Grandma gets up and grabs her cane, pacing to the far wall.
“That’s . . . it’s just a lot of money, that’s all.”
She gives me the stink eye at my weak excuse and hobbles toward me. “Here’s what I think. I think you’ve set this whole thing up so I would feel like I have to stay here. I’ve seen The Proposal. You fake an engagement and both get something you want. You get a reason to keep me here in Here”—she scoffs—“what did Morgan get out of it? What was so worth the annoyance of coming here and putting up with me, hmm?”
Before I can open my mouth for a rebuttal, Grandma points a finger at me. “You probably still have your own apartment, don’t you?”
This time, she expects an answer. “Yes. But?—”
“This was a lie from the beginning. Of course it was moving fast, you even said so yourself, but I thought I’d give you the benefit of the doubt. I thought maybe, I could push you to either fall in love or come clean. So here we are, almost two months later, and don’t you dare lie to me again, Lorelai Evelyn Fox. Are you going to marry Morgan?”
I stare at my grandma, her finger pointing at me accusingly, and my stomach sinks. Would she even believe me if I lied again? And if I did lie, then what? What is my actual plan?
Would this conversation be going differently if Morgan was here? Would he be his usual, charming self, and have defused my grandmother’s mood before it got to this point?
But then, I’m glad he’s not here. Because I’d be putting him on the spot. We’ve only just started sleeping together, and no man wants the grandmother of the woman he’s sleeping with to be staring at him, daring him to say that he’s going to keep the lie up.
“No, I’m not going to marry Morgan.”
We stare at each other for a moment until Grandma’s hand falls back to her side. “Well then,” she says, and I avert my gaze. “That settles that. There’s a place outside of Boston that I’ve been in touch with and I’ll reach out to see how that wait-list is going.”
Grandma’s voice has changed, shifted. I’ve defused the bomb, but not in the right way. I’ve caused irreparable damage, which is further inflicted when Grandma says, “Don’t lie to me like that again, Rory. You have your job and your life outside of mine, but I only have you.”
Morgan
* * *
Rory doesn’t come into the bar after visiting her grandma, though she does message the group text with me and my neighbor to tell us she’s home and she’ll take care of Princess tonight.
The bar’s decently busy—the last gasp of leaf peepers. It’s been a long peak this year, since the forecasted rain held off. Two years ago, the leaves peaked on a Wednesday and a storm rolled through Friday morning, blowing the red, orange, and yellow leaves through the streets like party confetti. Next we’ll have a big lull until the temperature drops enough to make snow and the ski season starts.
It’s not just locals though—Kit’s here, too, and he brought a woman in with him. It takes me a minute to realize who it is—name redacted so I don’t get sued—but she’s wearing enough of a disguise that I only recognize her because I know she’s in town. No one else would look twice at her and think, “Oh my god, isn’t she famous for?—”
Shit. I probably gave too much away.
Anyhoo, they’re sitting with Hunter, and I wonder if Hunter has any clue who he’s talking to.
I worry about Kit, though. The more I watch them the more I think there’s something there, and if there is, it’s bound to be doomed. Why would she even be in Here, New York? It makes no sense.
I shake my head at myself. I do believe that everyone belongs Here, just like our town motto claims, but that might be stretching it too far. I’m lucky to have found Rory.
The night wraps up and I go home. Barty greets me with a soft meow from his loaf on the kitchen island and I get ready for bed as quietly as possible, discovering Princess lying on the comforter with Rory.
Not for long.
Rory rolls over to me and she’s so warm and soft in her sleepiness, and after a few kisses, Princess hops off the bed in a huff while I get on my knees on the floor and drag Rory’s ass to the edge.
With our schedules so different, we might have to get used to sleepy sex. I throw Rory’s legs over my shoulders and I’m not even sure she mutters a coherent word or has opened her eyes before a quiet, shuddering orgasm takes over her body.
I crawl up the bed and pull her toward me. “Go back to sleep,” I whisper in her ear. But she doesn’t. She pulls me to her and then reaches across to the nightstand, fumbling for a condom. She puts it on and I enter her, rocking slow and steady, her leg thrown over my hip. We’re connected, mouth, chest, hips. Legs tangled. Fingers knotted together.
I don’t do a good job keeping it together, mostly because Rory refuses to let go of my hand so I can play with her clit and give her another orgasm. Mine rolls over me in waves, and I press deep inside her as I come.
Rory rolls off the bed to clean up, and I feel bad that she’s had to wake up enough to clean up. But she was the one that grabbed the condom, and, boy, I am not turning her down.
When she’s done, I clean up too and then get back into bed. Princess is snoring from the floor and Rory’s curled up on her side. I let her sleep, carefully draping an arm over her and vowing to make up for the missing orgasm in the morning.
When I get up in the actual daylight-infused morning, the bed is empty. Princess is curled up by the door looking at me expectantly, waiting to be let out.
