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“She was real?” he asked, awkwardly spooning some green Jell-O into his mouth.
“Oh, she’s real, all right.”
Her image filled my thoughts, making me feel fifteen again, my body full of raging hormones I couldn’t control.
“I have an angel.” Grant sighed, a dreamy expr
ession on his face, and I shifted in my seat.
Feeling ridiculously jealous for no good reason, I said, “She’s my angel.” I sat up straighter, puffing my chest out as I claimed her, making sure the old man knew she belonged to me, details be damned.
His eyes narrowed, and he dropped the spoon. “Pretty sure she’s my angel,” he snapped back.
I was going to have to fight him, this sick man old enough to be my grandpa. And I wasn’t above it.
“Pretty sure she’s too young for you, old man.”
“Pretty sure she came to my rescue,” he countered.
At that, I glared at him. “Pretty sure she didn’t have a choice.”
“We all have choices, and she chose me. Find your own angel, asshole.”
At his last retort, I fought off a laugh. We were two grown men fighting over a woman that neither of us even knew. “Glad you’re feeling better.”
“I was until you showed up and pissed me off,” he said between coughs. “Trying to steal my damn angel like you can’t get one of your own. I’ve seen you at that bar.”
I decided to let the comment go. For now. “How long do you have to stay in here?”
“Who knows? They said they need to monitor my heart and make sure I don’t have any more episodes. Whatever the hell that means.”
“It means they don’t want you to die,” I teased.
He snarled at me, threatening to throw to his little plastic spoon, holding it in striking position as if the damn thing would even hurt me.
“Do you need me to bring you anything?” I knew he’d grumble about it, but I’d do it anyway. “I can pick up whatever you need from your place, and stop by every day until they release you.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” he mumbled under his breath. He was such a pain in the ass.
“Good. Because I don’t know how to babysit.”
He pursed his lips, seeming to consider. “I could use a pair of pants and my fishing hat.”
I suppressed a grin. “Pair of pants and your fishing hat. On it.”
Grant snorted. “How can you be on it if you don’t have a key? It’s not like my door’s magic and just gonna open on its own because you show it your pretty mug.”
Frowning, he reached toward the bedside table and pulled open the drawer. For a moment, he fumbled, then fished out a set of keys and tossed them at me without warning. It was a good thing I’d kept my eye on him; the damn things nearly smacked me in the face.
After giving me his address, he frowned. “Aren’t you going to write it down?”
“I don’t need to write it down. Got it right here.” I tapped my head.
Grant didn’t know that I could remember things like that without trying. It’s how I kept all the drink orders straight at the bar without a notepad. I just . . . remembered certain things.
Apparently, not all things. If I did, I would have remembered the angel’s name, and meeting her.
Grant flicked a finger at me. “Write it down anyway. Put it in that stupid phone or something. Don’t need you trying to walk into the wrong house and riling up my neighbors.”
