Holly
“You’re lucky I came with a bartender and not the police,” I snipe.
My grandmother doesn’t say anything, which suggests she takes my point but is too much herself to apologize. She looks me up and down, her expression tightening as she takes in the sweatpants and T-shirt that are obviously Cole’s. I’m wearing my jacket, but it does nothing to hide the overall effect. “What aninterestingoutfit, Holly.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I think so too.” I shoot Cole a wink before returning my gaze to hers. If her scowl sunk any deeper, I’d have to tell her, like she’s told me hundreds of times, that it’s in danger of staying that way. “I’m pretty sure it’s vintage.”
Cole almost certainly picks up on the undercurrent of our conversation—mainly, my grandmother thinks I’m a slut—but his mouth just firms, and he says, “Where is he?” His tone is gruff, and it’s obvious he doesn’t see the point in pretending to respect Nana.
Good.
She gives a curt nod and waves us in through the door. “I hardly gave him any moonshine,” she says, following us. “He must be a lightweight.”
“Or someone who doesn’t drink.” Cole gives her a glance over his shoulder that says plenty about what he thinks of her. “What if he was an alcoholic…you think of that?”
“He’s analcoholic?” Nana asks with a gasp.
Coles gives a humorless grunt and stops walking. “I’ve never met the man. What I’m saying is that if he were an alcoholic, you would have given him a world of hurt, and for what?”
“He needed to calm down,” Nana says tightly, pausing in the middle of her great room. It’s neat and orderly, but for the man stretched out on the slate gray sofa. I’ve never met Harry in person, and he’s taller than he looks in pictures—so much so his head and feet are hanging off the edges of the furniture. His mouth is slightly open, and he’s snoring. If I knew him, I’d take a picture to tease him with later. “I did him a favor,” she continues. “That man isparanoid. He kept asking me why I was glowering at him.”
“Because you probably were,” I say slowly.
“Nonsense. And he insulted my sweet tea. He said it wasn’t what he was expecting.”
Cole gives her a look that suggests she’s nuts. “I suspect it wasn’t,” he says slowly. “You poured moonshine into it. And if he was acting paranoid, he had good reason.”
Her scowl deepens as she shifts her gaze back to me. “Were you drinking when I called you? I hope you know better than to drink and drive.”
“What, because I was with Cole?” I ask with a snort. “I think you know what I was doing with him.”
To my shock and amusement, he looks slightly embarrassed, but he settles for muttering a swear under his breath and heading over to Harry on the couch.
I join him, and my grandmother lowers into the rocking chair across from us, as if we’re the ones who need a chaperone.
Cole takes Harry’s shoulders and shakes them a little, then says his name loudly. Harry mutters something about a list and then starts snoring again.
Looking up at me, Cole says, “Take off his shoes and tickle his feet.”
“Ha. Ha. Very funny.” I roll my eyes at him.
“I’m serious,” he says, rolling his eyes right back at me. “It’s a good way to jar people awake.”
I don’t particularly want to take off this sort-of stranger’s shoes, but I also don’t want to stay at my grandmother’s house, so what the hell.
I remove Harry’s black dress shoes and giggle at the absurdity of the situation as I start tickling his feet.
Harry sits bolt upright, his gaze shooting to me. His pale blue eyes are full of panic.
Then again, he just woke up in my grandmother’s house with one giggling stranger tickling his feet and another one kneeling next to his head. It’s no wonder he’s worried. The thought only makes me laugh harder.
“Am I dead?” Harry asks, reaching a hand up to his short hair, as if to check whether he’s still solid “Did I go to hell? It’s because I lied about liking that sweet tea, isn’t it?”
“You’re not dead,” I say, wiping at the hysterical tears coming down my cheeks. “But my grandmother slipped moonshine into your drink. Hate to break it to you, though, the hangover is horrible.”
He jolts, his gaze shooting to my grandmother across the room, calmly rocking in her chair as if she didn’t cause this.
“I knew that tea didn’t taste right,” he says, his expression turning sour. “And I know better than to drink something that wasn’t poured in front of me.” His expression slips further when he takes in the wall across from him, covered in framed photos of couples my grandmother successfully set up. There’s probably a few dozen of them. Yes, folks, this is the Wall of Wonder, a name my siblings and I gave it while growing up. She used to have one at the office too, but rumor has it the producers asked her to take it down.
