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“It’s called coping.” My irritation surged. “And my alcohol consumption is none of your concern.”
“It very much is if you’re representing my daughter.”
“What I do—”
“On time I’m paying very dearly for is my call. You will not drink when working on her case.”
I tossed my briefcase on the counter when I should’ve been taking it back out the front door. What was I thinking? Why was I here? I was slowly untangling myself from the living hell I’d been through for over two decades. I didn’t need a fresh one.
Especially not JoJo dictating how I did my job.
“Then maybe I’ll work on my other clients first.” I pointed a finger. “And you need to get a phone. I’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”
“I-I don’t know why the one here isn’t working.”
I drew some satisfaction that I’d flustered her.
“Get in this century.”
She clamped her mouth shut, and I resented the action. I wanted her as out of control as I felt. Wanted her to spout off.
“I like the old-fashioned way. The way my grandparents did things,” she admitted quietly.
Part of me appreciated the sentiment. Things were less complicated before personal access became 24/7. There were boundaries. And we had to communicate with actual words instead of letters and emojis on a keyboard.
And I was officially an old fart.
JoJo was just an old soul.
“Grandma Josephine had a cellphone,” I said.
“She wasn’t your grandma.”
“I saw her more than you did.”
“You know nothing of our relationship.” She rummaged in a cabinet as if I’d hit a sore spot she didn’t want to face.
The truth was, I didn’t know much of their relationship. I didn’t know much of anything when it came to JoJo because she’d disappeared like a ghost.
Now she’d returned and seemed to expect me to behave as if she’d been here all along.
She slammed a box of tea on the counter.
“I know she loved you. I know she wished you’d been around.” Not because the woman had ever said as much. It was obvious every time she spoke of her granddaughter that she adored her.
“I’m not paying you for a guilt trip.”
I smirked. “Yeah. You are.”
The tea kettle whistled which covered up what I swore was a growl. Frustrating JoJo was something I could handle. It was familiar. Easy.
She poured the hot water, some of it splashing out, before dunking a tea bag in each mug. She thrust a cup in my direction.
“Carry that for me, sweetheart. I’ve got my hands full.”
That glare was far better than whatever had been going on in the elevator.
“I’m not your—”
