Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Grandma blinks. “Really? Which friend? Kendall or Janie?” She leans closer to the camera as well. “That fireplace looks nice. And are all of those bookshelves?”
“Yep.” Sighing, I turn my phone around and move it in a slow semicircle, letting them see the whole room—because they would’ve badgered me into doing it anyway. “Lots of books here.”
“Your friend must really like to read,” Gramps says, impressed. “Is that how you met, through your work?”
“So it’s not Kendall or Janie,” Grandma says, stating the obvious.
I turn the phone back to face me. “No, it’s someone else.” Dammit, why did I let Marcus prod me into this? Short of outright lying, anything I say will make this thing between us sound way more serious than it is. Not that I know what level of seriousness we’re at, anyway. It’s not a one-night stand, as we’d been on a couple of dates prior to hooking up. A weekend fling, maybe? Casual dating?
It’s certainly not the start of a real relationship—not with him dead set on marrying someone like Emmeline.
My grandparents are staring at me expectantly, and I know I need to tell them something. Sighing, I pinch the bridge of my nose. “It’s no one you know—just a guy I met a couple of weeks ago, okay?”
If this were a movie, the soundtrack would’ve come to a screeching halt. As is, the silence is deafening, both of them staring at me slack-jawed.
Finally, my grandfather speaks. “A guy?” He sounds incredulous. “As in, a boyfriend?”
I wince. “We’re not quite there, Gramps, but yes, someone I’m dating.” I hope I don’t have to explain the nuances of modern dating to him, because I’m not sure I understand them myself—especially in light of Marcus’s bizarre willingness to meet my grandparents.
I could’ve sworn casual hookups and family don’t mix.
“Is that a robe you’re wearing?” Grandma asks, peering at my shoulders. “It looks like a robe.”
Crap. I was hoping they wouldn’t notice. “My clothes are in the laundry,” I explain, then realize I just made it sound like Marcus and I are living together. “That is, the clothes I was wearing last night—I don’t keep anything else here. Marcus decided to wash them before I woke up, hence the robe.”
That’s probably TMI—in general, all of this is TMI—but my grandparents clearly don’t mind. Gramps is grinning, and Grandma looks positively gleeful as she asks, “Marcus? Is that his name?” At my nod, she presses, “How did you two meet?”
“Oh, just through a… you know, a dating app.” Or more precisely, through a mix-up related to a dating app, but that’s too long of a story.
“Really?” Grandma leans in. “We didn’t know you were doing online dating.”
“Yeah, I didn’t mention it because it wasn’t a big deal. Janie talked me into creating a profile a few months back, but I’ve only logged on a couple of times.”
“Which was clearly enough to meet Marcus and end up at his place. In a robe,” Gramps states, his bushy eyebrows twitching with excitement.
I blow out an exasperated breath, wishing for once that my grandparents could be all stodgy and conservative, like most others of their generation. Instead, at nearly eighty years of age, they’re as open-minded as any millennial, having embraced the changing mores of the times along with the technology of email, social media, texting, and Skype.
I don’t want Gramps to brandish a shotgun or anything, but still, a little bit of Catholic disapproval wouldn’t hurt.
“We’re just getting to know one another, Gramps. This probably won’t go anywhere,” I say, but I can tell my warning is falling on deaf ears. My dating life—or lack thereof since college—has been a source of concern for my grandparents, to the point that I was tactfully told during my last Thanksgiving visit that it was perfectly fine to embrace my needs and inclinations, no matter what they might be.
Translation: they thought I might be gay and in the closet.
“So how old is he?” Grandma asks, launching into her patented interrogation mode. “Where is he from? What does he do? How many siblings does he have, and when can we meet him?”
I open my mouth to start answering, but then I change my mind. “You know what, Grandma?” I say sweetly. “Why don’t you meet Marcus right now? He can tell you everything himself.”
And getting up, I carry the phone to my host’s office.
37
Marcus
“I’m thirty-five, an only child, originally from Staten Island, and I run a hedge fund,” I say smoothly, propping Emma’s phone on my desk while she stands in front of me with an evil little smirk on her rosebud lips. She’s clearly expecting me to be discomfited by her grandmother’s barrage of questions.
Too bad for her I’ve honed my skills through dozens of interviews on live TV.
“Really? What kind of hedge fund?” There’s a look of keen interest on Ted Walsh’s aged face. “I follow CNBC, you know.”