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This was going from bad to worse. “She kept a journal?”
Jen wriggled her penciled-in eyebrows suggestively. “Do you want to read it? I know where she hid it. I stole it, actually. I’m writing an erotic novel and I’m using it for inspiration.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that—if it were even true. “Does Imogen know about that?”
“No. She thinks she’s a prude, but I know better.” She winked and, taking a step back, looked around. “You haven’t unpacked much.”
I had absolutely no idea how to talk to this woman. Did she have any kind of brain-to-mouth filter? Was there anything I could say that would make this conversation any kind of enjoyable?
“Can I get you a drink, Jen? Coffee? Water? Sweet tea?”
“You don’t look like the kind of man who knows how to make sweet tea correctly, sugar.”
“I have all the fixings in the kitchen. My—”
“Come,” she demanded, sweeping her black wrap around her in a majestic as fuck fashion. “I’ll make you sweet tea.”
That… was not what normal people did. Then again, she’d introduced herself by saying I’d slept with her granddaughter and invited herself in, so I’d put a hundred bucks on this woman not being normal.
Maybe a thousand. The return would probably be worth it.
I followed her into the kitchen.
“Where are your pans?”
“Uh.” I looked around the kitchen. “That box.”
“Well? Get them, boy.”
I was a twenty-eight-year-old father of one. It’d been a long time since anyone had referred to me as ‘boy.’
Still, I jumped like I’d been whipped and dug three pans out of the marked box and put them on the kitchen counter. I knew better than to argue with a Southern woman, especially an elderly one.
There was no doubt that Immy’s grandmother could kill me with one look and bury me with a single word.
I wasn’t a fan of either of those things happening.
Instead, I stepped back and let her get on with her sweet tea making escapade in my kitchen. I’d barely cooked in it yet, but this seemed a fitting way to break it in.
All right, I hadn’t cooked in it at all. I’d ordered take out every single night since I’d moved in. I wasn’t ashamed of that. Moving house was exhausting, and I sure as shit didn’t want to cook every single night.
Or at all.
I cooked when Maya was here because I was a responsible father. A responsible single man was another matter.
I was not that.
“So. You have a child. Is it my granddaughter’s?”
“I would like to think she’d know if it was, ma’am.”
Jen sniggered, stirring the tea. “Good answer. Who’d you knock up? I know you’re not married.”
“How do you know that?”
“No woman would let a man move a house without her directions,” she answered simply. “Lord knows y’all can’t find a damn thing without our help, so you’re sure as shit not puttin’ it where it needs to be in the first place.”
Well, that was logic that was hard to argue with.
“Plus, you’re not wearing a wedding ring.”
And that.
“I’m not married,” I confirmed, leaning against the island with a breakfast bar that seated two. “Never have been.”
“Knock up the mother and run?”
I almost choked on my own spit. “No, ma’am. We dated for a year, then broke up before she found out she was pregnant. We tried again then, but realized we were better off as friends.”
“Mm. I’m sure. Where’s her mother now?”
“Forgive me for saying so, but you have an awful lot of questions for someone I just met.”
Jen turned around and held up her wrinkled hands. “I’m just being neighborly.”
I stared at her.
“Also, nosy.”
I appreciated that she admitted it. “Fine. Here’s what you want to know: Francesca lives in the next town over. I requested a transfer and got offered a job here with my law firm and took it so I could be closer to her and Maya. We’ve been good friends ever since we broke up, and I get along well enough with her fiancé that we have a beer together every now and then. I have no romantic feelings toward Fran whatsoever, and no, she doesn’t give a damn if I date,” I finished dryly.
Jen nodded firmly. “You’re smart. That’s a good trait for my future grandson-in-law to have.”
“Have you spoken to Imogen about that little plan?”
“No. She’ll just growl and tell me to shut up, but she’s mad at you, so you should probably grovel some.”
Jesus Christ, this woman was a hoot. “Grovel?”
“Yes. For not calling her.” She took the pan of tea off the heat. “She’ll never marry you otherwise.”
I honestly didn’t know if she was being serious or not at this point. “I’ll keep it in mind,” I said vaguely. “What should I do with that tea?”
She was clearly happy to change the subject, and I noted the instructions in my phone and, with a promise to stop by if I got confused, I led her out of my house and walked her back to her front door.
