What’s he on about?
“Can we stop being vague? What hasn’t hit me?”
“What happened right before Grandma had her minor heart surgery?” He air quotes the last few words.
“The tentative acceptance of the—” I stop as it hits me between the eyes. “The Winthrope deal.”
“Bingo.” Nick snaps his fingers like a gunshot going off. “And the doctor just said Grandma can’t be stressed.”
Shit, he’s right.
“It’s not the end of the world,” I say glumly, shaking my head. “We’re just going to have to figure it out. We’re grown men, brother. We can handle filling Grandma’s slippers for a few weeks, months, whatever it takes.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “Yeah? How? Ross Winthrope made it crystal clear he trusts Grandma. Us, not so much.”
“Don’t worry,” I say, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Here’s what’s going to happen. You’ll keep doing what you do best—ensure the design process is flawless, and make sure it fits Grandma’s vision. That’s more critical than ever now. Vision won us the job.”
Nick nods like a bobblehead. “What about the mile-wide rod up that guy’s ass?”
“I’ll handle client relations. If you ever have to talk to him, I’ll be there.”
“Do you really think we can do this?”
Good question.
Our last few projects were rave successes worth hundreds of millions. But carving a hotel from the sky for one of the world’s richest men is next level.
“We’ve been doing it our whole lives,” I say, steeling my voice.
“We’ve been helping Grandma do it forever, you mean. Without her...”
“No.” I shake my head. “We’ve always been a team, Nick. She’s one of the best designers on earth. You implement those designs, and I deal with the clients, contracts, and money. The Winthrope concepts are all but done. And we’ve got Paige, the first competent assistant ever. We’ll pull her in if we need to. We’ve got this.”
“I hope you’re right, Ward. Because if something goes funky with the Winthrope property, Grandma could have her heart wrecked a second time,” he says darkly.
“Nothing’s going wrong. I promise.”
The doorknob clicks as it turns, and I sweep out of the way.
Four people push Grandma in on a rolling bed, moving her into the room. Nick and I get out of the way and stay silent. She’s sleeping and needs her rest.
Once they’ve moved her, three of them leave and a nurse stays to take her vitals. She writes the stats on a dry erase board bolted to the wall and punches them into a tablet.
Her gaze falls on us. “It’s okay to talk, you guys. She’s sleeping, but she’s out good. She’s on a post-surgery drip.”
I read the stats on the board, but they’re gibberish to me. I don’t speak medicine. I veer my head toward the wall and point.
“Those numbers. Are they good or bad?”
The nurse studies the wall, then meets my eyes. “They’re about what you’d expect for a woman in her seventies who just got out of surgery successfully. In other words, nothing to worry about.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“No problem. If she needs anything, just push the call button.” She walks out of the room.
Nick watches Grandma sleep for a minute, her small chest rising and falling.
“Where’s Paige?”
“Huh?”
“She was with us. Now she’s just...gone,” Nick says, a bewildered look on his face.
Oh, hell. I forgot all about her after the coffee run.
I look at my smart watch. We’ve been in this room for half an hour, and she hasn’t texted. Is she still here?
“Hang on,” I tell him. “I’ll go find her.”
“I can do it if you need to stay with Grandma since you’re the POA.”
“Yeah, in case there were any hard feelings, I didn’t know about it until the doctor told us. She probably just had to name someone and—”
“You’re the oldest,” he finishes for me. “I shouldn’t have freaked about it earlier.”
I nod. “I’ll find Paige. I need to talk to her.”
He grins. “Yeah, whatever, dude. Bet you feel bad for trying to talk Grandma into axing her before she started now. And you should.”
I say nothing, just dart him a glare.
Few things suck more than admitting your little brother might have a point, so I’m not giving him the pleasure.
I exit the room. If she hasn’t caught a ride with Reese, she’s probably in the waiting room, but I don’t need to search far.
When I open the door, Miss Holly stands beside it, arms crossed neatly across her ample chest and wobbling.
I look down at her feet.
Of course, she’s wearing six-inch heels today.
“You could never be a model without dying.”
She wrinkles her nose and lets out an annoyed huff. “Smooth, Wardhole. Do you say that to all the girls?”
I grin. “You’re gorgeous, and I’d never tell you otherwise. You just can’t walk in heels. I’ll give you a hundred dollars to take those off right now.”
“You’re joking, right?” Her arms fall to her sides. “Uhh—they’re three-hundred-dollar shoes, for one, and I’m not walking around here barefoot. That’s gross. I could catch hepatitis or something.”