Page 40 of Satisfaction Guaranteed

“Excuse me?”

Cyrus’ shoulders jolt, and he whips around towards an older woman, likely in her late 60s. Her eyes travel slowly up and down his frame, appraising. “How can I help you? Are you here for a delivery?” The question comes sharp, skeptical. As if she’d be hard-pressed to believe him if he said yes. She motions to the small box in his hand, a salt-and-pepper brow lifted.

“Oh, no, ma’am. My apologies,” Cyrus says, the tension in his body ebbing out in the slightest. “I just came by to pay my good wishes to the birthday girl, is all.”

The woman’s brow arches higher. She stands tall, her posture straight as a board. “You’re a friend of Alana’s?”

He nods, lifting the gift. “Um, yes, ma’am. At least, I sure hope she thinks so.”

Now, Cyrus has a bit of a reputation for being very well received by older women. Ever since he was a kid, his southern charm and well-executed politeness had earned their favor in the form of kissed cheeks and miscellaneous candies they’d fish out from the bottom of their handbags. As an adult, well, that hasn’t changed too much. That being said, the woman in his company doesn’t seem impressed whatsoever. Her gaze is devoid of any warmth, eyes narrowed and nose turned up like she smells something foul.

Cyrus swallows against the swell in the back of his throat, his palms sweaty in a way that has little to do with the heat. He’s drastic enough to consider talking about the weather when, thank the gods, he’s interrupted.

“Nana! Mom says she wants your input on the food— Cyrus?”

Alana comes jogging up from the yard, and it’s as if someone pulled the plug to his brain. She’s in nothing but distressed shorts and a string bikini top tied around her chest, her skin damp and glowing with a slight tan from her time in the sun. He’s staring, slack-jawed like a fool. But when a small, operational sliver of his brain kicks in, he realizes she’d referred to the older woman in his company as “Nana,” and that she is now very much staring at him, too. Cyrus coughs into his fist, looking away long enough to feel a sense of relief from the pair of eyes that was just boring into the side of his head.

“Alana—hey.” He inwardly cringes at the prepubescent crack in his voice. “You look—” In his peripheral vision, Alana’s grandmother frowns at him, and he thinks better of finishing that sentence. “It’s, uh, nice to see you.”

Surprise flickers across her features. But then, it’s all smiles, bright and rivaling the sun itself. It trips up the rhythm of his heart, and briefly, Cyrus believes there’s something wrong with him.

“What are you doing here?” she beams. Despite her grandmother’s presence, Alana wraps her arms around him in a hug so quick that Cyrus doesn’t even register it until she’s pulling away and taking her warmth with her. She gestures to the present in his hands. “Is that…is that for me? Oh, you really didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Of course I did. What would I look like showing up empty handed on your special day? It was, um, Citlalli who invited me. Hope that’s alright.”

There it is again, that smile. It’s infectious, Cyrus’ lips bending to mirror hers. It’s like when they were back at the apartment, where the rest of the world fades to black, leaving them in their own little vacuum of reality. At least, until a loud, forced cough sends them spiraling back down to earth.

“So,” the woman now known as Nana begins. “How do y’all know each other? Care Bear mentions all of her friends. You must be a pretty new addition.” There’s a suspicious lilt to the question. Cyrus knows it well. That matriarchal type of inquisitiveness that’s meant to sniff out every fact or suspicious trait without directly asking. If she had the ability to do so, she’d probably be tapping into his mind for his Social Security number, occupation, and background information as they speak.

Ah, right. Well, you see, I reckon I was hired to deflower your granddaughter. And now I’m at this party when I probably shouldn’t be, because I’m an idiot and haven’t stopped thinking about her ever since.

Honesty clearly isn’t an option. Cyrus rubs the back of his neck, and says, “Well—”

“Gram, please relax,” Alana interrupts. “This is Cyrus. He’s a friend I met from work, that’s all. We literally just met not too long ago. Leave him be.” She smiles at the shifter. “Cyrus, this is my grandmother, Naomi Darling. But we all just call her Nana or Gram.”

Cyrus tips his hat in greeting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” He’d offer his hand to shake, but something tells him she’d seldom take it. Not with how the woman’s expression falls, brows flat, lips pressed into a thin line. There’s probably a bullshit meter in her mind that’s sending out alarms. “Friend, huh? Mmhm.”

Cyrus wants to ask if she’s spent time in the South. He half expects the words “bless your heart” to follow that statement, a phrase he’s long since learned is anything but a blessing.

“Well, Cyrus, any friend of Care Bear’s is a friend of the family, I suppose. So make yourself comfortable.” Her eyes narrow into a stern glare. “Just not too comfortable. Doors are to be left open if you decide to head into the house.”

Alana’s mouth falls open, and if he didn’t know any better, he’d say any residual water that’d claimed her face and shoulders just evaporated. Cyrus swallows his laughter, taking a breath before he nods. “Yes, ma’am, absolutely.”

Nana seems satisfied enough to leave them be, giving Alana a kiss on the forehead before finding her way back to the backyard. When she’s out of view, Cyrus’ dam breaks; laughter spills out of him like someone just unlocked Pandora’s box, unable to contain it even when Alana slaps him in the arm.

“It’s not funny! Oh my gods. I’m so sorry about her. I know she can be a bit much.” Alana buries her face in her hands. “She can be nice sometimes, I swear.”

Cyrus’ laughter dies to a chuckle, glancing down at Alana to ruffle her damp curls. “It’s nothin’ to apologize for. I’m sure that’s just her version of looking out for you, that’s all.”

Alana sends Cyrus a halfhearted glare. “Her version of looking out for me is treating me like a kid. I swear, I’m officially twenty-eight, and she still thinks I’m in grade school. When she saw my swimsuit, she asked why I wasn’t wearing the cute, modest little one-piece she got me… when I was eleven.” Her face falls, comically fed up in ways Cyrus hadn’t seen from her.

He isn’t subtle when he combs over her body. He’s seen her in far less, yet something about that damn bikini feels worse than her wearing nothing at all. “Well, I for one think this one suits you just fine. Care Bear,” he muses.

Red blooms across the apples of Alana’s sun-kissed cheeks.

He doesn’t get the opportunity to shield himself before she smacks him across the arm again. A vicious attack, really. He wonders, briefly, if he’ll need stitches.

“Shut up,” she scoffs. “I was obsessed with those things when I was little, and the nickname stuck. Sue me.”