Page 8 of Pucking Forbidden

“Mmhmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “Plane tickets aren’t cheap, Julian.”

“Good thing I can afford one,” I shoot back with a wink.

She turns then, narrows her eyes at me, but there’s a smile tugging at her mouth. “Don’t you get smart with me.”

I grin, leaning against the counter.

“I wanted to come,” I shrug.

That softens her. Her grin widens, and she pats my arm.

“Well,” she mutters, turning back to the stove, “you still didn’t have to. But since you’re here…” She gestures vaguely. “You can set the table and wash your hands.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I grab plates, silverware, and napkins as Mrs. Clay continues to fuss over me while she stirs her sauce. I place each of them perfectly squared on the table, folded evenly.

“Did you lose weight?” she asks. “You look thinner.”

“I didn’t.” I move to the table and start setting out the plates and silverware.

“You sure? Turn around.”

I laugh under my breath. “I’m not turning around.”

“Boy, I raised you better than that.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” I chuckle, glancing back at her as I wipe clean an old smudge on the table. She really did. She at least gave a shit about me when my own parents didn’t. Loved me when Dad made it painfully clear he hated me.

She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Don’t start with me today.”

I hold up my hands in surrender and chuckle. She finishes up her sauce and puts it on the table with another bowl full of pasta, some slightly wilted salad from a bag, and the cake. I added grocery shopping to my mental list of things to do before I leave. I can get her fresh vegetables that don’t come sealed in plastic. We sit, and I scoop food onto her plate before piling it onto mine.

She watches me while I eat.

“You like it?” she asks.

“It’s good,” I tease. It’s more than good. Mrs. Clay is one of the best cooks I know. I’ve eaten at plenty of fine-dining places over the years. None of them hold a candle to her bolognese.

“Just good?” she presses.

I shake my head, smiling. “It’s great, Grams.”

“Better be,” she mutters, satisfied.

She turns her attention to her food, and I spare another glance at her when she’s not looking.

I noticed it right away, but something’s wrong. Her movements are slower than usual, and she was taking more pauses as she shuffled around, as if she needed to catch her breath. I also noticed that she was relying more on the counter for her balance and support, leaning heavily against it.

“You okay?” I ask, deciding not to dance around the issue.

She doesn’t look up at me. “I’m fine.”

Not even questioning what I mean.

“You sure?”

“Julian,” she sighs. “I’m not made of glass.”