Great, more kitty littered wrapped Jell-O. Okay, so maybe she doesn’t give us Jell-O molds filled with Tidy Cat because she doesn’t have cats. If she did, I’m pretty sure they’d gang up on her and smother her in her sleep.
“Happy to,” I say, grabbing my jacket as Eli speaks up from behind me.
“Actually, Whitney took a nasty spill yesterday, so I’ll be happy to get them.”
I turn back to see Eli framed by the sunlight streaming through the glass door, and his angelic coifed hair is lit perfectly as angels sing a brief “ahhh” in unison. I swear his right front tooth sparkles like a diamond as the rest of the morning haze engulfs him.
I shake my head briefly as he slips on his coat.
“And who are you?” Gretchen asks, her eyes sweeping Eli in ridicule.
“I’m a co-worker of Brenden’s,” he answers matter of fact, slipping on his gloves before leaning in and dropping his voice suggestively. “And Whitney’s former lova.”
My mouth drops along with Gretchen’s as Eli dramatically pushes the glass of the front door open with both hands, using the hangtime of the door to strut out, swagger in full effect.
Gretchen’s dead stare darts to me, and it takes everything I have not to laugh. Instead of trying to come up with a barrage of acceptable excuses for his behavior, I shrug.
“He was a sensational lova,” I say before following him out of the door and taking the stairs two at a time to catch up. Laughter spills from my lips when I reach him at the trunk of her SUV. “Okay, what the hell was that?”
He flashes a grin at me as he sorts through the packages in her trunk. “I’m pretty decent at reading people, but with her, I didn’t have to. I physically sensed the fire and brimstone on the other side of the door the minute she knocked. As soon as you greeted her, I remembered who she was. And I quote, ‘Wretched Gretchen is my worst nightmare. A mean, bitter old spinster who comes out of her Grinch cave once a year to torment the Collins’ Whos.’ I remember the stories. She’s been torturing you and your family your whole lives.”
“I really did talk a lot, didn’t I?”
“You never, ever shut up. But it was adorable.” He stacks a few shoe-box-sized packages in my arms as I hold them out. I take the time to study his profile before letting myself sweep over him. He looks gorgeous as ever in a plaid shirt with a dark grey denim half-collar which is flipped up, cuffed dark jeans, and expensive wool-lined boots. The cologne drifting off him beckons me closer as he continues, a memory-induced smile lifting one side of his mouth. “But that was you. You were curious and excited, about life, about everything.” He pauses, and I see the mischievous glint in his eyes as he turns to me. “What do you say we tag team her today?”
“How?” I ask, unable not to return his budding grin.
“Every time she comes at one of you, we’ll toss it back to her tenfold. If we’re successful, we could have her fleeing by lunch.” Arms loaded, he manages to shut her trunk and shoots a conspiratorial wink my way. “What do you say?”
“I don’t know. We’re her only family. She may be horrible, but I feel sorry for her. She doesn’t have anyone.”
“She chose her life, Whitney.”
“I know, but still…”
We walk side by side toward the house as he carries the bulk of the load and gently nudges me. “If you change your mind, let me know.”
“Do you want me to send out a bat signal or something?”
“I’m pretty sure I’ll know the second you decide.”
I stop at the foot of the stairs and glance over at him. “You think you can read me that well?”
“I guess we’ll see,” he says confidently before heading up the stairs.
I may have zeroed in on his ass on the way up.
“Who made the cheese ball?” Gretchen asks, shoveling a stuffed cracker in her mouth, leaving a thick glop of residue on the side of it. Keeping my repulsed shudder inside, I speak up. “I did.”
“Not enough Worcestershire.”
“I followed Grammy P’s recipe to the letter,” I defend weakly.
“It’s delicious,” Mom assures me loading her own cracker, her voice filled with the typical edge she gets when Gretchen graces us with her presence.
Gretchen scours the room as we all sit gathered around her, awaiting her annual verdict of disapproval. It’s as if she’s deemed herself the matriarch. Her eyes float to Peyton, who sits on the floor between Serena’s legs, sorting an oversized puzzle. Even she isn’t immune to Peyton’s charms, and in a rare effort, she softens her voice addressing him. “Peyton, are you excited about Santa?”