Chapter 11
Morgan
I’ve got Rory’s number.
Literally and figuratively, and it’s adorable.
We swapped digits so we could plan the Big Reveal to her grandma and it’s obvious that her grandma is a soft spot for her.
In a weird way.
Rory texts me the address where we’re going to meet and follows it up with a bunch of rapid-fire warnings.
My Queen
Meet me at noon at the Buckingham.
It’s the fancy restaurant in the building. The front desk will tell you where to go.
You know what? I’ll just meet you out front.
At 11:55
Can you dress up?
Do you own a tie?
If you flirt with my grandmother I swear to god I will stab you with one of the fancy forks I never know when to use.
GRANDMA WILL INSULT YOU. DO NOT ENGAGE.
I mean it, Morgan.
Texts like that come through all the way up until I leave for lunch on Sunday. Hunter’s watching the bar for me, and I told him I’d be back in the afternoon before happy hour starts. It’s been two weeks since my proposal to Rory, and it’s been the talk of the town.
I drive my truck up to the main building of the community.
It’s a whole damn complex out here—there are signs directing cars to places like Honor Garden and The Dr. and Mrs. Goldstein Active Gymnasium.
It’s half apartment complex, half university campus.
I never knew a hideaway like this existed out here.
Before I even park I spot Rory at the front door at the drop-off carport. Her arms are crossed and she’s scowling at me—or maybe she’s just scowling at the wind playing with her loose hair.
I pick a spot and hop out, jogging to greet her.
“Hey.”
She looks me up and down. I’m wearing blue slacks, a white button-down, and a festive, ski-themed tie. It’s not Christmassy, it’s just bright. The blue of the scarves the skiers are wearing matches my pants.
Rory rolls her eyes, pressing her lips to hold in a smile.
I chose not to point out my matching socks to her. I’ll save those for later as an emergency eye-roll contingency plan.
“You look great,” I tell her. She’s wearing wide-legged slacks and a blouse, both black.
Her hair is neither in braids nor a windblown mess like every other time I’ve seen her.
Instead, it’s smoothed down, the waves falling over her shoulder, though the breeze is toying with it.
Her finger’s bare, though. “Where’s the ring? ”
She pats her pocket. “I’ve been with Grandma all day. I thought it would be better if we tell her together.”
Aw, she needed her emotional support fake fiancé with her.
“You got it. I’ll follow your lead today.”
She nods and turns on her heel, leading me in.
I have to check in at the front desk for security and then we go down a winding set of turns until we’re in a literal ballroom.
It sounds like something out of Bridgerton, too: clinking glasses, a low hum of conversation, and even a string quartet piped in.
Rory waves to the hostess and beelines for a four-top table with a little old white lady sitting alone, her chair angled out so she can see the door. She spots us and rises to her feet, grabbing a cane to help her.
Rory’s grandma’s gaze is hawkish. She scrutinizes me, and then her gaze falls on her granddaughter again and I realize maybe we should have held hands or I should have put my palm on the small of Rory’s back. Something couple-like.
“So,” she says as we approach. “You’re Morgan the bartender.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I offer her a hand. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. . . .”
I flounder. I don’t know if this is Rory’s paternal grandmother or maternal grandmother.
“Mrs. Patterson,” she sniffs. “I guess your persistence has paid off, young man.”
I grin at her. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You must be the pushy sort.”
“When I need to be.”
She harrumphs at that.
“Grandma,” Rory says. “Sit down so we can sit too.”
“Fine, fine.” Mrs. Patterson waves her cane in the air, but moves to take her seat. A server appears to push her chair in.
Before that server can move to Rory’s side, I grab the chair for her and pull it out. “My queen.”
Mrs. Patterson snorts. It sounds a lot like Rory’s snorts.
Once we are seated, I look over the menu with running commentary from Mrs. Patterson, who’s got an opinion about everything, and Rory protesting every other word.
I put the menu down about halfway through the diatribe, and when she’s done, I lean forward. “Rory told me you were sick last week. How are you feeling now?”
“Fine, except a nurse still comes to take my vitals every day. And you just know I’m going to get a bill charging me for all that.”
She rants for a while about the medical bills and then asks me, “When did you two meet?”
The conversational change catches me by surprise and I jump to answer. “At my bar. I guess it was . . . three months ago, right?”
Rory nods.
Mrs. Patterson’s sharp eyes assess me. “And what drew you to my Rory?”
It feels like a test. I look over at Rory, whose eyes are wide with panic. I grin at her. “The first time I saw her smile. I’d just called her my queen and she tried to hide it. But I saw.”
“She’s not good at taking compliments.”
Rory throws her hands up. “How would you know? You never compliment me.”
Mrs. Patterson gasps. “I compliment you all the time.”
They bicker for a bit, Mrs. Patterson giving examples and Rory telling her they aren’t compliments, they’re observations, until Rory switches topics.
“Grandma, wasn’t that the new couple you were making friends with?” She gestures to a (relatively) young pair that’s being led through the tables in our direction. They look to be in their early seventies.
Mrs. Patterson glares at them. “Criminals!” she announces. “They should be ashamed of themselves.”
Rory’s jaw drops. “What are you talking about?”
“I mean this place is turning into a white-collar jailhouse. Who’s going to move in next? Bernie Madoff?”
“I think he’s dead,” I say.
“What do you mean criminal?” Rory asks again.
“He worked for Wells Fargo,” Mrs. Patterson snaps. “All those predatory loans. How they’re still in business I’ll never understand.”
“Grandma, I doubt he was actually the one giving out loans.”
“He was management. Even worse!”
Rory puts her face in her hands. “Okay, we’re getting off topic.”
“We have a topic?”
“Grandma, there’s something I—”
A server interrupts Rory. “Are you ready to order?”
We are. We do. It’s a process, because Mrs. Patterson asks a lot of questions and Rory tells her to be nicer to the staff.
Watching Rory and her grandmother is like watching a tennis match. I sip my water, reveling in this reveal of Rory’s life.
Mrs. Patterson turns back to her granddaughter as soon as the server walks away. Her eyebrows bunch together. “You look pale. You’re not knocked up, are you?”
I choke on my water.
Mrs. Patterson peers at me. “I hope you’re better in bed than you are at drinking.”
“Grandma.” Rory closes her eyes like she’s praying. “Morgan and I have something to tell you.” She leans back, digs the ring out of her pocket, and shoves it on her finger. “We’re getting married. I know it’s fast, but you got engaged to Grandpa after two weeks of dating, so, you know . . .”
Rory trails off.
Two cosmetically-thickened eyebrows go up. “Well.” Her gaze darts between me, Rory, and the ring. And then they stay on the ring. “Well.”
There’s a moment of silence. Rory reaches over, grabbing my hand from the armrest of my chair, and holds it, plunking our jointed hands together on the table.
The angle is weird, so I shift my grip so our fingers are intertwined.
And then, because I can, I bring the back of her hand up to my lips and kiss it.
Rory’s eyelashes flutter, and it breaks the spell over the table.
“Well, good,” Mrs. Patterson says. “You can start coming by twice a week now. Maybe you can keep Bartholomeow company when I’m at the fitness classes.”
“I’m not driving all the way here twice a week just because I’m engaged, Grandma.”
“Why? How far away do you live?”
That second question is directed at me.
“About twenty minutes.”
Mrs. Patterson points at me and speaks to her granddaughter. “It’s not that far once you move in. Twice a week,” she insists.
“I’m—I’m not moving in with him,” Rory stutters in surprise. Then she backpedals. “Yet, I mean. We’re going to wait—”
“Why? You moved at the drop of a hat last time.” Mrs. Patterson snaps her fingers. “What, is your fiancé not a good enough reason to move?”
“I moved for you.”
“Exactly.”
“Argh. Grandma, I’m not moving yet.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re going to drive three hours each way every time you want to see your fiancé?”
Three hours? Where the hell does Rory live?
“And,” she continues, “I’m not going to have you going out to see him every time you visit and then sneaking in at all hours of the night.”
“I won’t be sneaking in!”
“Don’t you want her to live with you?”
Oh, that’s for me.
“Yes, of course,” I say. Actually, the thought makes me giddy. I can’t even imagine living with her. Does she wear black all the time? Even to bed?
Rory glares at me as if she can read my mind.
I blink at her with faux innocence. “Safety first. Your grandma’s right. That’s a lot of driving. And what are you going to do in winter?”
Rory points a finger at me. “Don’t you dare team up with her.”
I gesture to Mrs. Patterson. “She’s a smart lady.”
Mrs. Patterson preens while her granddaughter grabs one of the many forks set in front of her. I shift my thighs away from her reach.
“I’ll think about it,” she seethes.