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“We’ve met,” we say together.
“How fortuitous,” Nancy smiles. Read the room, Nancy.
The waiter comes and I order a glass of wine. Something stronger would be nice, but I don’t want him to have the satisfaction of thinking he’s getting to me. I plan to show him that he’s not getting to me—even if he really, really is—by rocking this dinner and then never seeing him again.
This all would have been so much easier if he’d just fallen overboard between his pool time and dinner.
Gram and Nancy have so much catching up to do that they fill the time until dinner arrives at our table, but once the crab cakes are served, they are radio silence. That opens the door for Sawyer to open his mouth.
“So, Nan. Did you really think I needed a week of rest and relaxation, or did you just invite me along so Gwendolyn here wouldn’t be third-wheeling at dinner?”
Nancy swallows down her rice pilaf. “Maggie and I both thought you two could use a little break. I think you’ll have a wonderful time getting to know each other, instead of hanging out with us boring old ladies.”
I glance at Gram, who’s oddly quiet, and I wonder if she’s really planned to ditch me this whole trip in some misguided attempt to help me find a man.
“It’s very considerate,” I say, “but I’m content spending time alone, if I’m not with Gram.”
Nancy chances a look across the table, her expression crestfallen. Gram nudges my foot under the table, and her lips are pinched, eyebrows knitted in a scowl when I meet her eyes.
We’re saved by the waiter again, and he fills Gram and Nancy’s mugs with decaf, which they both drink black. I’m so glad they met last year—notwithstanding the headache in human form seated at our table—because they’re clearly cut from the same cloth. It’s good for Gram to have a friend to talk to, write to, and vacation with, even if that last part was a surprise to me.
“So what’s on the agenda for the evening?” Gram asks. She and Nancy turn their attention our way, like we’ve suddenly become the social planners for this whole operation.
Sawyer finishes his dessert and stretches back again, and I wish I could say why it bothers me so much when he makes himself bigger. But all I can think to say is “karaoke,” which I instantly regret.
Sawyer pounces on that word and rattles off a list of songs he thinks I should sing, each one about some pissed-off, jilted ex. Kerosene. Goodbye, Earl. Before He Cheats. Anything by Taylor Swift. Each title digs deeper than the last, though he can’t possibly understand why, and his smirk shows he thinks his little game is hilarious.
My heart hammers in my throat. I turn to Gram and Nancy and excuse myself, dodging waiters and cruisers on my walk out of the restaurant and to the elevator bank. I hate that I press the button eight times, because I know it won’t call the elevator any faster, and because I’m sure it makes me look a certain kind of desperate in front of Sawyer, who’s striding toward me through the crowd waiting to be seated.
“Hey.” His smile has faded, and his thick dark brows draw together. “You took off pretty fast there.”
I bite my lip and turn so I’m parallel with the elevator doors. When I punch the button again with my thumb, he presses a hand to my shoulder and turns me, making me face him. He ducks his head to bring his eyes level to mine.
“You okay?”
If he were anyone else, I’d believe that what I’m reading in his eyes is worry, but I just spent three minutes listening to Sawyer laugh about the idea of me singing vindictive and petty songs, and now it actually makes me feel extremely vindictive and petty, even though I wouldn’t normally describe myself that way. Plus his hand is still on my shoulder and it warms me through my dress, and he’s taking up space again—my space—the way he bridges this gap between our bodies.
I peel his fingers off my shoulder, and that smirk plays again on his lips at the methodical removal of his appendages.
“Our grandmothers were extremely misguided, trying to trick us into some fling.”
He laughs, head thrown back, Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s cute, that you think that’s what this is.” When I glare at him, he quiets and rolls his eyes, speaking through his smile. “They’re trying to make us fall madly in love with each other.”
My body shudders.
“Don’t look so disgusted. You could do worse.”
“The whole idea of it grosses me out, and the fact that you just said I could do worse makes my skin crawl like I’ve got head lice.”
“That’s very dramatic, and a little hurtful.”
I square my shoulders and cross my arms, waiting for the elevator. I’d take the stairs, but it’s ten decks up, and I’m in heels. Plus, no way am I going to let him think he’s won twice in one day. Imagine the gloating.
“I just don’t understand why they think they have any right— ”
“They’re our grandmothers. This is what they do. They meddle and try to make sure we’re happy.”
I glower and hope he interprets me correctly: Does it look like I’m happy right now?
