Page 19

It’s All About The Wrist Action

CALLAN

“ S ir, I’ve taken the liberty of hiding the merman bathtub photo,” Norbert announced as I entered my grandmother’s house, causing me to nearly drop the bottle of wine I was carrying. “However, I should warn you that Madam has made copies. Several copies. One of which is now her phone background.”

“Of course she has,” I sighed, handing my coat to the butler. “Any chance of a convenient house fire before Ms. Marcel arrives?”

“I’m afraid arson would violate both my contract and several state laws,” Norbert replied without missing a beat. “Though I did attempt to persuade Madam that the naked sprinkler photos were perhaps too intimate for dinner conversation.”

“And?”

“She suggested I focus on polishing the silver instead of her conversational choices.” Norbert’s expression remained perfectly neutral, but I swore I detected a hint of sympathy in his eyes.

“The chicken is roasting to your preferences. Madam is upstairs applying what she referred to as her ‘matchmaking lipstick.’”

“Her what?”

“I didn’t inquire further, sir. There are some questions even I know better than to ask.”

I’d arrived at my grandmother’s house forty-five minutes early, which was rare.

“Madam is still getting ready,” Norbert observed as he accepted the wine.

“I thought I’d help with dinner,” I said, heading toward the kitchen.

Norbert’s eyebrow lifted approximately two millimeters, which in Norbert-speak was the equivalent of falling to the floor in shock. “Indeed, sir. The kitchen is, as always, where you last left it.”

I headed straight for the kitchen, loosening my tie as I walked.

The house was exactly as it had always been; immaculate, elegant, with just enough warmth to stop it feeling like a museum.

Photographs of me at various ages lined the hallway, a visual timeline of my evolution from skinny kid with too-big glasses to. .. well, me.

“Callan Anthony Burkhardt, is that you arriving before the night has actually started?” My grandmother’s voice called from upstairs. “Should I check the sky for flying pigs? Or perhaps call my doctor to ensure I haven’t died and gone to an alternate dimension?”

“I’m early for important things,” I called back, grinning despite myself.

“Since when is dinner with your grandmother important?” She appeared at the top of the stairs, still fastening an earring.

At eighty-two, Vivian Burkhardt was five-foot-two of pure elegance and wit.

Her silver hair was styled in a sleek bob, and she wore a bright blue cashmere sweater that I remembered costing a pretty penny.

Not that she cared about the price anymore.

Gram wore what she liked, cost be damned.

“It’s always important,” I replied, climbing the stairs to kiss her cheek. “But especially when you’re meeting my wedding planner and will no doubt spend the evening trying to embarrass me.”

“Me? Embarrass you?” She patted my cheek a bit harder than necessary.

“That would require me to tell stories about how you used to take off all your clothes and run through the garden sprinklers at age four, penis flapping in the breeze, screaming ‘I’m a helicopter!’” The grin on her face was pure evil. “I’d never embarrass you.”

“And yet, somehow you just did.” I sighed. “Please try to remember that Ms. Marcel is a professional, here in a professional capacity, and doesn’t need to hear about my naked childhood exploits.”

“Professional, hmm?” Gram adjusted my tie. “Is that why you’re wearing the tie I gave you for Christmas and have changed your aftershave to the one that doesn’t smell like, what did I call it? ‘Nightclub desperation’?”

“I’m not—” I started, then caught myself. Arguing with her was like trying to negotiate with a particularly clever cat. “I’m going to check on dinner.”

Her laugh followed me down the stairs. “The chicken’s in the oven. I told the cook to leave early for the night off so you could show off your domesticity to your not-bride.”

Of course she had. Because Gram never missed an opportunity to meddle in my life.

In the kitchen, I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. The roast chicken, my specialty, was already perfuming the air with rosemary and lemon. I began prepping the sides, chopping vegetables with perhaps more concentration than necessary.

Why was I so nervous? It was just Anica. The same Anica who’d threatened me with PowerPoint-related torture, who’d pinned pictures of potential brides to her wall like a serial killer, who’d looked at me in that wedding dress and...

No. Not thinking about the dress. Not thinking about her in the dress. Not thinking about how the silk had clung to her curves or how for a moment I’d forgotten how to breathe. Definitely not thinking about that.

I was not nervous because of my wedding planner. I was nervous because Gram had a gift for saying exactly the wrong thing at exactly the wrong time.

The doorbell rang precisely at five o’clock, and I nearly sliced my finger off with the knife I was using to julienne carrots.

“I’ll get it!” Gram called from the living room. “You keep playing with your vegetables!”

“Just let Norbert. Don’t—” I began, but she was already at the door.

I wiped my hands on a dish towel and hurried after her, but it was too late. Gram had the door open and was already pulling Anica into a hug like they were long-lost friends rather than complete strangers.

“You must be the wedding planner,” Gram said, holding Anica at arm’s length to examine her.

“My grandson didn’t mention you were so lovely.

Though I suppose that was strategic. If he’d told me how beautiful you were, I’d have been even more suspicious about this ‘professional relationship’ nonsense. ”

“Gram,” I cleared my throat, appearing behind her. “Let the poor woman breathe. And maybe save the inappropriate comments until she’s at least inside the house with a glass of something stronger than wine.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Gram asked innocently.

Anica looked slightly stunned by the greeting, but recovered quickly.

She wore a simple blue dress that somehow managed to be both appropriate for Sunday dinner and completely distracting.

Her hair was down for once, falling in soft waves past her shoulders, and I had the sudden, inexplicable urge to run my fingers through it.

For experimental purposes only, of course.

To determine if it was as soft as it looked.

“It’s wonderful to meet you, Mrs. Burkhardt,” Anica said, offering a small bouquet I hadn’t noticed until now. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“It’s Vivian or Gram, dear. Mrs. Burkhardt was my monster-in-law.” Gram accepted the flowers with a predatory smile. “These are lovely. Come in, come in. You’re right on time, unlike my grandson who’s either forty-five minutes early or an hour late, with no in-between.”

“I’ve never once seen this man be that early.

But late? That does seem to be the recurring pattern,” Anica agreed, shooting me a look as she stepped inside.

“Though, I suppose, lately he’s been surprisingly punctual.

I’m still deciding if it’s character growth or if he’s been replaced by a very convincing doppelg?nger. ”

“Definitely the doppelg?nger theory,” I said, closing the door behind her. “The real Callan Burkhardt is tied up in a closet somewhere. I’m actually his evil twin, but I’m much better with scheduling.”

“The evil twin would be an improvement,” Gram stage-whispered to Anica. “At least he might call more often.”

“I called you yesterday,” I protested. “And this morning.”

“Well, who else am I supposed to talk to? Norbert has a life. You don’t,” Gram countered, linking her arm through Anica’s as if they were already co-conspirators in the ‘Torment Callan Club.’

“I have a life. A very busy one,” I said, fully aware of how weak the excuse sounded. “Running multiple multi-million dollar companies takes time.”

“Yes, terribly difficult, having all those minions to do your bidding,” Gram replied with a dismissive wave. “I’m sure Alexander the Great said the same thing about conquering Persia.”

Anica pressed her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.

I watched her take in the house, curious about her reaction.

The Burkhardt mansion wasn’t flashy by billionaire standards.

No gold toilets or tiger pits. But it was undeniably elegant and historic.

It was an old money house with new money living in it.

“Your home is beautiful,” she said to Gram, her gaze lingering on a particularly hideous vase that some art connoisseur had convinced Gram to buy once my first app sold. Anica’s lips twitched, and I knew she was too polite to comment on its resemblance to a diseased kidney.

“It’s excessive and drafty,” Gram replied. “But I’ve lived here too long to bother moving. The bathrooms alone are bigger than the apartment Callan’s grandfather and I started out in. Would you like a tour while Callan fusses over dinner?”

“I’ll make sure to slip a chicken bone on your plate if you’re not careful,” I muttered, glaring at the woman who’d all but raised me.

“He’s making his famous roast chicken. He only does that when he’s trying to impress someone. Last time was when the Prince of Monaco came to dinner, and before that was that lovely supermodel. What was her name, darling? The one with the legs up to her neck and the tits the size of cantaloupes?”

“Gram!” I snapped, my gaze darting to Anica, whose eyes had widened to saucers. “I am not—” I began, then stopped and took a deep breath. “The chicken is already in the oven. Gram’s cook started it and I’m just making sure it’s cooked all the way.”

“Sure. I didn’t make sure the cook followed your explicit instructions, delivered via three separate text messages,” Gram countered. “Including one about the precise temperature and another about the lemon-to-rosemary ratio.”