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Prologue
The calm before the storm…
All morning and into the early afternoon on Thanksgiving Day, as I prepare an ice-cream feast fit for a queen and her loyal lady in waiting, I remind myself that I don’t do jerks.
They say nice guys always finish last, but not with this girl.
Nora Boudreaux loves a nice guy.
I have, in fact, datedexclusivelynice guys, and have never had my heart broken. Not even once. Sure, I’ve been sad when things didn’t work out, but my boyfriends were so kind during the “breaking it off” process that I never lost my faith in love, men, or my eventual happily ever after.
And thanks to Gram, I have a loving home where I can retreat to lick my wounds when looking for Mr. Right starts to feel like too much.
I’m basically the luckiest woman in the world.
So…why do I feel like absolute human garbage?
And why can’t I stop thinking about Matty McGuire, no matter how hard I try?
“Are you going to eat that scoop of passion fruit sorbet?” Gram asks, eying my last egg cup full of ice cream across our fancifully decorated dining room table. I went with a “Feast in a Fairy Forest” theme this year, decorating the chairs with gauzy wings, hanging birds and fairies from the ceiling, and weaving tiny sparkly lights through the flower vases. I’m a fashion designer by trade, but I love spiffing up a space and any excuse for a party. Even a party for just Gram and me.
I sit back in my chair with a huff, laying a hand on my stomach. “No, I’m stuffed. It’s all yours.”
“This is why you’re my favorite granddaughter,” she says, snatching the cup and diving in with one of the little espresso spoons we use for the ice-cream feast to make the feasting last longer.
“I’m your only granddaughter,” I remind her with a smile.
Her blue eyes, nearly the exact color of mine, dance above her spoon. “True. But you’d still be my favorite, even if I had a dozen. Still going on your date with Sam this afternoon? He’s a cute one.”
“Yeah, I am.” I glance at the clock above the doorway leading into the kitchen. “I should probably go change, actually. I don’t want to walk the muddy path around the lake in white jeans.”
“Yes, you should change. For sure,” Gram says, scooping a bite of sorbet between her lips before adding, “and pack an overnight bag while you’re at it.”
I frown. “What? Why?”
“So you can get some, honey,” she says, shocking me to my core.
Gram and I talk about a lot of things, but we never talk aboutthat.
I may be nearly thirty years old, but in her eyes, I’m still that little girl who came to live with her when I was in second grade and so traumatized by life with my flighty mother that I slept on a mountain of emotional support stuffed animals.
“You’re too young and pretty to be on the shelf,” she continues.
“I’m not on the shelf,” I say, indignant. “I go on dates all the time.”
“But you haven’t gotten laid in years.”
My jaw drops far enough for one of the fake birds hanging from the ceiling to fit inside.
Who is this woman and what has she done with my sweet, mannerly little grandmother, the one who wouldn’t say “poop” if she had a mouthful of it?
“I may be old, but I’m not blind,” she says. “Or senile. I know what goes on around this town.” She arches a loaded brow my way. “And whatdoesn’t. And while I’m all for waiting to settle down until you find the right guy, there’s no sense in torturing yourself, sweetheart. Intimacy is a basic human need. It’s fun and relaxing and good for you.” Her brow furrows with concern. “You do enjoy sex, don’t you? If not, there’s therapy for that. And no shame in asking for help.”
“I…” I trail off. Open my mouth. Close my mouth. Blink and wait to wake up in my bed, mortified that my subconscious served up such an awkward dream.
When that doesn’t happen, I wheeze, “What are you getting at, Gram?”
“I’m trying to figure out if you have some sort of sexual dysfunction or if you’re just a big old chicken.”
