Page 42 of Mistlefoe
I bite my lip. Crap, it may sound like I’m laying it too thick but it’s all the unvarnished truth.
A few days after breaking the news didn’t go as well as I expected, Grammie and I had a chat. She had to think about it really hard, because flying to another country—one where she doesn’t even speak the language—sounds stressful enough to drive her hypertension through the roof. But losing the chance to see us would be much worse for her heart.
So it’s a done deal, she’s coming for Christmas. And even if we fail at putting together this event, I’ll carry the credit card debt for a year if I have to. But I’d rather not, so here we are.
“Well.” His chair croaks even louder as he leans back and laces his fingers over his belly. “Did he tell you why I refused?”
“Yes.”
“And what do you think about that?”
“Not my business, really,” I respond honestly.
Gramps barks a hacking laugh that startles me. “I like you, pretty miss. You’re a breath of fresh air.”
I tilt my head and offer a sweet smile. “Does liking me mean you’ll let us use the place for theSPORTYevent, at least? It’s up to you two to hash out the rest, not me.”
“Yes, but on one condition.”
“Oh?” I fold my hands neatly over my lap, trying not to scratch my head through my own beanie as if that could help me figure out the condition in advance.
“That you join my hardheaded grandson and I for dinner tonight.”
Funny, Conor called Gramps a curmudgeon. Gramps calls him hardheaded. Clearly they’re cut from the same cloth. And clearly they’d kill for each other.
How sweet.
“Hmm.” I tap my chin. “What if I already have plans?”
“Then noSPORTYparty.”
“Good thing I had no plans.” Chuckling, I stand up and offer my hand. “Deal.”
Gramps shakes it with surprising strength, and that’s when I notice the particular glint in his eyes. Like somehow he’s the one who has won the bargain, and I can’t figure out how.
CHAPTER 15
CONOR
Two texts and a phone call to Sierra have fallen into a black hole. Fortunately, I’m a man of some sense—not a lot, let’s not go overboard—and guess that I have no right to blow up her phone just to satisfy my curiosity. But she’s the only one right now who could tell me whether this event will live or die, because it’s not like Gramps and I are on speaking terms right now.
It’s when I’m driving home at the end of the day when my phone finally buzzes. I’m stopped at a red light so I take a quick peek, and it’s not Sierra. It’s none other than my grandfather himself texting me.
Be home for dinner at seven sharp.
Huh?
I check the time on the dashboard and snort. How can he text that when it’s five minutes till?
Once the light turns green, I take a right and change course for Gramps’s neighborhood. He still lives in the house I grew up in, not too far from Sierra’s. I hope she’s okay. Like, I don’t really have a significant baseline since, well, we’ve only started communicating a few weeks ago. But after we legitstarted working together, we’ve had a timely back and forth and this is odd.
What if she got into an accident? What if she never even reached the rink?
I park haphazardly by the curb of my childhood home and walk in the door exactly five minutes after the hour. “Gramps? Did Sierra come see you at the rink? She’s not responding and I’m worried.”
“You’re late,” he grouches from the kitchen, followed by the sound of pots banging.
I round the corner and freeze at the entrance to the kitchen.
