But deep down, I know I’m clawing for a reason to see her again.
“Done,” she whispers, that smoky little voice of hers sending shivers of need through my core.
Chapter
Four
CATALINA
“With the right guy, you have to be a little naughty.”
Gran’s words floor me. My spatula clatters against the pan of jambalaya I stir. “Gran!”
A knowing smile alights on her gracefully wrinkled face, pink cheeks radiant. She chuckles as she runs her hands primly over her short, curly white hair, her cinnamon eyes snapping. “Cat, I know what kind of firefighters make it intoyourbooks.”
My cheeks burn. She’s always had a lot to say about my love life … or, rather, lack thereof. But ever since she accidentally mixed up our Kindles and read portions ofThe Firefighter’s Throbbing Promise, she’s also been highly opinionated about my reading selections.
She nearly fainted at Chapter Five and still teases me about the shower scene.
“You’re twenty-three years old and never had a steady boyfriend. As Ronsard said, ‘Mignonne, allons voir si la rose …’”
She quotes Ronsard’s old poem about beauty fading … the kind of thing that makes my feminist hackles rise. Easy for aman who never had to worry about being reduced to petals and thorns.
And yet …
Gran was happily married for more than fifty years to Grandpa before he passed away last year, and I moved in to act as a part-time caretaker. And that man worshiped the ground she walked on.
Might there be some wisdom behind Gran’s words after all?
I marvel at how quickly her fingers move, the dexterity undiminished by the years as she knits an afghan in pale shades of rose and periwinkle for my newest niece, the click of the needles cozy and comforting.
The pink yarn she uses echoes the decor throughout the modest house I share with her, all frilly and uber-feminine since Grandpa’s passing.
After he died, she filled the house with pinks and frills she’d never dared before. I gladly helped, the only single sibling in my family. With married triplet brothers and a dozen nieces and nephews, my single status feels glaring.
Still, I’m stubborn and not easily dissuaded. I counter, “Ronsard was a dirty old man.”
Gran shrugs. “A dirty old man who knew how other men think and how the world works.” She shakes her head. “Youth really is wasted on the young, only by the time you realize it, it’s too late.”
“Wasted? I’m just over two decades in, and I already have a college degree, a decent-paying job, and full benefits. I wouldn’t call that wasted.”Even if I spend half my day stamping forms while secretly devouring chapters about men like him.
“But you have no fun and no man?—”
My phone vibrates, interrupting our conversation. I’ve been on pins and needles all afternoon, calling around and asking exhaustively about Dumpling.
After work, I raced home, frazzled and searching the neighborhood. I even broke down and texted Ambrose. But I have yet to hear from him.
