She nods and turns on her heel, leading me in. I have to check in at the front desk for security and then we go down a winding set of turns until we’re in a literal ballroom. It sounds like something out of Bridgerton, too: clinking glasses, a low hum of conversation, and even a string quartet piped in.
Rory waves to the hostess and beelines for a four-top table with a little old white lady sitting alone, her chair angled out so she can see the door. She spots us and rises to her feet, grabbing a cane to help her.
Rory’s grandma’s gaze is hawkish. She scrutinizes me, and then her gaze falls on her granddaughter again and I realize maybe we should have held hands or I should have put my palm on the small of Rory’s back. Something couple-like.
“So,” she says as we approach. “You’re Morgan the bartender.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I offer her a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. . . .”
I flounder. I don’t know if this is Rory’s paternal grandmother or maternal grandmother.
“Mrs. Patterson,” she sniffs. “I guess your persistence has paid off, young man.”
I grin at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You must be the pushy sort.”
“When I need to be.”
She harrumphs at that.
“Grandma,” Rory says. “Sit down so we can sit too.”
“Fine, fine.” Mrs. Patterson waves her cane in the air, but moves to take her seat. A server appears to push her chair in.
Before that server can move to Rory’s side, I grab the chair for her and pull it out. “My queen.”
Mrs. Patterson snorts. It sounds a lot like Rory’s snorts.
Once we are seated, I look over the menu with running commentary from Mrs. Patterson, who’s got an opinion about everything, and Rory protesting every other word.
I put the menu down about halfway through the diatribe, and when she’s done, I lean forward. “Rory told me you were sick last week. How are you feeling now?”
“Fine, except a nurse still comes to take my vitals every day. And you just know I’m going to get a bill charging me for all that.”
She rants for a while about the medical bills and then asks me, “When did you two meet?”
The conversational change catches me by surprise and I jump to answer. “At my bar. I guess it was . . . three months ago, right?”
Rory nods.
Mrs. Patterson’s sharp eyes assess me. “And what drew you to my Rory?”
It feels like a test. I look over at Rory, whose eyes are wide with panic. I grin at her. “The first time I saw her smile. I’d just called her my queen and she tried to hide it. But I saw.”
“She’s not good at taking compliments.”
Rory throws her hands up. “How would you know? You never compliment me.”
Mrs. Patterson gasps. “I compliment you all the time.”
They bicker for a bit, Mrs. Patterson giving examples and Rory telling her they aren’t compliments, they’re observations, until Rory switches topics.
“Grandma, wasn’t that the new couple you were making friends with?” She gestures to a (relatively) young pair that’s being led through the tables in our direction. They look to be in their early seventies.
Mrs. Patterson glares at them. “Criminals!” she announces. “They should be ashamed of themselves.”
Rory’s jaw drops. “What are you talking about?”
