Come Again (Big Rock)

Bellamy shoots me a flirty side-eye stare. “A sharp-dressed man is catnip,” she says, her gaze traveling along my tailored shirt.

I tug on the collar. “Only a bit wrinkled from when this wildly sexy woman who detests me nearly tore it off.”

“She must really hate you.”

“It’s a deep and abiding kind of hate,” I say.

“The type of hate that runs bone”—she licks her lips—“deep.”

I’d give the woman a slow clap for that if she wouldn’t think I was sucking up to her. “The irresistible kind,” I say instead.

We weave through tables, scanning for a high-fashion grandmother with gunmetal-gray hair.

“There she is,” Bellamy declares.

I look at her in surprise. “You recognize my grandmother?”

“Saw her at the party.” She points, and lo and behold, there’s Coco, wedged between . . . two women?

Huh.

That’s not what I expected.

“I bet her date brought his sisters along,” I grumble. “See? Online dating is crazy.”

“Because of the possibility a date might bring his sisters? That makes no sense, Easton.”

“No, because people surprise you in weird ways. The other week, her date brought his adult kids. I swear . . .”

“All dating is weird,” she says. “Not just online dating.”

We reach my grandmother, sandwiched between two harmless-looking little old ladies. When she spots me, Coco beams through her tiger-print eyeglasses. “Is the chopper ready, munchkin?”

“Yes, Harvey said to . . . chop, chop.”

“Ah,” she says, then explains to her companions. “Helicopter talk for time to skedaddle.”

The curly-haired woman to her right frowns. “Are you sure you have to go? I wanted to tell you my mulch recipe. It’s fantastic for New York gardens.”

“How wonderful,” Coco says as she slinks out of the booth.

The redhead grabs her arm. “One more thing. Be sure to save your cardboard. For the mulch. I can bring you some of mine if you want to try it.”

Coco taps her temple. “Email me all the details.”

Then, skedaddle we do. A minute later, we hit the street, and my grandmother breathes a huge sigh of relief. “I thought I’d never escape.”

I give her a look that says what gives. “I thought you were on a date gone bad.”

She scoffs. “Dates I can handle. Boring friends from college are the worst. That was Ursula and Dolores, and they’re simply dreadful. I got snookered into meeting them when they mentioned how much fun we’d had in our sorority.” She shakes her finger. “But let that be a lesson—old memories do not forecast new ones. I was bored senseless. Mulch. I’m not sure how I survived.”

Beside me, Bellamy chuckles under her breath.

“Let me get this straight,” I say to clarify. “You called in a Mayday because you were bored?”

My grandmother stares sharply at me, no joking in her blue eyes. “Isn’t that what Maydays are for, dear? I don’t have much time left on this earth. I can’t spend it being un-entertained. I wanted to talk about sex and music and cocktails. But I also didn’t want to offend them. Decorum matters.” With that, she turns to Bellamy and offers her hand. “I’m Coco Ford. I recognize you from the party.”

“Pleasure to meet a woman of such high standards. I’m Bellamy Hart, and I love a good Moscow Mule.”

“I’m a martini gal all the way,” Coco says as they shake hands. Then she glances from me to Bellamy. “But did I interrupt something?” Her eyes widen, and she wags a finger at me. “I did. I am a bad, bad woman.”

Ah. I see now. Coco is a little drunk. “Time to get you home, Grandma,” I say.

“But I’m just getting to know Bellamy. Bellamy, dear, come with us. We have so much to talk about.”

Dear God, don’t let it be sex.

The devil woman’s eyes light up. “Can you tell me stories about what Easton was like as a kid?”

I smother a groan. That topic is only marginally better.

Coco grins—wickedly, of course. “So many delicious tales. Where to start . . .”

By the time the cab drops us off at Coco’s Upper East Side brownstone, Bellamy has heard about how, when I was twelve, I took my father’s red Triumph for a joyride and crashed it into a mailbox.

Two states over.

She’s learned how, on a European vacation, my family traveled from Paris to London via the train under the English Channel, and I convinced my sister that the Eiffel Tower was in England.

Bellamy looks at me with a twinkle in her eye. “You were full of mischief, Easton Ford.”

“Guilty as charged,” I say.

“So much mischief,” Coco seconds as she leads us into her three-story brownstone. “Do you want to see pictures of him as a kid?”

Bellamy gleefully eats this up as we cross the foyer. “Of course.”

Grandma beckons my archenemy down the hall to her bedroom suite. I start to follow, but she stops me with a raised hand. “You go wait in the living room. We’ve got girl talk to do.”