“What about her?” I nod my head toward the woman I recognize from the last time I was here. “You could make friends with her.”
Grandma peers in that direction and huffs. “She told me I had poor taste in music.”
I roll my eyes again. Honestly, between her and Morgan it’s a miracle that I don’t strain something. If one can even strain their eyeballs, I’m sure these two would drive me to it. “You can’t honestly tell me you thought this crowd would like your EDM playlist.”
“It makes me feel young.” She turns back to her menu and puts it down decisively. “I’m going to have the salmon. Now, who is it?”
I turn back to the woman. “I don’t know her name.” She looks like a Betty, if I had to guess.
“No.” Grandma rolls her eyes. See where I get it from? “Who’s your friend in Here?”
Oh. Uh-oh. Grandma’s fact checking.
Well, I do, technically, maybe, kind of, sort of have one friend here. “Morgan.”
Grandma stares at me, and then makes a rolling motion with her hand. “Morgan . . . ?”
I do not know his last name. “Morgan the bartender.”
She harrumphs. “Morgan. Are they a potential love interest?”
Grandma may be a pain in my ass, but she is a strong ally. Ever since I came out to her as bisexual—and explained gender fluidity to her—she’s always been careful with pronouns.
“Morgan is a he.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Is he hot?”
“He’s too young for you, Grandma.”
“I didn’t know there was a limit. What is it? Twenty-five?”
I put my face in my hands. “Jesus.”
“They need to be that young if they’re going to keep up with me.”
“In the hallway or in the bedroom?” I mutter, thinking about Grandma power walking the halls.
“Both.” There is nothing wrong with my grandma’s hearing, even though sometimes I wish there was. “And obviously he’s hot, or you wouldn’t be blushing.”
“I am not blushing!”
“Has he not asked you out yet?”
I pause and think about it. Does teasing me about sex count? Probably not, but maybe if I had prospects in this town, Grandma might actually try. “He has.”
“Of course he asked you out, he’s not blind.” Grandma gestures at me. “Wait, is he blind?”
“No.”
“So you said no.”
“I said no.”
“Why not? Too hot for you?” She looks over her glasses at me. “Is he poor? You know that doesn’t matter. You could use a good house husband.”
“I said no because?—”
“Because you think you should die old and alone just like me.”
