5. Grandmothers Know Best （And Everything Else） #2
Callum's expression doesn’t budge. "The board might actually go for that."
"Of course they will. It's clever. Unlike that ridiculous plan to hide until it blows over." Fiona stands suddenly. "Dessert in the living room. I have something to show you both."
She disappears down a hallway, leaving us momentarily alone.
"I'm sorry about this," Callum says quietly. "I thought having you here might dilute her... intensity."
"It's fine," I reply. "She's actually not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Someone more..."
"Subtle? Tactful? Sane?"
I smile "I was going to say conventional."
"Ah." His shoulders relax. “Then you were destined for disappointment."
Before I can respond, Fiona returns with a large leather album. "Family photos," she announces. "Important context for the PR strategy."
Callum sighs. "Gran, no one needs to see?—"
"Hush," she commands, sitting between us on the sofa and opening the album. "Now, Karina, this is Callum at his cousin's wedding last year. Note the traditional Highland formal wear."
The photo shows Callum in full Scottish regalia—kilt, jacket, sporran, the works. He looks uncomfortable but undeniably striking, his tousled copper hair perfect, his jaw tight.
"And this," she continues, flipping pages, "is from the Gathering of the Clans. Callum won the caber toss three years running."
"The what?" I ask.
"Throwing a telephone pole," Callum explains.
"Not just any telephone pole," Fiona corrects. "A perfectly balanced pine log. Takes tremendous strength and control. Callum has always excelled at control."
The way she says it makes me glance at him. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
"Grandmother," he says firmly, "I'm sure Karina doesn't want a detailed history of my Highland Games career."
"Don't be absurd. Every woman appreciates evidence of physical prowess and cultural heritage." She turns to me. "Don't you find it impressive?"
Put on the spot, I feel heat creep up my neck. "It's... certainly an unusual skill set."
Fiona looks smug. "See? Impressed."
"That's not what she?—"
"Oh! And here's Callum at his Harvard graduation. This is before the Stanford engineering degree, of course. Single then, too. Such a waste. Well, he did have that one little incident, but…” She shakes her head sadly, then brightens. "But still single now! Perfect timing with all this attention."
I catch Callum's eye over his grandmother's head.
To my surprise, a flicker of humor passes between us—a moment of shared suffering that feels almost like alliance.
The sensation is oddly unsettling, as if I've accidentally touched a live wire. I quickly look away.
Harvard graduation. I force a smile, hoping it masks the sudden tightness in my throat.
My own “Master’s” in the School of Hard-knocks was earned nights and weekends over a fifteen year span.
Falsifying my age to work night shifts at a local laundromat. Tutoring younger children. Running errands for elderly neighbors.
And eventually, earning my way up in marketing from a lowly admin job to a specialist and finally to Director.
Only to nearly lose it all when Richard left, destroying my reputation—and credit score.
Not at all different from what my father had done to my mother…long ago.
"You know," I say, setting down my wine glass, "I should probably go. It's getting late and we have early strategy meetings."
"Nonsense," Fiona waves. "The night is young. I haven't even shown you the photos from Callum's championship sailing victory. He was absolutely drenched. The pictures are very... informative. And besides, she hanna’ even finished eating your tatties!”
I blink. “I haven’t finished eating Callum’s…tatties?”
“Tatties. Means ‘potatoes’ in Scottish.” Callum looks over at the woman nearly half his size. “Gran, Karina's right. It's late."
Fiona looks between us. "Very well. But you'll come to dinner again, Karina. We have much to discuss."
I grin at her. “I’d be delighted.”
Callum walks me to the elevator, visibly relieved to escape. "I owe you an apology and probably hazard pay."
"It's fine," I say. "She's... formidable."
"That's one word for it."
The elevator arrives with a soft ping.
"Thank you," he says suddenly. "For the Guardian pitch. It's actually brilliant."
I'm so surprised by the compliment that I nearly miss the elevator. "You're welcome. It's just an idea, but?—"
"Let's develop it tomorrow." His expression becomes professional again. "Nine AM, my office."
"Of course." I step into the elevator and turn to face him.
As the doors begin to close, his grandmother appears beside him, holding up another photo album.
"I just found the swimming competition pictures!" she calls cheerfully. "Next time, Karina!"
The last thing I see is Callum's face—a perfect study in dignified horror—before the doors shut completely.
In the privacy of the descending elevator, I finally let the laughter I've been holding burst free.
The laughter fades as quickly as it came when my phone buzzes with a text from my sister: "Mom's kitchen pipe burst. I've called emergency plumber. We might need to pitch in to cover the cost :(”
I type back "On it" without hesitation, already calculating which bill payment I can delay to cover this new expense. The momentary lightness vanishes, replaced by the comfortable weight of responsibility.
This, at least, is familiar territory.
Unlike tonight, where once again, I’d almost let myself get caught up in the Abernathy family.
I've seen that movie before. I know how it ends.
And even if Callum isn't Richard—even if that brief moment of connection felt different—it doesn't matter.
It can’t.
Because some things you learn the hard way only once. And letting myself soften around another men is a lesson I refuse to learn a third time.
Either way, I’ll be ready for tomorrow’s meeting.
No matter how good Callum Abernathy’s…tatties might taste.