“For what it’s worth,” he says, leaning in to whisper, “I have a guest bedroom.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Are you suggesting I move in?”
“I’m not suggesting anything.”
“Well, don’t worry, I’m not actually moving in.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
We get to Grandma’s apartment and she calls for her cat. “Help me find him, Rory.”
Grandma goes back to look in her bedroom, and I drop to my knees to look under the couch. Morgan wanders around, looking at Grandma’s things.
It’s a two-bedroom apartment, with a full kitchen and a balcony. There are pictures everywhere, and I’m in just about all of them.
“Who is this?” Morgan teases, pointing at the picture of me standing at the top of a slide on a playground with a bowl cut when I was about seven. My dad and sister are in the picture too, but in the background. “She looks like a handful.”
“You could help, you know.”
“I could,” he allows. “What does the cat look like?”
I glare at him over my shoulder while I move to look under the chair. “Why don’t you show me any cat you find and I’ll tell you if it’s the right one.”
Morgan laughs.
“Go check on top of the fridge.”
He goes around the corner just as Grandma comes back into the room.
I pop my head up. “Did you find him?”
“No. But I have something for you and your fiancé.”
“Morgan,” I call.
He comes into the living room. Bartholomeow is under Morgan’s arm like an awkward football, legs dangling and eyes bewildered. Morgan strokes his head with a finger and Bartholomeow’s ears twitch and a low growl emanates from his chest.
“Uhhh . . .” Morgan says. Bartholomeow has decided that his thirty seconds of affection from a stranger are up and launches himself from Morgan’s arms and streaks out of the room.
“Well, now you’ve met him,” Grandma remarks, just as she hands me a folded slip of paper.
I glance at Grandma. “What is this?”
She rolls her eyes. “Open it.”
Morgan stands at my side and peers over my shoulder as I unfold the paper.
I gasp and quickly fold it again. “Grandma!”
She thumps her cane. “It’s for the wedding. Don’t cash it until Friday, I have to move some money around.”
“Nope,” I say, handing it back to her. “We’re not having a wedding.”
“Like hell you’re not.”
I shake my head and jut out my chin. “We’re getting married at the courthouse. In a year.”
“Over my dead body! Literally! I could be dead by then.”
