Page 21 of Some Like It Hot

Blake

“Two lemon drop martinis.”

The server nods. “Very good, ma’am.”

I raise my eyebrows at my gran as he walks away. “Rough day?”

She snorts. “They’re not both for me. We’re celebrating.”

“You’re the only woman—or man, for that matter—I’ll drink a lemon drop martini with. What exactly are we celebrating?”

I love these lunch meetings with Gran. We try to get together twice a month. It gets her out of the house and me out of my head. It’s especially welcome today because I need a distraction after I left Elise standing in front of the elevator banks the other night. I left because I wanted to take her straight home and rip that sexy dress off of her and taste every single solitary inch of her glorious body. That she wanted to go to the party instead threw me off my game and I just decided it was better to leave than to spend two hours trailing around behind her at the Racketeers party after I already told everyone there I was leaving.

It would have revealed way too much about how this woman owns my thoughts.

“Speaking of women, how’s your love life?”

So much for being distracted.

I sit back in my chair and eye my grandmother. She looks smug, which is worrisome. Gran is both scheming and competitive. I definitely get my competitiveness from her, and subsequently my dad, but I’m way more of a straight-shooter than she is.

“Who was talking about women?” I ask, suspicious that she has a friend with a granddaughter who “would be perfect for you.”

“Not you. That’s the problem. You know I’ve told you this before, but if you’re gay, you can tell me. It won’t change anything. I’ll love you exactly the same.”

Oh, Christ. I rub my beard. “If I was gay, I would tell you. I promise. Hell, I would proclaim it loudly. But I’m not. Thank you, though, I appreciate your support.”

Gran is seventy-eight and still full of spunk. She raised five boys on a farm in Minnesota and then sold it with zero hesitation when my grandfather passed away. Since all of her sons scattered across the United States, she moved to the Chicago suburbs so that she can hop on a plane at O’Hare and visit any of them on a moment’s notice. One of my uncles also lives here, and she’s only fifteen minutes away from him and his wife, so it’s been a good move for her.

She is addicted to games on her phone, cheap online shopping, and coordinating her shoes to her purses to her sunglasses. Today she is sporting light purple hair to match her enormous purse, which rivals my equipment bag in size.

She just might be my favorite person on the planet.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

She is also obsessed with ensuring all of her grandchildren are married by the age of thirty. But mostly me. I don’t think she harasses my cousins as much, frankly, but she likes to tell me with a wink it’s because I’m her favorite.

The server saves me from the question. He deposits two martini glasses in front of us, lemon peels floating, sugar on the rim.

“What are we celebrating?” I ask, eyeing the drink. I’m not big on sweets. Or alcohol. Or sweets in my alcohol.

The question is a natural deflection, but I am curious.

Her answer could be anything from she bought a shower caddy on Amazon to one of my cousins expecting a baby to she booked a trip to Napa.

She takes a sip of her drink and murmurs in approval. She sets it down and levels me with a look. “I’m selling the lake house.”

My glass is halfway to my mouth and I immediately set it back down again. “What? Already? I thought you wanted a few more years. It’s good timing though, since this is my last season. I can be up there by July.”

I love the lake house. It’s way up north in Minnesota and is my retirement plan. I can’t wait to retreat to the woods and fish all day and sleep on the screened-in porch at night, away from social media and traffic and press conferences. I had hoped to spend a few weeks there this summer, but hell, this is even better. I can sell my condo and move right in.

I lift the martini glass to my lips and take a sip. She’s right. This is a celebration.

“Oh, not to you,” she says.

I choke on the drink, spraying some out onto the glass. Coughing, I thump my chest and set the glass down. Hard. “What?” I demand in a tight voice. “You said the lake house would be mine.”

Only a few of my cousins have expressed any interest in it, and none of them have the money to pay Gran market value. Lake property has skyrocketed. I had assured her I would take excellent care of it and allow family to visit in the summer on a rotating schedule.

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