Page 116 of Anyone But You
“Around $150.”
“One fif—here take this back. That’ll barely cover lunch,” she said, handing the card back to me. I scoffed and slipped it into the back pocket of my jeans.
“This wouldn’t be an issue if you found somewhere more affordable to eat.”
“I swear you act like you grew up on stamps,” she said under her breath.
“What are stamps?” I asked curiously.
“My point exactly,” she commented.
“Montana Gianna Ramsey!” my dad yelled from somewhere in the house.
He only calls me Gianna when I’m in trouble. My goose is not only cooked, but it’s deep-fried.
“Ooooo, you’re in trouble,” my mother taunted childishly. “What did you do?”
“I didn’t do anything,” I lied.
“That Man Over There doesn’t call you by your government name unless you did something.”
“Hold on. Is Dad in trouble?” I asked, raising a brow. She only called him “That Man Over There” when he had to sleep in the guest room.
“He didn’t do anything wrong. But he’s so damn old that he wouldn’t remember if he did. I can milk him for all he’s worth today.”
I shook my head.
“He’s not old,” I argued.
She stared at me blankly and asked, “Then what would you call it?”
“He’s… he’s… um… he’s mature.”
“He qualifies for senior citizen discounts at chain restaurants. He’s old as dust.”
“That’s rude.”
She winked at me.
“Good thing your father likes me rude. You better go see what your dad wants. You’re sitting here judging me and you might not have a tablet in a few minutes.”
Oh, God. Please don’t let Dad take my tablet. He might forget to return it like last time. I had to go an entire month without it!
A voice crackled over the intercom.
“Montana Gianna—my office—now.”
“Tell That Man Over There that I’ll beimpatientlywaiting for him downstairs,” she said before bailing on me, which sucked because she typically ran interference when I was in trouble. You’d think she’d be the strict parent, but she was a pushover. It was Dad you had to watch out for.
I journeyed through the mansion until I finally arrived at his office.
“It’s fine. He’s just an old, crochety man like Mom says.”
I knocked on the door and waited for him to respond.
“Bring your ass,” he commanded. I rolled my eyes and regretted my mother’s influence on him.
“Here goes nothing,” I whispered, opening the door and poking my head in. “Hi, Daddy.”
