I’m not attracted to Ian, and that’s all there is to it. It’s for the best, really. I like Mr. Smithson’s nephew as a person and I hope to edit his book someday, but that’s as far as it should ever go.
To discourage any further matchmaking attempts by my boss, I tell Ian to ping me when he has his book ready, and then I hurry to relieve Mr. Smithson of the cashier duty.
I need to embrace my cat-lady-ness because this dating stuff is way too complex for me.
* * *
It’s sleeting again when I exit the subway, and I curse my bad luck as I rush home. I can’t recall a worse November. It’s still early in the month, but it’s already snowed once, with icy rain falling on at least two other occasions—almost as if we were in January. My phone vibrates in my pocket as I turn the corner, and I almost ignore it because I don’t want to expose my ears, currently covered by the collar of my coat, to the sleeting rain. However, a long-ingrained habit makes me reach into my pocket and pull out the phone to glance at the screen.
Sure enough, it’s a call I can’t miss.
“Grandma, hi,” I say, raising the phone to my ear. Without me holding up the collar, the coat falls back to my shoulders, exposing my neck to the sleeting rain, and I shudder as the icy water trickles inside. I should’ve worn my old, moth-eaten scarf today, but it’s so ugly that I couldn’t bring myself to do it, and now I’m paying for that moment of vanity.
I really need to buy myself a new scarf and keep it away from Mr. Puffs.
“Hi, sweetheart.” Grandma’s voice is warm and gentle, her Southern drawl noticeable despite several decades spent living in Brooklyn. “How are you?”
“I’m doing great,” I say, making my voice as cheerful as I can. With the icy raindrops pelting my face and getting inside my collar, I’m perfectly miserable, but Grandma doesn’t need to know that. “How are you and Gramps?”
“Oh, we’re good. Your grandfather is gardening in the heat again. I told him not to go out there when it’s eighty degrees, but he won’t listen to me.”
“Yeah, that’s Gramps for you,” I say, feeling jealous. I’d kill for eighty-degree weather instead of this hellish cold. My grandparents moved to Florida when I graduated from college, and now every time I speak to them, I hear all about how nice and hot it is over there. “You should lure him in with some chocolate chip cookies.”
Grandma laughs. “How did you know I was making those?”
“Just a lucky guess,” I say, shivering as a particularly strong gust of wind slaps my face. “How did your blood test go last week?”
“All clear. I’m healthy as a hog.” Grandma’s tone is upbeat. “Now tell me about you. How’s life in the big city? Any luck finding new editing jobs?”
“Not yet, but I have some leads on potential clients,” I say, crossing the street to my brownstone. “And before you ask, I’m fine. I don’t need any help. Truly.”
“Emma…” Grandma lets out a sigh. “I wish you’d just let us take care of those loans for you. I told you, we can take out a second mortgage and—”
“No. Absolutely not.” My grandparents scrimped and saved their whole life so they could buy a house in Florida, and I have no intention of letting their retirement be ruined because of me. Their pensions and social security payments barely cover their bills as is, and a second mortgage payment would place an enormous strain on their finances. It’s bad enough they worked an extra seven years to support me through middle school and high school; I’m not letting them take care of me in my adult years as well.
I’d sooner starve than impose on them like that.
Grandma sighs again. “Emma, sweetie… Accepting a helping hand every now and then wouldn’t make you like your mother. You know that, right?”
“Grandma, stop. Please. I’m getting by perfectly well,” I say, fumbling for my keys as I approach my door. “Now, if you don’t mind, I just got home, so I have to feed the cats. Give my love to Gramps, okay?”
“Will do. Take care, sweetheart, and talk soon. Can’t wait ’till Thanksgiving,” Grandma replies, and I hang up, dropping the phone back into my pocket.
Clutching my keys, I reach for the door, eager to get inside and escape the cold.
“Miss Walsh?” The male voice from behind me startles me so much that I spin around with a squeak, my keys dropping onto the wet ground.
Standing in front of me is a short, middle-aged man in a puffy winter jacket, his arms laden with a giant bouquet of pink and white roses.
“I’m so sorry, miss. I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says quickly. “I’m just here to make a delivery.”