She was wearing an outfit that was clearly designer, though I couldn’t tell you which one. It just looked expensive. She looked expensive, reminding me of a purebred Afghan hound with her long silken hair and elegant posture. I was more like a mutt mix that bounded into a room.
Also, did she really forget in a matter of a week that I was a server? Doubtful. She just wanted me to say it out loud. I knew Grant had told his parents a little bit about me.
“I’m a server,” I said. And no apology necessary. It’s a demanding job that requires a great deal of skill. Not to mention reading people. I was reading Tiffany and she was one rich bitch. Grant had all but said it and I could practically smell privilege wafting off of her like Chanel number five.
“A server? What’s that?” Grant’s father asked.
I thought maybe he was being facetious but I wasn’t sure. Grant didn’t seem to think so. “Waitress, Dad. But you know, in modern terminology.”
“Oh. Sure.” He didn’t seem to know what to say to that.
Grant’s mother did.
“A waitress? How does a waitress afford Prada?” Tiffany eyed me up and down with disdain.
This was going to go well.
Grant had said don’t let her steamroll me.
“Grant is very generous,” I said, trying to channel a Southern woman at a church brunch. I wanted to “bless your heart” his mother so much. But it was just internal inspiration. I wasn’t supposed to be Southern.
“I see. So you’re a gold digger.”
Straight to the point. I vowed not to eyeroll.
“Mom!” Grant shot his mother a glare. “Stop it.”
I gave Tiffany Caldwell an easy smile. “Of course I’m a gold digger,” I said. “Because it can’t possibly be that I’m attracted to Grant because he’s charming, intelligent, or good looking. That he’s kind and funny and is absolutely fantastic in bed. Which he is. Fantastic. I mean, my God, I’ve never had a lover like him. The money is nice too, but his enormous—”
His mother held her hand up. “You’ve made your point.”
Grant’s father let out a crack of laughter. “I think you’ve met your match, Tiff. You don’t scare Leah. Now let’s get out of the hallway and have a drink. Eddie, where’s your luggage?”
Hearing Grant referred to as Eddie was as jarring as hearing his father called Grant. The man standing next to me was not an Eddie. Edward, sure. Eddie, no.
“It’s in the car. I’ll get it later.”
“You’re staying in the north bedroom,” Tiffany said.
The frown on Grant’s face made it clear he hadn’t been expecting to be assigned the north bedroom.
The undercurrent in the room was tension. “A drink sounds fabulous,” I said.
But as we followed his parents into an expansive great room, Grant shook his head at me. “What?” I murmured.
“My dad over pours. Sip very slowly.”
It was clear Grant Caldwell the second liked his cocktails. The bar was elaborate and fully stocked. I wanted to check out the view and the house but I decided to keep an eye on my drink being poured. It was a good thing I did. My lemon drop was a quarter of a bottle of vodka with one begrudging little splash of simple syrup and a lemon wedge.
We sat down on plush sofas that faced the view of the water. I took a tentative sip of my drink and fel
t my insides burn with pure alcohol.
“Where’s Gigi and Grandpa?” Grant asked his mother.
“They’re napping before dinner.”
“Oh, okay. What are the dinner plans?”