The Rom Con(92)

She reaches over to stroke my hair, and Pyewacket gives me the hairy eyeball, as if to say: Watch yourself, interloper. “You’ll have to forgive yourself eventually,” Gran says softly.

I pinch my eyes closed, as if doing so will somehow stop the tears from leaking out. This lump in my throat feels like a boulder. “I’m not the one who needs to forgive me,” I say thickly. “And anyway, who says I’ve forgiven him?”

She hums. “A man’s ego is a tricky thing. I was married for fifty years and I still managed to get on the wrong side of it a time or two. You both just have to be willing to work through the rough patches.”

“Is this where you’re gonna tell me not to go to bed angry?”

“No, I went to bed angry plenty of times. But anger is like fire—if you don’t feed it, it eventually burns out. You just need to give it a little time.”

I let out a hollow laugh. “Please, he’s had plenty of time. It’s been weeks and he hasn’t reached out once. I’d say that’s sending a pretty clear message.” If there’s one thing I refuse to do, it’s hang on to false hope. “I’m not going to sit around crying and staring out the window, pining for someone who can’t be bothered.”

She arches a brow, side-eyeing the soggy, crumpled tissue balled in my fist.

“Fine, I will occasionally still cry, but I draw the line at the pining. Pining is a bridge too far! I need to move on with my life,” I say firmly, hoisting myself up to a sitting position and sliding the computer back onto my lap. “And you need to hold me accountable.”

“In that case, my friend Dolores has a single grandson . . .” she singsongs, and I raise my hand to stop that train of thought in its tracks.

“Not that kind of moving on. The kind where I write a bestselling novel that takes the literary world by storm.” I squint at my screen, reading over the notes I just made.

“Ah. Well, I suppose that’s for the best right now anyway,” she sniffs, giving me a once-over. “Since no man would take a chance on someone who insists on wearing a blanket as clothing.”

I gasp in mock-offense. “It’s called a Snuggie! And it’s insanely comfortable.”

“It’s hideous, is what it is. Luckily I don’t judge.” She eyes me askance as she feels around on the bedspread for the remote. “Now if I did judge, I’d tell you it’s an abomination that would scare off any man within a ten-mile radius.”

I wave a hand dismissively. “Pfft. Who’s here to see it? No one.”

“I lost my mobility, not my eyesight,” she huffs. “Besides, why would you ever hide that adorable figure? It is an absolute crime. If I were you, I’d be prancing around in a bikini.”

“Oh really, in November?”

“Especially in November. Think of the attention you’d get! You wouldn’t need an old list of husband-catching tips, I can promise you that much.”

I bark a loud laugh, and Pyewacket signals her disapproval at the disturbance by arching her back. I scratch her head in apology.

“Laugh all you want, but you only have so many years before gravity turns on you, missy,” Gran says reproachfully. “Blink and you’ll be an old lady confined to her bed, with only the memories to keep you warm.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I admonish, though I take the hint and tug the quilt (handmade, of course) up her legs. It’s yet another thing her generation has on us—basic sewing skills. Lord knows a few home ec classes would have served me better than multivariable calculus. “Actually, scratch that, keep talking. I’ll take as many of your stories and pearls of wisdom as I can get. Just don’t come after me for royalties since, you know, I’m broke.”

She points the remote at me. “If I’m going to look the other way on all this blatant plagiarism, then this book better be dedicated to me.”

I wink at her as I slide on my noise-canceling headphones. “Obviously. Who else would I dedicate it to?”



* * *





IT’S SEVERAL DAYS later and I’m tapping away on my laptop in my newly commandeered writing space (aka Gran’s study) when my phone rings, an unknown number popping up on the display. Normally I’d rather eat glass than answer an unknown number, but something about the location—Louisiana—tickles my memory just enough to hit Accept. “Hello?”

“Hi. I’m looking for Cassidy Sutton?” It’s a female voice, soft and slightly hesitant.

“This is she,” I respond, just as tentatively. I’ve had to block so many reporters over the past few weeks that my finger’s already hovering over the End button.

She clears her throat. “My name is Olivia Sherwood. I got your card from my . . . well, from Eric Jessup.”

My jaw falls open, and I’m momentarily struck dumb. I think I’d be less surprised if a cartoon coyote dropped an anvil on my head.

“Olivia! Oh my goodness. Wow.” Sheesh, are you a journalist or a fangirl? I cast about for something normal to say. “Um, how have you been?” I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, mortified. What are you, her long-lost friend?!

“Oh. Um, I’m well, thanks,” she responds, politely ignoring the fact that I’m short-circuiting before her very . . . well, ears, I guess. “I’m calling because I’m looking to talk to someone about a potential story.”