“I’m boyfriend-ing,” I whispered back at her. “Roll with it.”
“I don’t understand.” Her fingers still wiggled in my grasp.
“We need Megan to think we’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”
She finally stopped wiggling.
“And this is how I boyfriend.”
The scowl on her face was almost comical. “I don’t like it,” she replied.
I almost replied and said I hated it just as much. But I’d be lying if I did that.
She looked up at me. “Is this really what boyfriends do?” She lifted our joined hands between us. “This?” She glared at our interlocked fingers, confusion marring her brow.
“Yep.” I grinned at her discomfort. “This is what boyfriends do. They hold hands with their girlfriends.”
“Why?”
“Because it feels good?” I wasn’t completely sure myself.
“It doesn’t feel good.” She shook her head, the vee between her brows growing even deeper.
“How does it feel?”
“Weird.” She shook with a tiny shiver.
“Think you can live with it?” I asked. I squeezed her hand in mine, and I felt her relax ever so slightly.
She sniffed, lifting her nose into the air. “If I must.”
Chapter 18
Shelly
Clark’s MeeMaw was an amazing cook. “Why aren’t you fat?” I asked as I forked up another mouthful. I put it in my mouth and the flavors exploded across my tongue.
“He’s too vain to get fat,” his grandmother said with a loud snort.
He patted his flat stomach. “I’m not vain. I just feel better when I’m in shape.” He nudged me with his elbow. “Shelly works out too. A lot.” His eyes did a slow trek down my side and my breath hitched. I tried to bite it back, but I could tell that MeeMaw noticed it when her eyebrows shot up. She shook her head and looked away.
Clark’s MeeMaw was a study in contradictions. She was rail-thin with silver hair, or at least what I could see of it. She had it up in curlers. She wore a house coat with snaps up the front. She was thin but solid, as grandmothers typically were. My own grandmother, the woman who’d raised me, was built like a tank. She was tall and thin, but she could move mountains. And what she couldn’t move, she would just blow up. Or poison. Or something. She liked to bake but she didn’t cook, not like this. This food was amazing, and I told her so.
“I used to own a restaurant,” Clark’s grandmother said, her voice firm. “I learned a few things.”
I hummed around another mouthful.
“I could teach you how to make a few things.”
“Mrs…” I looked to Clark for clarification on the last name.
She covered my hand with hers. “Everybody calls me MeeMaw, dear,” she said kindly. “You can too.”
“I doubt Shelly wants to learn to cook, MeeMaw,” Clark said with a snort.
That got my hackles up. “As a matter of fact,” I said, “I love to cook.”
“Well, then, we’ll plan a lesson as soon as you can shake loose of my grandson.” She shot him a speaking glance.