“Breakin’ hips and takin’ names,” I say as I bend at the waist to envelop my diminutive grandmother in a hug. She doesn’t smell like beef soup. She smells like Chanel No. 5, the classy broad.
“Steve Martin,” she tuts, tapping the pointy end of the arrow headband I’m wearing.
“Rose Price, Davis’s grandmother.” She offers a hand—one tipped in orange and black manicured nails, and Grace shakes it. “I like those horns.”
“Thank you.” The wonderment on my girl’s face is priceless.
“Well? Introduce yourself!” Grandma Rose demands.
“Sorry. I’m Grace Buchanan.”
“Oh, sounds regal.” My grandmother tips her head in my direction. “What are you doing with this louse?”
Grace laughs, probably unsure how to respond.
“Be nice.” I hold up my grandmother’s gift. “Where does this go?”
“To my room!” she announces, arthritic finger pointing into the air.
“What about the party?” I ask as I follow her down the hallway. She may be eighty-four, but she moves fast.
“Eh, it’s dead in there. That’s a dangerous joke to tell in a place like this.” She winks over her shoulder at Grace but doesn’t stop her forward movement. “Said that at a party two weeks ago and I was right. Maybelline Wolf dropped dead on the spot.”
Grace covers her mouth, smothering a laugh that’s likely a combination of shock and amusement. I give her a quick lift of my eyebrows as if to say, I warned you.
She squeezes my hand in hers and we follow my grandmother into her room.
Grace
What a cool lady.
No kidding, just the coolest.
If I’m fortunate enough to reach my eighties, I hope to do so with the class, fortitude, and mindfulness of Rose Price.
Take right now, for instance. She’s bent over her new birthday gift—an Apple laptop with an extra-large screen—while Davis shows her the ins and outs of FaceTime. He’s talking to her from his phone about three feet away, which is adorable.
She’s scrawled a few notes on a pad of paper labeled “scratch pad” that features a cartoon drawing of a naked backside and a cat clawing its way down one of the thighs.
What a character.
Davis excuses himself to fetch us ladies a glass of punch, and Rose promptly rolls her desk chair to the bed where I’ve been sitting.
“Okay, gorgeous. Out with it. How hot is this relationship? You two are positively decadent together. I can only imagine how much heat there is in the bedroom.”
My mouth goes dry with shock. I hope Davis returns to save me soon. I’m not sure how to handle this much eye contact and genuine interest from someone older than me. My parents are infamous for their narcissism.
“Uh…” I say, but nothing follows it.
“What do you do for a living, dear?”
Much easier question. “I bartend.”
“Do you love it?”
“I love it,” I say.
“Good. You should spend as much of your life as possible doing what you love. Even if you have a family telling you not to because they want you to do something different.”
“You mean like a mother who wants me to be a lawyer?”
Rose pats my hand. She nods her head, the pipe-cleaner halo waving to and fro in her cotton-ball hairdo. “That’s exactly what I mean. Don’t do it.”
“No worries. My degree is in communications anyway.”
“What do you love about being behind the bar? I’ve never been much of a bargoer. I like my whiskey now and again, but I drink at home while watching Jeopardy!”
That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.
“I like people. I like interacting with them. Even the ones that are pains in the ass.”
Rose lets out a chortle. “That’s most of them, isn’t it?”
“Are you kidding me?” I banter back. “How do you think I met Davis? He sat at my bar and wouldn’t leave me alone. Nothing shocked me more than when he asked me out.”
“I’ll bet.” She studies me, her eyes trained on my hair.
“He’s not fond of redheads, I hear.” I remove my headband and fiddle with the sequined horns. She may as well know that I know.
“He was quite fond of a redhead at one time, but she did him wrong. She left a scar. A deep one.”
That’s one way of putting it.
“Almost as deep as when my Bartram died.”
“Your husband?” I guess.
She shakes her head. “My son. Davis’s father.”
“Right. I’m so sorry.”
“You know about him too?” Her white eyebrows lift into her whiter hair, her surprise evident.
“Davis told me about the accident, the coma, and his mother leaving. My dad’s…sick. I just found out.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.” Rose smiles—her warmth and tenderness reminiscent of her grandson’s. She takes my hand in both of hers. “Davis likes you, Grace Buchanan.”
“I like him too.” I beam, feeling special because being liked by Davis is singularly thrilling.
“Grace?”
“Yes, Grandma Rose?”
She lives up to her reputation and draws an amused laugh from me when she says, “Don’t fuck it up.”
Chapter 18
Davis
I hesitated outside my grandma’s door to give her and Grace a few minutes together. What I heard was no less than I expected.
Rose has been trying to make sure I’m over my ex for some time. I used to worry that she was fixated on it more than I was, or that it was causing her undue stress.
I thought about asking one of my dates along to visit my grandmother for her sake, but I didn’t want to lie. Introducing Rose to a woman I didn’t care about deeply would be a lie.
My grandmother is a human lie detector.
I heard her tell Grace I like her and I heard Grace admit she liked me. I lingered in that hallway, my stupid arrow headband in my hands, and smiled at my shoes.
It’s heady what the right girl can do to you.
“She’s cool,” Grace declares after we check into the hotel. She puts her bag on a pleather bench next to the dresser. I set mine on the office chair. A suite is overkill for one night, but so is the suitcase, because neither of us is going to be wearing any clothing while in this room.
I tell Grace as much and she laughs.
“I’m completely serious.”
“Hmm.” Her soft hum is paired with a demure smile. Demure on Grace looks naughty in the most inviting way. “I was hoping you’d allow some clothing, though.”
“Why’s that? Are you going to put the devil horns back on?”
“Better,” she promises with the quirk of one eyebrow.
I’m standing with my back to the bed, and she gives my chest a shove with both hands. When my butt hits the mattress, she reaches for her sweater. It flies through the air and hits me square in the face. As I pull the fabric away, I see what Grace means about my wanting her to stay partially clothed.
She reaches for the zipper on her skirt and pushes it to her ankles, and then my girl is standing in front of me wearing a lacy push-up bra, and tiny, strappy panties—both white and stark against the pale pink tones of Grace’s skin.
I fold my hands in front of me like I’m praying. “Please, please keep those on for a while.”
She slinks toward me. She has the power and she knows it.
I’m totally okay with that.
She reaches for my tie and tugs. I tilt my head back and get a close-up of breasts encased in white lace. It’s a great view. She unknots the length of silk around my neck.
“Take off your jacket, Mr. Price.”
I obey.
“I have a very special surprise for you.”
“I love surprises.” I’m hoarse, which is laughable, except I can’t laugh because I’m too turned on. She starts on the buttons of my shirt and then pushes it from my shoulders.
It hits the floor
next.
Parting my knees, Grace slips between them, and I smooth my hands over the globes of her ass.
And squeeze.
“Strip, Mr. Price.” Her tone is not teasing. I love that her tone is not teasing.
Fingers on the button of my pants, I draw the zipper down and strip my socks and pants off, along with my shoes.
Every thought zooms out of my head the moment Grace goes to her knees before me. She’s a gorgeous sight, looking up at me with those jade greens, her red hair in bright contrast with her pale skin and winter white lingerie.
She reaches behind her and unclasps her bra, and I’m rewarded with a view of her naked breasts. I reach for her but she takes my hands, pressing them to the bed.
“No touching, Mr. Price.” That smirk. She’ll pay for this in the most orgasmic way possible.
She pulls my boxer briefs free and my erection salutes her. He’s been standing at attention since she ditched the sweater.
“Oh, my,” she purrs. “What have we here?”
Eyes on mine, she lowers her red mouth to the head of my dick and delivers a long, intentional, mind-erasing lick. I mangle the bedding, balling it in my fists as I watch, captivated.
She opens her mouth wide, takes the head onto her tongue, and then, so slowly my hips lift off the bed, sucks my cock into her mouth.
“Gracie.” Her name bursts from my lips. I anchor myself to the bed while she works me into a brainless lost cause, watching me the entire time. When I’m going to come, I warn her by palming the back of her head.
She doesn’t stop so I shift my palm to encourage her instead.
She accepts the encouragement.
A few minutes later, I’m pumping into her mouth, and Grace, hands braced on my thighs, is letting me, greedily swallowing all I have to give.
My mind blanks, borderline animalistic sounds coming from my throat. When I finally come to, I’m on my back looking at the stomped plaster ceiling.
Grace appears in my line of vision a moment later, rosebud pink nipples puckered and her smile smug.
Her red curls tickle my face as she brings her lips to mine for a kiss.
I swear on everything holy, I love this girl.
Grace
Davis and I enjoy a shower. The hotel stall is narrow but the ceiling is high. We soap each other’s naked bodies, a pastime I’m not sure I’ll tire of anytime soon.
“Ms. Buchanan,” he says with a lopsided grin—the same one he’s been wearing since I went down on him. “The decks are unevenly stacked.”
He pairs this statement with his fingers between my legs. I admit, I’ve been wanting him since we set foot in the hotel. His pleasure is all mine, trust me on that one. I’m primed and ready to go.
Another slide of his fingers through my silken wetness and I’m tilting my hips in the direction of his hand. Nothing feels as good as him touching me.
He soaps my breasts and then his other hand goes to my nipple and pulls sudsy bubbles over the taut peak. Nerve endings pop and sizzle as his fingers find my clit and massage.
“Gracie,” comes his reverent growl. “You’ve been holding out on me.”
“I wanted to treat you.” I hold on to his shoulders so I don’t slip and fall. Davis continues touching me—alternating between rubbing and plunging two fingers deep into my core.
“Honey, you treated me.”
He picks up the pace and a shudder overtakes me. Trying to hold myself up while I let go is no easy task.
“You know what, Gracie?” Davis’s gray eyes are filled to the brim with heat.
I can’t speak. I’m too busy begging for relief. No wonder “please” is the favored cry during lovemaking. I might explode if I don’t come soon. The pleasure is so intense, it borders on painful.
“You’re the most beautiful woman.” His fingers glide over my pussy. “You’re incredible. I’m glad we’re here. Glad you’re here,” he whispers before he consumes me with a deep kiss.
I let go, an electric bolt zipping down my legs. Davis doesn’t stop kissing me. Not even when my knees buckle. He simply relocates his hands to my ass to hold me in place.
Lazily I open my eyes, my skin chilling in the lukewarm spray. We’re losing our hot water.
“Your lips are turning blue,” I joke, but he doesn’t crack a smile.
Instead his controlled expression shifts to awestruck. In a tone that smacks of that same wonder, he says, “I love you, Grace.”
I was numb before with pleasure, but now it spreads through my body, fanning out from the center of my soul to encapsulate him.
“I love you too,” I whisper back, my voice as awed as his.
Davis grins and kisses me hard. Sheer joy explodes in my chest.
Love.
I’m in love.
He shuts off the water and steps out, handing me a towel and taking one for himself.
“I didn’t expect to say that,” he muses as he swipes the towel down his legs.
I step out and mimic his movements. “I didn’t expect you to say that. Did you…mean it?” I bite the inside of my cheek. “Or were you caught up?”
“I was completely caught up. And”—Davis palms my cheek—“I meant it. Did you?”
“I…did.” I let out a thin laugh. “It’s soon, right?”
“Not for me” is all he says before dropping his towel on the floor and exiting our tiny hotel bathroom. I watch his flexing butt as he leaves.
Is it too soon for me?
There’s a danger in overthinking it, so I don’t. I drop my towel next to his and follow him.
—
Davis logs into his Netflix account on the TV and pulls up the zombie series we started watching together.
It’s a strange choice for “our show.” Imagine, if things work out between us, we could someday tell our grandkids how we bonded over rotting, flesh-eating cannibals and a group of plucky survivors.
A shadow crosses my mind at the thought. It’s in the shape of my parents and the love that rotted in much the same way as the on-screen walking dead. My mother and father’s marriage ended long before they divorced.
Did they start out in love? They would have had to, right? My mom says most of her clients start out very much in love and devolve as the years pass. By the time they come to her, all that’s left is a bickering, petty couple who can barely agree on an appointment time with their respective lawyers.
“What episode are you on?” Davis asks. I’m in bed, leaning against his chest. We’re both wearing the fluffy bathrobes we found hanging in the closet. White bathrobes and white bedding. It’s all so lush.
“Same episode as you, I imagine.”
“You didn’t watch without me?” He angles his face to look down at me and I shake my head. “Wow. Gracie Lou, you must love me.” We share a smile as three quick knocks on the door alert us that our room service has arrived.
Davis climbs out of bed and tightens the belt on his robe so as not to flash the delivery guy.
The other man wheels in a cart holding a single red rose in a vase and four platters with domed metal covers. He exits to the hall, only to return pushing a second cart with two more covered dishes and a chilling bottle of champagne on ice.
Davis and I sort of went crazy on the ordering.
“Will there be anything else, sir?”
“Just your absence, friend.” Davis palms a bill into the guy’s hand, and it must have been a large one because the guy doesn’t hesitate in leaving us to our food and our show.
We watch our show, eating on the bed, each taking bites from one of four entrée plates. We ordered filet mignon and smashed garlic potatoes, teriyaki salmon with asparagus, a buffalo mushroom Swiss burger and truffled fries, and vegetable croquettes that I was hoping would taste as heavenly as the ones at Milestone 299. Sadly, not even close.
I express as much to Davis, who saws off a sliver of filet and feeds me from his fork.
“We’ll go back to Milestone,” he promises.<
br />
“And the Ferris wheel?”
He slides me a stern look.
I smile, satisfied and happy.
We finish our food and, after three back-to-back episodes, our cuddling turns to kissing.
The kissing leads to touching.
The robes hit the floor.
Television forgotten, Davis and I opt to feast on each other instead.
Maybe a zombie show is a good foundation for our relationship.
I think Davis was right.
I must love him.
Chapter 19
Grace
“Gracie Lou!”
Davis’s bellow carries over the Friday-night din of patrons drinking, laughing, and asking for beers. I cash out my current customer and smile before sending Davis a good-natured glare.
Vince and Jackie are at the bar with him, the three of them are wearing fresh-from-work clothes. My people: the young professionals.
In front of Davis’s seat, I pause. “You rang?”
“He’s an ass,” Vince offers in explanation.
“I have a nice ass.” Davis pegs me with a smirk. “Don’t I, Gracie?”
I don’t answer, instead rolling my eyes at Jackie.
She shakes her head in agreement. “They really are Neanderthals.”
“They are, aren’t they?” I move closer to a woman I hope soon to call my friend. I like her. A lot. She’s sharp. Feisty. Puts up with Vince, who I bet in his own way can be as big of a pill as Davis. “What can I get you to drink, miss? I feel as if you’ve earned it. What with babysitting these man-children and all.”
Jackie laughs and Vince emits an insulted “Hey!”
Davis leans past Vince to say, “Jackie-O is right at home, aren’t you, darlin’?”
“Darlin’?” Jackie lifts her eyebrows at me. “How about a shot of tequila?”
“Make it two,” Vince says. “On Davis.”
“Make it four,” Davis says. “Gracie, you’re doing one too.”
“I’m on the clock,” I argue lamely. I’m almost done, and he knows it. He only smiles and, as if beckoned, Candace taps me on the shoulder. “Get out of here, gorgeous.”
“Four shots it is.” I snatch up the bottle of Patrón, line up four shot glasses, and pour them all.
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