“And everything online is real,” I mutter.
“What was that, Wren?”
Another chance to just leave it alone, but the embarrassment I felt this morning is still clinging to me. Since I’m stubborn to a fault, a trait I got from the very woman I’m talking to, I can’t just let it go. I’m not Elsa, and this isn’t a damn Disney movie.
“Robert Downy, Jr., AKA Iron Man, doesn’t need a heart transplant. He’s an actor in a movie.”
“With a bad heart,” she agrees, missing the point entirely.
“The character in the movie has a bad heart. I’m certain Mr. Downy is fine.”
“They’re raising money for his surgery.”
“Iron Man is rich. He doesn’t need donations.”
“Every share raises a dollar for his operation.”
“Nana.” I’ve met my quota for sighs for the day, but it seems I’ll be dipping into tomorrow’s ration as well.
“Don’t Nana me, young man. Surgeries are very expensive, and I’m just doing my part to help him out.”
“You’re a generous woman.” Conceding at this point is all I can do.
“You should share as well. That’s another dollar. Every penny counts.”
I can’t agree to do it because the woman remembers everything. If I don’t repost the promotion she shared, which is in fact a promotion for the anniversary release of the original movie, she’ll call me before lunch to remind me to do so.
“I’m not allowed to share fund-sourcing materials, Nana. It’s in my contract.” Even though it’s a little white lie, it still makes me feel like I’m going to hell for it.
“That’s a shame. Should I call Deacon to discuss a re-evaluation of your contract?”
And she would if I even hinted that I needed help. Craziest part is that Deacon would probably give this woman anything she asked for. If she thought it was in my best interest to work from a satellite office on the moon, he’d do his damnedest to get me on the next space shuttle. Like myself, he can’t seem to tell her no.
“That won’t be necessary. As soon as I get to work, I’ll log on and donate ten dollars.”
“Such a generous boy,” she praises.
Puff Daddy huffs beside me. Even the bird is frustrated with her.
“Make sure you—”
“I’ll email the confirmation page,” I interrupt, knowing what’s coming next.
If I make a promise, I have to back it up with proof. I hadn’t planned on spending time this morning making yet another fake Thank you for your support invoice, but this happens so much, I may be able to recycle one of the many I’ve had to do in the past.
“Very good.” She’s become agreeable so quickly, I want to kick my own ass for not starting with agreeing to donate in the first place. “I expect you at Sunday brunch next week.”
“I’ll be there,” I tell her enthusiastically, and I don’t even have to fake my excitement. Honestly, I’m a little disappointed that today is Sunday, and we aren’t having a meal.
Not only did Odette Nelson put her life on hold to raise me after my parents died when I was young, she just so happens to be the most amazing woman I know. The fact that she can cook like a Michelin Star chef doesn’t hurt either.
“Will you be bringing a friend?”
So much for thinking I’d be able to avoid this conversation. I look around only to realize I’ve made it to work without even remembering pulling out of the parking garage at my apartment complex. Well, that’s not scary at all.
She isn’t asking if Flynn or Brooks will be coming. She isn’t hinting that the stud with the amazing accent should visit again—her phrasing not mine. I’d never refer to Ignacio Torres as a stud, mainly because I don’t need his ego growing any bigger than it already is.
“I’ll see if Finn is available.” My smile is so wide, my face hurts as I wait for her response.
“Absolutely not. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times, no warlocks in my house.”
“He’s not a warlock,” I argue. “He’s a redhead.”
“A warlock,” she repeats.
God love this woman. She’s never had a problem with racism. Never batted an eye at non-heteronormative relationships. But redheads? They’re all the devil, evil incarnate, and only put on earth to take a person’s soul.
“So, I’ll be coming alone then.”
She sighs, and I know if I were standing in front of her, she’d be glaring in my direction for even mentioning my Irish colleague who also happens to have been born with red hair.
“When I asked about a friend, I didn’t mean—”
“Oh, so sorry, Nana. I just got to work, and I have to go. Love you. Give Princess kisses for me.”
I hang up the phone before she can argue further. Explaining to my grandmother how hard dating is never goes very far. She can only focus on the fact that I’m twenty-six and still single, the equivalent of a death sentence as far as she’s concerned. At least I got off the phone before she suggested the granddaughter or grandson of one of her Parcheesi friends. I’ve been in those situations and let’s just say each time was more awkward than the story of how I lost my virginity six short years ago.
“She needs—”
“Don’t start,” I warn Puff Daddy.
“They have excellent facilities—”
“Puff!”
He cackles as I reach for the strap on his soft carrier.
Even at eighty-four, my grandmother is spry and capable of taking care of herself, but every time I talk to her in front of my African Grey parrot, he suggests I put her in a nursing home. The bird has jokes for days.
The elevator ride up to the ninth floor is over before I know it, and Pam gives me a small wave from the reception desk as she continues her phone conversation. When I first started with Blackbridge Security, Deacon was still working on building his clientele and advertising for various PI services. In the last couple of years, however, the
