He shrugs. “I like nice things.”
I hum, gazing into the mist—it’s draped over the water like a vaporous blanket. “It doesn’t get much nicer than this, even for city girls.”
Charlie doesn’t reply, but when I glance at him, I catch an expression on his face that makes me pause, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say, gesturing to the bags he’s holding. He’s brought wine and a gift.
“My mom would have eviscerated me if I’d shown up to someone’s house empty-handed.”
Once we’re inside, he gives my grandmother a kiss on the cheek. “Nice to see you, Nan.” He passes her a paper bag. “This one’s for you.”
“What is that?”
Charlie and Nan look over to me.
“I asked Charlie to pick me up a bottle of scotch since you wouldn’t.” Nan pats him on the hand. “You’re a good man. How much do I owe you?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Fiddlesticks.”
He gives her a look that clearly means,What are you going to do about it?and then asks, “Would you like a glass now? I can pour one.”
“Charlie,” I say, but they both ignore me.
“Oh, that would be lovely.”
I raise my voice. “Charlie.”
They both glance in my direction. Charlie looks like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Can I talk to you in the kitchen?”
“Sure.”
Nan passes him back the bottle and says, “I take it with a splash of water. No ice.”
I shake my head as he crosses the room and follows me into the kitchen. I set the wine on the counter. It’s not a big space, and it feels even smaller with him in it.
“It’s not a good idea for her to drink,” I whisper crossly.
“It smells amazing in here. What are you making?” He crouches down to peer into the oven. “Is that lasagna?”
Charlie looks up at me from beneath his lashes, and for a moment I forget I’m angry. He’s down there and I’m up here, and…his lips curve, and I swear he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
“Yes, it’s lasagna,” I hiss, my ears going hot.
He stands and inspects the ingredients on the counter. “Caesar salad? Bruschetta?” He raises an eyebrow. “That’s a lot of garlic. If this were a date, I’d be disappointed.”
“Can you be serious for one second? What’s with the scotch?”
“Your grandmother called and asked if I could bring her a bottle. She told me her doctor said it’s okay if she has a drink. She also mentioned that you’re a little overprotective.”
“I’m just trying to take care of her.”
“I get that, but she’s eighty, Alice. She’s earned the right to make her own choices about her health.”
How can I argue? I hate when people infantilize older adults. “I guess a bit of scotch won’t hurt,” I grumble.
