20. Grandmothers Gambit
GRANDMOTHER'S GAMBIT
CALLUM
"You did what?"
It's a skill she's perfected over eight decades of Scottish matriarchy.
"I accepted a dinner invitation," I repeat, sniffing soundly as July sunlight streams through my office windows. "From Karina's mother. For tonight."
"Without checking your calendar first? That's unlike you." I can hear her shuffling around my penthouse, likely rearranging my furniture into what she considers more "matrimonially conducive" positions. "You have the quarterly projections review tonight."
Bloody hell. She's right.
"I'll reschedule the review," I say, already mentally composing the apologetic email to the finance team.
"No need. You'll simply have to cancel dinner with the Petrosians."
“The Peters,” I remind her. “And I can't cancel. It would be rude."
"Since when do you care about rudeness over business obligations?" There's a smile in her voice now. "Unless..."
"Unless what?"
"Unless this dinner is more important to you than you're letting on."
I say nothing, which is always a mistake with Fiona Abernathy. Silence is just an invitation for her to fill in her own answers.
"I see," she says triumphantly. "Well, there's only one solution."
"I'm afraid to ask."
"We'll host them here instead! I'll call Mrs. Peters and explain the situation."
Alarm bells ring in my head. "Absolutely not."
"It makes perfect sense. You have the quarterly review. I have a perfectly good penthouse going to waste. And this way, you can pop up when you're finished for dessert."
"Gran—"
"Plus, it gives me a chance to meet the family of the woman who's captured my grandson's attention. Everybody wins."
I close my eyes, envisioning the chaos that would ensue from Fiona Abernathy hosting the Peters family without supervision. "This is a terrible idea."
"It's brilliant," she declares. "I'll call Mrs. Peters immediately. What's her number?"
"I don't have her number."
"Not to worry. I'll get it from Alana. That girl can find anything."
Before I can protest further, she's hung up.
I stare at my phone, wondering how I've lost control of this situation so completely.
Then again, when it comes to Fiona, control was always an illusion.
I text Karina immediately:
Change of plans. Fiona is hijacking dinner. Brace for impact.
Her response comes seconds later:
KARINA: WHAT?? Explain immediately!
ME: Apparently I have an unmovable meeting. Fiona offered to host at my penthouse and wouldn't take no for an answer
Three dots flash on the screen. Then vanish. And suddenly…
KARINA: We're doomed. My mother + your grandmother = apocalypse. I'm buying extra wine.
She's not wrong.
---
By some miracle, I finish the quarterly review by 8:45 PM, just as dessert should be starting.
I take the elevator up to my penthouse with the same trepidation I'd feel entering a minefield.
When the doors open, I'm greeted not by catastrophe, but by the sound of laughter—specifically, my grandmother's distinctive cackle mingling with what must be Karina's mother's rich, melodious chuckle.
The dining room table has been cleared of dinner debris and now holds a spread of desserts.
Seated around it are Fiona, looking smugly pleased.
There’s also a silver-haired man I assume is Dr. Finnegan, Karina's mother Nadine, her eyes bright with amusement, and three dark-haired women who could only be the Peters sisters.
A pre-teen girl who must be Charlie sits cross-legged on the floor, engrossed in her phone.
No sign of Karina.
"Ah, there he is!" Fiona announces. "The man himself."
All eyes turn to me.
I resist the urge to check if my tie is straight.
"Good evening, everyone. I apologize for missing dinner."
"Your grandmother made sure we didn't miss you," says one of the sisters—the youngest, I think, with streaks of purple in her hair. Susanna, if I remember correctly. "She has an excellent slideshow of baby pictures."
"She what?" I stare at Fiona, who sips her tea with the serenity of a woman who knows exactly what chaos she's causing.
"Oh yes," confirms the eldest sister—Viktoria, with the sharp bob and sharper eyes. "We particularly enjoyed the ones of you in the bathtub with the rubber duck collection."
"I didn't have a—Gran…You've been Photoshopping again, haven't you?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about.” My Scottish grandmother blinks sweetly. "Though your friend Grayson is very helpful with modern technology."
"Where's Karina?" I ask, scanning the room again.
"Kitchen," Nadine answers, her Armenian accent lilting the word. "Getting more wine. We drink much tonight. Your grandmother, she has many stories."
"I'm sure she does," I grunt, heading for the kitchen.
I find Karina standing at the counter, uncorking another bottle, grunting as she does.
She's changed since work—a simple blue dress has replaced her office attire, and she's let her hair down from its usual professional updo.
The effect is fucking devastating.
"I'm sorry," I say immediately.
She jumps, nearly dropping the bottle. "Jesus! Make some noise when you sneak up on people."
"Scottish. We're naturally stealthy. It's the years of creeping through heather."
That earns me a reluctant smile. "You missed quite the evening. Your grandmother started by showing everyone your Highland Games photos, moved on to baby pictures, and somehow ended up demonstrating proper whisky appreciation techniques on my mother's boyfriend."
"Dr. Finnegan survived this?"
"He not only survived, he brought out his own flask of 25-year-old Scotch. They're best friends now."
I lean against the counter. "And how did you fare?"
"Oh, I've been thoroughly interrogated. Fiona has a surprisingly detailed knowledge of marketing degrees and corporate hierarchies." The look on her face—showing a glimmer of unease. "She asked a lot of questions about Drake Communications."
"Ah. And?"
"And I talked about industry trends and campaign metrics until her eyes glazed over." She shrugs, but there's tension in her shoulders. "Standard deflection tactics."
"Very strategic."
"I learned from the best." She gestures toward the dining room. "Your grandmother is a master."
"Speaking of masters," I say, "I should probably rescue everyone from whatever schemes she's hatching out there."
Karina follows me back to the dining room, where Fiona has apparently moved on to a new form of entertainment.
"And this," my grandmother is saying, holding up a hand-knitted tea cozy, "came from a lovely woman in Aberdeen. Note the excellent likeness."
The tea cozy, I realize with dread, features my face knitted onto the body of a Highland warrior, complete with claymore sword and historically inaccurate six-pack abs.
"The detail work around the eyes is quite impressive.” Dr. Finnegan leans forward to examine it. "The jawline is perhaps a bit exaggerated."
"Not according to the internet," Susanna quips, earning a snort from Charlie without looking up from her phone.
"Callum!" Fiona beams at me. "Just in time. I was showing everyone my fan mail."
"Fan mail," I repeat flatly.
"Oh yes. Ever since your viral moment, I've been receiving the most delightful correspondence.
" She produces an envelope with a flourish.
"This one's my favorite. The Scottish Heritage Society has invited me to judge their 'Grandmother of the Year' contest. Apparently, raising a 'specimen of Scottish manhood' like yourself qualifies me for special consideration. "
"Fascinating." I take the empty seat next to Karina, who's biting her lip to keep from laughing. "Perhaps we could discuss something else? Anything else?"
"Nonsense," Fiona dismisses. "We're all getting acquainted. Nadine was just telling us about Karina's childhood dance recital disaster."
Karina groans. "Mom, you didn't."
"What? Is good story!" Nadine protests. "Shows your determination. Even when costume falls apart, you finish dance."
"Her sequined tutu disintegrated mid-performance," Viktoria explains. "Shed glitter like a disco ball in an earthquake."
"I was nine," Karina groans. "And it was only half the tutu."
"You kept dancing," Nadine says proudly. "This is what matters. Never quit, my Karina."
There's genuine affection in her mother's voice, and I see Karina soften despite her embarrassment.
"Well," I say, "now that my grandmother has thoroughly humiliated me, and we've moved on to Karina, perhaps we should balance things out. Did you know she once fell asleep during a board presentation?"
Karina's head whips toward me. "I did not!"
"You did. Third slide into the Q2 projections. Tiny little snore, right before you jerked awake and claimed you were 'processing the data.'"
"That was a thoughtful pause!"
"It was an adorable snore," I declare, earning a swift kick under the table.
Fiona watches us with undisguised delight. "Speaking of education, Karina, tell me about your master's program. It must have been challenging balancing advanced studies with your career."
Again, that flicker crosses Karina's face—so brief I might have imagined it.
"It was intense.” Her smile is strained. “Lots of late nights."
"Where did you do your undergraduate work again?" Fiona presses.
"Seattle Pacific," Viktoria interjects smoothly. "All three of us attended. Family tradition."
"And your thesis topic?" Fiona continues, eyes fixed on Karina. "Callum mentioned it was on digital engagement strategies, but I'd love to hear more details."
Karina takes a large sip of wine. "It focused on evolving metrics for measuring authentic audience connection. Pretty dry stuff."
"Not at all. I find it fascinating how someone from your background managed to rise so quickly in such a competitive field."
"What exactly do you mean by 'someone from my background'?" Karina asks, an edge creeping into her voice.
I clear my throat. "Gran, perhaps we could save the professional interrogation for work hours?"
"It's not an interrogation, dear. Just friendly interest." But Fiona's eyes are sharp, assessing. "After all, it's not every day one meets a woman who's accomplished so much by forty."
"Forty-one," Karina prompts.
"Tell us about this Richard," Nadine interrupts, either oblivious to or deliberately diffusing the tension. "The brother who ran away with knitting woman. He sounds like, how you say, idiot man."
"That's exactly how you say it.” I reach for my glass of wine. "Complete idiot man."
This successfully diverts the conversation to safer territory—the universal joy of mocking Richard—and the evening gradually relaxes again.
By the time everyone begins gathering coats and exchanging goodbyes, it's nearly midnight.
Somehow, against all odds, Fiona and Nadine have exchanged phone numbers and made plans for tea next week, a development that should terrify me but somehow doesn't.
"Walk me out?" Karina asks as her family heads toward the elevator.
"Of course."
We lag behind, ostensibly so I can show her where a scarf was left in my study.
The moment the door closes behind us, she sags against the bookshelf.
"That was the most stressful dinner of my life," she announces. "And I once had lunch with three competing clients who didn't know they'd been triple-booked."
"Fiona can be... intense," I acknowledge, moving closer. "She asks a lot of questions."
"Too many questions," Karina agrees, tension evident in her voice. "About very specific things."
"Like your academic background?"
She meets my eyes, something vulnerable there. "Yes. Like that."
I should press further.
A CEO would demand transparency, especially given how jumpy Karina seems lately.
The inconsistencies in her responses. The way Viktoria jumped in to answer questions directed at her sister.
Instead, I reach for her, drawn by something stronger than corporate concerns. "I've missed you."
Her exhale is shaky. "Callum, we can't?—"
But she doesn't pull away when I step closer, when my hand finds her waist. "Can't what? This?"
My fingers trace up her side, curve around to her back, pulling her gently against me. Her breath catches.
"We agreed this was a bad idea," she whispers, even as her body leans into mine.
"Terrible," I agree, lips finding the pulse point below her ear. "Disastrous."
"Someone could walk in?—"
"They're all waiting for the elevator. We have at least two minutes."
She laughs, the sound trailing into a gasp as my hand slips under her dress, finding the heat between her thighs. "Not enough time."
"For you? More than enough." I stroke her through the thin fabric of her underwear, feeling her already wet. "I've been thinking about this all week."
Her head falls back against the bookshelf, eyes closing as I work her with practiced precision. "This doesn't solve anything."
"It's not meant to." I increase the pressure, the pace, watching her face as she bites her lip to stay quiet. "Consider it dessert."
She comes apart silently, body tensing against mine before she melts, boneless and breathless.
I hold her through it, cataloging every detail.
The flush on her chest. The way her fingers dig into my shoulders.
The soft, almost surprised sound she makes when she falls over the edge.
"You're trouble," she murmurs when she can speak again, straightening her dress.
“Intentionally troublesome.” I press a final kiss to her hairline. "You should go. They'll be wondering where you are."
She studies me for a second. Then two. "Callum, about those questions Fiona was asking..."
Part of me wants to tell her it doesn't matter.
That whatever’s making her uneasy, we can work through it.
But that would be a lie.
In my world, truth and transparency are non-negotiable.
"We'll talk about it," I say instead. "But not tonight."
She blinks, forcing a small smile. "Right. Professional boundaries and all that."
"Exactly."
As I watch her join her family in the elevator, I can't ignore the doubts taking root in my mind.
Not just about whatever is troubling Karina, but about my own judgment where she's concerned.
Because for the first time in my overly planned life, I'm starting to suspect that what I want and what I need might be two very different things.
And Karina Peters—with her brilliant mind and unbidden mystery—might be both my greatest weakness.
And my undoing.