Weekend Wife (Sassy in the City 1)

“Tiff wants to divorce me too,” Grant the second said.

“Oh, Christ, that’s the most idle threat I’ve ever heard in my life. She’s been saying that since the day after you got married. I wish she’d just do it already so we can stop talking about it.” The man came over to me and stuck out his hand. “I’m Grant the first. You must be Eddie’s new girlfriend.”

I nodded. “I’m Leah. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He waved his hand behind him. “They’re fucking crazy. Just so you know. My business acumen and work ethic skipped a generation. You’ve got a good man in Eddie.”

I tried to imagine my grandfather dropping an f-bomb and couldn’t fathom it.

“I totally agree. Eddie is a dream.”

“You’re getting married, huh? Congratulations. Welcome to the shit show.”

That seemed legit. “Thank you.”

“When’s the big day?”

“Never,” Tiffany said.

“We haven’t really settled on a date,” I said. “But it’s going to be huge. Invite everyone we know. Spare no expense.”

“I would love a spring wedding,” Grant said.

I almost laughed. I wonder if he ever imagined words like that would ever come out of his mouth. He almost sounded believable. Almost. I was still mad at him, but this was kind of funny, I couldn’t lie.

“Get her locked and loaded, eh, kid?” His grandfather tapped him on the shoulder. “Solid plan.”

“It’s a bullshit plan!” Tiffany yelled from the sofa.

Grant’s grandfather raised an eyebrow and shook his head. “Fucking nuts. Can we get some food around here? I know Tiffany doesn’t eat and Junior just drinks booze, but the rest of us would like a damn meal.”

“The caterer has some trays in the refrigerator for today. Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to plan a party like this?” Tiffany said, sounding like she’d run a half marathon in ninety-degree heat.

“Especially when you haven’t eaten in three years,” Grant the first said. He shook his head at me. “Menopause hit that one hard. She’s living on air to stay at that weight.”

A slight woman in he

r seventies wandered in smoking a cigarette. “Who’s in menopause?” she asked.

“Tiffany.”

“Oh.” She waved her hand in dismissal and took a drag. She was dressed like she was taking a stroll outside in January. Many layers of expensive wool and an elaborate headdress. “Who are you?” she asked me. “Are you one of Bert’s kids? I seem to remember he married some Italian slut at some point. You look like her.”

And wow. Just wow. “I’m not one of Bert’s kids,” I said. “I’m Grant’s fiancée.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Are you an Italian slut?”

“She’s a waitress,” Tiffany said.

“I don’t think we should refer to other women as sluts,” I said, unable to stop myself. If there is one thing I absolutely couldn’t stand, it was women dragging down other women.

Gigi nodded. “Slut.”

“Gigi!” Grant’s voice roared loud and angry. “Don’t you dare speak to her like that. This is my fiancée.”

He sounded furious.

“Relax,” Gigi said. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”