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Aren’t I lucky?I shove another spoonful of ice cream into my mouth rather than respond. Between her talking about body bags and setting me up on unwanted dates, Grandma really knows how to make a girl feel better after a long day.

Chapter Ten

I pull into Grandma’s driveway Wednesday after school and survey the house. She lives in the oldest part of town, the area close to the courthouse and the old train stop that hasn’t been used since the early 1900s. All of the Victorian houses on this street are over a century old, and they’re massive, gorgeous, and falling apart. Grandma’s is especially beautiful with its huge wraparound porch, stained glass windows in the living room, and even its ownturret.I was so excited the first time I saw it as a little girl, until I discovered the interior didn’t look like Cinderella’s castle—just a curved room. Still, the house does have a bit of a fantastical feel since she had it painted green and purple years ago.

Grandma doesn’t answer when I walk in, so I head for the sun porch. The room gets nice light all afternoon and is her favorite place in the house, and mine as well (turret aside). I find her there with a paintbrush in her hand, a Beatles albumplaying. In front of her is a huge canvas that she’s flicking paint onto.

“Hi,” I say quietly so I don’t scare her and get a brush full of paint down my shirt.

She turns, brush out like a sword. “Oh, Quinn! I lost track of time.”

She beckons me deeper into the room. Her old white wicker furniture has been pushed to the edges to make space for her painting. Grandma is always starting a new hobby. I can’t remember all the things she’s done over the years—needlework, ceramics, stained glass, Japanese flower arranging—but nothing ever sticks.

“I didn’t know you painted.”

“I didn’t know either. But I watched a TikTok on it and it didn’t look that difficult, so I thought I’d try.”

“You’re on TikTok?”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I don’t make videos—I don’t like how my neck looks on camera—but I find all kinds of fun stuff on there.”

A very loud doorbell rings, interrupting our conversation. Grandma inclines her head toward the door with a self-satisfied smile. “Why don’t you get that, dear.”

I’d convinced myself that Logan wouldn’t show. Surely he’d find an excuse to get out of this. I mean, come on,I’vebeen searching for excuses and she’s my grandmother. But when I open the door, there he is.

One look at him and my pulse quickens like the traitor it is. He’s wearing Sloane’s crocheted hat. I figured he’d throw it in the back of a closet, particularly since it’s too large and the stitches aren’t quite right. But instead of looking dorky,the hat is utterly charming on him. The gray-blue color matches his eyes perfectly, just like I thought it would, and it’s slouched so a few pieces of hair are still visible across his forehead.

He steps inside and unzips his coat to reveal his standard outfit—an unbuttoned flannel shirt over a T-shirt. This one is red and black and looks as cozy as a blanket. I bet it’s soft flannel too. My fingers twitch to feel it and I want to kick myself.

“Hey, Quinn.”

“You remembered to come.”

“Of course I did.” He tilts his head. “Were you hoping I wouldn’t?”

Luckily Grandma comes down the hall then, so I don’t have to answer. “There he is!” she exclaims.

“Happy to help.” He hands her a brown paper bag I hadn’t noticed.

“You brought me sherbet?” she cries in delight as she looks inside. “What a gentleman!”

“Did you bring me ice cream too?”

“Sorry, but I only bring ice cream to people who are happy to see me,” he replies quietly. “I wasn’t convinced you would be, and it looks like my suspicions were right.”

“All right, let me show you where the attic entrance is,” Grandma says, and leads us through the house.

Logan walks slowly, taking in the rooms as we pass through them. There’s a lot to see. Grandpa died before I was born, and ever since, Grandma has traveled all over Europe, Asia, and South Africa, usually by herself. Mom and Dad were never exactly sure how she could afford it, but Grandma has a wayof making friends with people who have extra bedrooms where she can stay. Now her house is chock-full of collectibles. If my parents actually get her to downsize, it’s going to be a herculean effort to pack all this up.

Unfortunately, I notice that her movements are slower and less steady than they were when we’d come for visits the last few years. All this clutter means more places where she could trip and fall. She heads up the stairs, gripping the hand railing tightly. This is one of the biggest problems Dad has with the house—Grandma has to go up and down a flight of stairs throughout the day to go to the bedrooms or to use the bathroom. Plus there are basement stairs if she wants to do laundry or get something from her deep freezer. Her house is beautiful, but it was built for younger people.

“Your house is amazing,” Logan says as if he’s reading my thoughts. “Where did you get all this?”

“From everywhere. None of it is worth much, but I had fun collecting it. Henry—that was my husband—called me his dragon because I always liked adding to my hoard.”

“He wasn’t wrong,” I say faintly.

“All of the boxes are up there.” She points to a pull-down ladder that’s recessed into the ceiling. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been up there, so I’m not sure what you’ll find, but why don’t you start by bringing down anything valuable.”