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“Could have kissed her cheek,” Ellen said, arching an eyebrow.
“Now that would have been anticlimactic, wouldn’t it? It meant very little to me,” he said, offering his empty cup to the waiter as he paused beside Brennan with a silver carafe in hand.
His grandfather’s gaze never left him, and Brennan suspected the man saw through him. He knew Brennan had enjoyed every second of that kiss. Something about that knowledge squirmed inside him.
“What?” he asked his grandfather.
“Nothing,” Malcolm said, nodding to Ernesto as he sat a fat piece of pecan pie in front of him.
“You think I’m lying?”
“Did I protest when you said it meant nothing?”
“But you think this girl is better than Creighton because she bought you a damned coffee and put a pair of ugly-ass socks on your bare feet.”
“Defensive, aren’t you?” Malcolm looked around at the half-filled restaurant with clear eyes that glinted with devilment. The small upscale restaurant had started emptying and the clatter of silver and tinkling of glasses had dulled to the occasional clink over the jazz played by Nico Batiste at the piano.
“Not defensive. Just clear in saying I will not fake romantic entanglement with Mary Paige. Good girls aren’t my thing, old man.”
Ellen snorted. “Yeah, you’re apples and oranges. Oil and water. Cats and dogs. Brooms and—”
“Point made, Ellen, dear, though I can’t fathom what brooms are opposite of.” Malcolm set his fork down by his half-eaten pie.
Ever since the heart attack, his grandfather had followed strict dietary guidelines, but tonight he’d indulged in some of his favorite foods, although he ate only half likely in begrudging compliance with his doctors’ decrees. More worrisome than that was the fact Brennan had caught him halving the blood thinners a few days ago. When Brennan confronted him, his grandfather had claimed the medicine gave him a stomachache. These little tiptoes over the lines set by the doctors scared Brennan, but he didn’t dare push too much and risk making his grandfather even more stubborn about eating what he wanted.
“Do whatever makes you feel comfortable, Bren,” Ellen said. “Tomorrow you’ll help the Greater New Orleans Food Bank prepare Christmas food baskets and take a tour of one of the shelters in St. Bernard parish. Decidedly unromantic.”
Her comments led Brennan’s thoughts back to the kiss, to the way Mary Paige felt in his arms. He would never admit it, but it was one of the better kisses of his life. Not frenzied like the ones he’d shared with Meredith Vittre the first time he’d gotten laid, nor was it slow and erotic like the ones exchanged when lying in twisted sheets with a woman. No, it was different. Kind of like the feeling of lying in the sun on an autumn day, lazy and completely relaxed, in tune with one another while also aware of your place in the spectrum of the universe. Sort of transcendent. That’s what he’d felt when he kissed her. And he’d known Mary Paige would be a comfort to him.
He didn’t know what to think about that.
And he wished he hadn’t caved and kissed her.
But…he’d wanted to touch her so badly, to know how she felt in his arms, to eliminate the intrigue. It had backfired. He was intrigued more than ever.
“Change of subject. I’m asking someone special to the Christmas gala next weekend,” his grandfather said, leaning back and giving his stomach a pat. The cable-knit sweater pouched slightly over the buckshot belt his grandfather bought at Perlis.
“Oh?” Ellen asked.
“Her name’s Judy Poche and she’s the director of Holy Trinity. A fascinating, remarkable individual,” Malcolm said, his eyes lighting with something more than benign admiration. The man looked smitten, an expression Brennan had never seen on his face before.
“You’re not taking Margaret?” Brennan asked. Margaret Pride was the high priestess of New Orleans society. Her displeasure with a person immediately resulted in invitations being rescinded, the name being left off guest lists, and being branded a social pariah. She welded power like a chain saw, hacking off personal connections like withering limbs on a tree. She often attended events with Malcolm, mostly because she liked arriving with a billionaire.
“That asp? Heavens, no. I’m done with that set, haven’t you noticed?”
Brennan had. And part of him was glad Malcolm no longer entertained the waspish elites of their city. The other part of him was scared to let go of the familiar. He scarcely knew this man sitting in front of him anymore.
“I look forward to meeting Judy,” Brennan said, using his polite voice. “Ellen?”
“Originally, I’d thought to bring Asher, but his plans for Christmas are still up in the air, so I’m bringing Mark Naigle.”
“Mark of the paisley folders?” Brennan asked.
“Well, he’s trying so hard to be fashionable. We’re just friends, of course.”
“Of course,” Malcolm said with a smile. “I like Mark. He’s got energy and he’s good at his job. You could do worse, my dear.”
Ellen gave an embarrassed smile. “I know I haven’t been the same since the divorce, Uncle Mal, but I’m pretty certain Mark is gay.”
