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“Why not?”
He laughs. “He’s never around. I don’t know what your brother does for a living, but I think I’ve passed him in the lobby twice.”
That’s not surprising at all. Grady’s job sucks up all of his time. Before he left New York, I only saw him when he’d stop in the bar for a drink. That was a rare occurrence.
“He works too much,” I mutter.
“Don’t we all?” Sean chuckles. “I need to give you a heads-up. Mr. Durkman is an asshole. His wife is a sweetheart, though, so you focus on her. I’ll handle her husband.”
I plant both hands on my hips and step closer to where Sean is standing near the dining room table. “I have no trouble dealing with assholes.”
“I know how you deal with assholes.” He rubs his jaw. “You’re not calling the police on old Durkman tonight, Champ. Don’t ruin Mrs. Sweeney’s party the way you ruined mine.”
I hold in a smile. “Did you just admit that you’re an asshole?”
A loud series of raps at Mrs. Sweeney’s apartment door sends Sean in that direction. “Here we go. Consider this your initiation to the building, Calliope. You’ll thank me later for keeping Durkman occupied.”
“You seem sure of yourself.”
He glances back at me. “I am.”
* * *
I’ve hadto bite my tongue at least ten times since Mrs. Sweeney served up tuna casserole with cheese biscuits on the side.
Surprisingly, it was a delicious meal.
At least, I thought it was.
Mr. Durkman was less complimentary.
He complained about the size of the tuna chunks, the type of noodles, the sauce it was swimming in, and the texture of the biscuits, among other things.
Each time he opened his mouth to insult Mrs. Sweeney’s culinary skills, Sean put him in his place.
He didn’t tell him to shut the hell up or to get out.
Instead, my boss pointed out that Mr. Durkman helped himself to seconds of everything. Then, Sean proceeded to shower Mrs. Durkman with compliments.
The gray-haired man wasn’t fond of watching a much younger man flirt with his wife.
It was entertaining, but I’m ready to call it a night.
I’m still exhausted after spending half of last night pissed at my neighbor.
I glance in his direction to find him staring at me.
“I made chocolate pudding for dessert,” Mrs. Sweeney announces as she pushes back from the table to stand. “I’ll go get that.”
“Is it homemade, or did you use an instant box mix?” Mr. Durkman questions.
All eyes shoot in his direction.
Unable to keep my opinion to myself a moment longer, I clear my throat. “Does it matter? Tonight isn’t about the delicious meal, although it was incredibly kind of Mrs. Sweeney to prepare everything. Tonight is about community. We should all be grateful that we’re here together.”
I toned that down, but it conveys the message I want grumpy Mr. Durkman to receive.
“I’m damn grateful,” Sean backs me up. “I’m so fucking grateful that I say we do this again next week. Same day. Same time, but I’ll cook for everyone. What do you all say?”
