“We’re not going to get married on your timetable just because?—”
“You think I’d want to miss your wedding like I missed your?—”
“—you’ve got some morbid obsession with?—”
“—parents’ then I obviously didn’t?—”
We both snap our mouths shut when the check is ripped from my hand.
Morgan holds it up. “This is a generous gift, Mrs. Patterson, and Rory and I appreciate the gesture. But if this comes with strings attached, then we don’t want it. When and where we get married is entirely up to Rory and me, and we will not tolerate any manipulation on your part, especially if you are going to fight with Rory about every single choice.”
Holy shit.
I think my panties just melted.
Grandma stares at Morgan, who stares right back at her as if she’s not five whole feet of stubborn, brash, pain-in-the-ass old lady holding a weapon.
He may not realize how effectively she can wield that cane.
“Well,” Grandma finally says. She turns to me. “Fine. The money has no strings attached. You can use it for your wedding or your honeymoon or to buy a house right nearby.”
Morgan clears his throat.
“Fine. A house anywhere. My lord.” She casts a long look at Morgan, and then back to me. “I like him. He’s a keeper.”
I know, Grandma. I know.
Rory
* * *
Even though he just saw me a few hours ago, Morgan lights up when I walk into On the Rocks.
I take my seat at the bar and he delivers my beer and then leans against the counter. “So, how much did your grandma love me?”
I take a swig. “She wouldn’t stop talking about you.”
He fist pumps.
“I knew it. Grandmas like me. Even though yours is particularly prickly. Like someone I know,” he teases.
I roll my eyes. “Don’t get too excited. She loves me and is still a pain in my ass.”
“She’s really not too bad.” He lifts his chin to indicate behind me. I turn around—the older ladies are back in the corner booth. “The one wearing the ‘Queer AF’ T-shirt? That’s Miss Mullins. She’s the nicest lady in the world but she has no filter. Your grandma’s like that . . . she says whatever’s on her mind. The difference is your grandma’s mean.”
The woman in question catches us looking at her and waves. Then she picks up her beer bottle and grabs a fork from the basket at the center of the table and starts tapping them together.
Ah, hell no.
I get up out of my seat and stomp over to the table, my hands in my leather jacket. The fancy one’s eyebrows have climbed up nearly to her hairline and the other one, the hippie, has shrunk back, casting a nervous glance at Miss Mullins. “We’re not performing monkeys. We’ll kiss when we want to kiss.”
Miss Mullins is undeterred. “It’s just harmless wedding fun.”
“Do we look like we’re at a wedding?”
“Does that mean I can do it at your wedding?”
“You’re not in?—”
