Page 7 of The Fix-Up

“Except”—Frankie rubbed the back of his neck, looking slightly uncomfortable—“this paperwork here says otherwise.”

“It’s impossible. Ollie can’t just have a whole grandson no one knew about.” I snatched the papers out of Frankie’s hand and glanced at the pile. I blinked at the words right there on the top page identifying this…this man as Ollie’s grandson. “But how did this happen?”

“I really don’t have the time to give you a lesson on the birds and the bees,” Gilbert Dalton said.

I glared at him, wishing I had the power to slice and dice him with my gaze. Unaware of my violent thoughts, he snapped the ends of his sleeves straight. Adjusted his tie. Shoved his fingersthrough his hair. Dark hair with the smallest touch of gray. Glasses, too, and…Something in the back of my head niggled as I stared at him. Some weird sense that I knew him.

Narrowing my eyes, I pushed the paperwork into Frankie’s chest and stomped over to him, stopping within a couple of feet. It only took a second for it to click. “It’s you.”

“Who?”

“No. I mean, you’re…you!”

“Yes, I’m me,” he said and if a voice could sound like an eye roll looked, it was his at that moment. “And you are you. I’m glad we have that covered.”

“But you’rehere.”

One dark eyebrow raised. “Right again. Is there another adult here we could talk to? Maybe a mature child? We seem to be having trouble.”

I huffed in frustration. “I mean, we met…or kind of met…at the restaurant earlier tonight.” A new realization dawned on me, and I turned to Frankie. “He’s stalking me.”

“Lady, what are you talking about?” The guy rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers as though a headache was coming on. It was a gesture I’d seen from my father a million times growing up. “I’m not stalking you.”

To be honest, I was a little annoyed he didn’t recognize me. I mean, I’d noticedhim. Then again, I guess maybe the squirrel slippers and sweats were throwing him off.

“Earlier at the Texican, you were there, and I was there with a date, and you brought him tissues because he was…”

Recognition swept across his face. “You were with the crier.”

“His name is Curtis,” I said.

“Curtis the crier.” He smirked. “Makes sense.”

“Aw, another dud, El?” Cammie said from the phone I still had clutched in my hand. “Your man picker is definitely broken.”

I ignored her. “At least he didn’t follow me home and break into my house.”

He frowned. “He called you.”

“Who?”

“The attorney, Doug Carmichael.”

“He did not call…” But then I remembered getting that call at the restaurant. There had been a voicemail but who checked voicemails anymore? “How do you know that?”

“Because I was standing in front of him when he did it. I talked to him later and he said he left you messages.” With a curse, he put his hands on the top of his head and began to pace. Three steps, turn, three steps, turn. Repeat. “He gave me a copy of the key. He said it wouldn’t be a problem if I showed up, that you’d get the voicemail, and it would be fine.” He muttered more to himself than to me.

“Who said what?”

He pointed a finger at me. “You are definitely a problem.”

“I’m a problem? I was minding my own business. I wasn’t bothering anyone. You”—I poked him in the chest—“burst in my house and became the problem.”

“I rang the doorbell. I knocked. I called out. No one answered.”

“I am definitely here.”

“I needed to get back home to Austin. It’s a long drive. Like I said, I rang the doorbell, I knocked.” He paused in front of me. “No one answered.”

---