Chapter 13
Rory
Even though he just saw me a few hours ago, Morgan lights up when I walk into On the Rocks.
I take my seat at the bar and he delivers my beer and then leans against the counter. “So, how much did your grandma love me?”
I take a swig. “She wouldn’t stop talking about you.”
He fist pumps.
“I knew it. Grandmas like me. Even though yours is particularly prickly. Like someone I know,” he teases.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t get too excited. She loves me and is still a pain in my ass.”
“She’s really not too bad.” He lifts his chin to indicate behind me.
I turn around—the older ladies are back in the corner booth.
“The one wearing the ‘Queer AF’ T-shirt? That’s Miss Mullins.
She’s the nicest lady in the world but she has no filter.
Your grandma’s like that . . . she says whatever’s on her mind. The difference is your grandma’s mean.”
The woman in question catches us looking at her and waves. Then she picks up her beer bottle and grabs a fork from the basket at the center of the table and starts tapping them together.
Ah, hell no.
I get up out of my seat and stomp over to the table, my hands in my leather jacket.
The fancy one’s eyebrows have climbed up nearly to her hairline and the other one, the hippie, has shrunk back, casting a nervous glance at Miss Mullins.
“We’re not performing monkeys. We’ll kiss when we want to kiss. ”
Miss Mullins is undeterred. “It’s just harmless wedding fun.”
“Do we look like we’re at a wedding?”
“Does that mean I can do it at your wedding?”
“You’re not in—”
“Okay, now!” Morgan grabs my elbow and tugs me away from the women. “She’s not a fan of PDA,” he calls back as he pushes me back to my seat. “But I love her anyway!”
I glare at Morgan as he comes around the bar.
“It’s just a stupid little thing. I wouldn’t have kissed you if you didn’t want it. But I would have handled it in a more charming way.” He grins.
I open my mouth, about to argue that charm doesn’t get you everything, especially, in my experience, with old ladies. Instead, he cuts me off.
“Besides, they think we’re getting married and you’re going to move here and they just want to get to know you. And, yeah, they probably figured they would be invited to my wedding, since they’ve known me since I was in diapers.”
I make a face. “And you’d invite them?”
“Of course.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “How big would our wedding be?”
Morgan leans back against the far counter and crosses an arm over his chest, rubbing his chin with the other.
“Well, let’s see. Me, you, your grandma, my best friends—that’s Kit, Hunter, Silas.
They’d get dates. I’d like to invite my uncle who lives in Buffalo and maybe his daughters, since he won’t know anyone else and it’d be nice to meet them.
The rest of the staff here, like Paul in the back.
There are about two thousand Herevians. But,” he wobbles his head back and forth.
“Then we’d probably have to hold it outside ’cause there isn’t a venue nearby that could fit that many people.
I’m thinking barbecue catering, sometime in late spring, maybe May?
Oh, I bet one of my friends could get ordained and do the service. ”
Morgan’s gaze returns to mine. He leans forward, reaching over the bar, and with a finger under my chin, clicks my mouth closed.
“Hypothetically, of course.”
My brain is trying to calibrate some kind of response to the entire planning out of a completely never-going-to-happen wedding in front of me, so it takes me a moment to realize that Morgan’s hand hasn’t left my face. Instead, his gaze drops to my mouth and his thumb brushes over my bottom lip.
Is he going to kiss me?
No, of course not. Morgan sighs and pulls away. He looks like he’s about to say something else when someone calls down the bar for a drink refill, and Morgan gives me a small smile before he walks away.
The wedding plans tumble through my mind as Morgan does his job. What he’s describing sounds awful. I can picture the groom’s side chock-full of people and on my side just my grandma. Who else am I going to invite? Work colleagues? They live hours away. I wouldn’t know anyone at my wedding.
The check Grandma gave me burns a hole in my pocket. It would more than cover an outdoor, barbecue-catered wedding, even for two thousand Herevians. I can’t believe Grandma would casually throw so much money at me like that.
Guilt sits deep in my stomach. Obviously, I’m not going to deposit the check.
That might be a problem later down the line when she notices the money’s still in her account.
In all likelihood, I’ll be right there with her when she notices, considering we spend time during every single visit reviewing her bank statements.
My tots come out of the kitchen and I juggle them, my beer, and my helmet and head over to an empty booth. I’m tired of people-ing right now, and the anxiety of introducing Grandma to Morgan today has me exhausted.
So exhausted I wolf down my food and then close my check with Morgan.
“Hold up,” he says when I’ve paid. “I’ll walk you out.” He points to the room with the pool table, where I recognize a few of his friends. “Be right back!” he shouts.
There are whoops, which I choose to ignore.
My bike’s right out front, down a few stairs and in the first parking spot. Morgan puts his hands in his pockets. “So, when am I going to see you again?”
“On my regularly scheduled visit, duh.”
Morgan laughs. “What, I can’t hope that I’ll get to see my fiancée more often now?”
“Fake fiancée,” I say. When I look up, I’m facing the bar and the giant windows where several faces now peer out at us. “Fucking hell. We have an audience.”
He glances over and whistles. “What did you say earlier? Dancing monkeys?”
“Yeah,” I mutter. It would look really weird if I didn’t kiss my fiancé goodbye, right?
“If I dipped you and kissed you right now, would you punch me?”
“Probably.” I swing my leg over the bike, just to make sure he wasn’t seriously considering it.
“Good thing I’ll settle for a kiss on the cheek.
” He turns his back to the window, facing me, his thigh bumping up against my knee.
Then he leans in and gently presses the side of his face to mine, barely brushing me.
It probably looks like a real kiss to anyone watching.
“Drive safe,” he whispers, and then backs up.
I ignore the flutters in my stomach and swing my helmet on. Then I fire up the bike and Morgan waves. He watches me pull away.
Small-town people are nosy. When I agreed to this charade, I didn’t think about all the people in Morgan’s life that we’re deceiving.
This isn’t what I wanted. When I left Grandma in her sickbed, all I wanted was for us both to be a little less lonely, even if it was only temporary. Agreeing to go out on a date with Morgan is one thing—faking an engagement is another.
How did this get so out of control?
I wonder if he’s told his best friends that all this is pretend.
And then I wonder about that wedding he was planning. He was dressed up for lunch today, looking hot as hell. What kind of ridiculous tie would he wear to our wedding?
I have never once thought about wearing a white dress, but stupid Morgan put a seed in my head. I wouldn’t want to wear anything long or lacy or with fucking sequins on it.
Morgan probably pictures a bride in a long white dress with a veil or some stupid shit.
Not me.
By the time I trudge up to Grandma’s apartment, I’m even crankier than usual. When I turn the corner, though, my mood plummets.
My backpack is sitting outside Grandma’s door.
I run down the hallway like two seconds are going to make a goddamn difference in reality and shove my key into the lock. It turns, but when I push it open, Grandma is right there, blocking my entrance.
“Grandma,” I seethe.
“What?” She’s ready for a fight already, I can tell. I consider shouldering my way in, but I don’t want to hurt her.
“What is my backpack doing out here?”
“Why do you think? Go back to your fiancé’s house and quit bothering me.”
“I’m not staying at Morgan’s house; I’m staying with you.”
“Like hell you are. Good night, Rory. Tell Morgan to wrap it up. Or don’t. I’d like great-grand babies.”
“Grandma. I’m warning you. Let me in.”
She shuts the door on my face.
“Grandma!”
I pound my fist on the wood, which does nothing but hurt my hand.
A door opens down the hall and a frowning old lady sticks her head out.
I bite off a curse and look up at the ceiling. I cannot yell at old ladies in public twice in one day, especially not her neighbors. I need them to like her so she can finally make some fucking friends.
“Fine,” I say. “Whatever.” We normally have breakfast together before I drive home but just for this, breakfast is off the table.
I even consider driving home, but it’s been a long day and I don’t think I can safely make the drive back.
I sling my backpack over my shoulder and stomp down the hallway.
I guess I’m going back to the bar. You win this time, Grandma.