“Thanks boss.” She sniffles, and I pause.
Whoa.
Did she just call me boss?
Holy hell. Is that an acknowledgment that I’m a higher-up? Finally?
She’s delirious and feeling vulnerable, Abbott—slow your roll. Bambi won’t remember on Monday, and she almost certainly isn’t going to repeat the phrase.
“Okay. I’m heading to my lunch date a little early. When I get back, I expect you to be gone.” I give her a mischievous grin, kissing her ass the tiniest bit, because honestly? Bambi Warner intimidates me.
No big secret there, I know.
The list of people who do isn’t long: my grandfather, my father, and Nan’s sister Auntie Dibs who has nine cats and is terrifying and intriguing.
And Bambi Warner, based on her palpable dislike for me.
If she’s going to be sweet and simpering, I’m going to take full advantage.
There are keys in the pocket of my slacks, and I give them a jingle. “Alright. I’m headed out.” I crane my head toward Ryan, making a show and pointing a finger at him, putting him in charge. “You make sure she gets out of here. Don’t you dare let her linger.”
Wink-wink at Bambi, who eats it all up.
I give them both a wave as I exit the office, letting out a breath and straightening my spine, running a pair of sweaty palms down the front of my pants.
They’re black and pleated, chosen with care, Brooks in mind. I didn’t want to wear a skirt and look like I was trying too hard for this mini date with Nan and my neighbor, but I didn’t want to look like I wasn’t trying either. If that makes sense.
My blouse is demure but sexy, high collar with a bow that ties at the neck. It shows nothing but is somehow alluring, at least in my opinion.
My hair is straight, falling in dark sheets down my back. Sleek. Glossy. Thick. Tucked behind my ears, simple diamond studs in my lobes.
Minimal makeup, but red lips.
It’s a gorgeous day, so I pass on grabbing a jacket but do make the quick jaunt to Sophia’s office one block over, one last time before I won’t see her over the weekend, and to fill her in on my afternoon activities.
My bestie oohs and aahs at my cherry red lips when I pucker them. “Them’s blow job lips,” she declares.
I deflect. “There’s no way I’d be any good at a blow job. I haven’t given one in ages.”
“Men don’t care. Brooks is going to see those lips and that’s all he’s going to be able to think about. Those lips, his dick.” Sophia clicks out a few lines into her spreadsheet. “Just watch—he won’t be able to peel his eyes away.”
“Blah blah,” I say for lack of anything better.
Is she right? Will he stare at my lips and think about blowies?
In the car on the way to the restaurant, I give my face another look, make sure my lips are on straight and not smudged.
It’s perfect, so I confidently exit the cab and step one heeled foot out onto the concrete curb, surprised when a masculine hand extends to steady me.
It’s Brooks.
He’s early. Really early.
“You’re early,” I say dumbly when he fails to release my hand.
“So are you.” He flicks the wrist on the opposite hand so the cuff of his shirt moves, giving him a view of his watch face. “By almost twenty minutes, you weirdo.”
“I had a meeting end before it began, so I thought I’d scout the place out.” Although knowing Nan, when she made the reservation, she chose a specific table.
“Grab a drink?” he asks, releasing my hand and tweaking his shirt, pulling the fabric over his watch. Brooks also gives me a cursory side glance as he holds the restaurant door open, allowing me to enter first. “You, uh, look nice, by the way.”
I catch a whiff of his fresh, woodsy cologne as I breeze past him. “Thank you.”
I fight the urge to tell him he looks nice, too. We match—or coordinate—both of us in soft, baby blue shirts. His is a French cuff button-down with thick, silky fabric under a navy jacket. Dark trousers. Brown polished dress shoes.
He’s wearing sunglasses but removes them when we step over the threshold, casing the joint. Smiling at the hostess behind the counter.
“We have a reservation. I believe it would be under—” He glances at me. “What’s your grandmother’s actual name? I can’t call her Nan.”
That makes me giggle. “Maureen.”
Brooks leans against the counter. “Maureen Margolis.”
The hostess schools her impressed expression, a face I’ve encountered a thousand times since I was old enough to recognize when someone was fascinated by my last name, then gestures toward the dining room beyond.
“Mrs. Margolis is already seated at your table. Please follow me right this way.”
“Of course Nan is already here,” Brooks quips. “Good old Nan.”
“Yeah—good ol’ breaking and entering Nan,” I volley back, throwing in to remind him, “who claims to have seen all your best bits.”
I feel the faint hint of Brooks’ fingertips grazing the small of my back as he lets me lead the way. “No way did she see my downtown bonanza—she didn’t actually walk into the room.”
“To be fair, I didn’t see them either, and I was there in the room when you stripped off your pants.”
“How could you have missed it? It’s huge. Ginormous,” he boasts, causing us to both laugh.
“I’m sure it is. How do you fit into regular pants?”
“It’s a challenge.”
And then.
There is Nan.
My grandmother, the icon, sitting in a corner booth, silver hair coiffed to perfection, radiating joy once she lays eyes on Brooks and me. Napkin already in her lap (a rule I was taught growing up—napkin goes in your lap as soon as you sit at a dining table), my grandmother sets it aside so she can rise and greet me with a kiss on the cheek.
One cheek, then the other. Kiss kiss.
She does the same to Brooks, the French-style greeting always a quintessential favorite in our household. If there’s one thing Nan loves, it’s anything European and cultured.
“Darling,” she coos into my ear when we slide back into the booth. “You look beautiful.”
I could be wearing a brown paper bag and my grandma would think I looked stunning, but I take the compliment as gospel because Nan never lies.
“Thanks, Nan. So do you—that pink is spectacular.” She is striking in a true pink, Elle Woods all grown up and come to life. All Nan is missing is a pet Chihuahua and bleach blonde hair. “It’s nice that your table was available.”
“My table is always available, dear,” she remarks, placing the white linen napkin back on her lap. Brooks and I follow suit.
“They wouldn’t dare put you somewhere else,” I tease. In truth? This restaurant wouldn’t dare put Maureen Margolis at the wrong table.
Not that Nan is difficult or catty or would throw a fit, but she likes what she likes and is a known figure in the city. Most establishments want to keep her happy so they can keep her as a patron of their establishment.
Where Maureen Margolis goes, people will follow.
Old people, but still.
Once we’re settled and drinks have been ordered, Nan relaxes into the rich burgundy material of the booth, hands clasped in front of her.