“Does this have something to do with this Josh guy?” When she sees my guilty expression, she nods. “Mm-hmm. Tell me.”
I wish there was nothing to tell her, but there is. And honestly, Letty Webster is the perfect person to set me straight right now.
“Once upon a time, a good-looking man moved in next door,” I begin.
Grandma scoots up the bed and slips under the covers, tucking them under her arms and clasping her hands across her stomach. “How good-looking?”
I think for a minute. “Young Warren Beatty.”
“Wow,” she says. “Go on.”
I tell her the rest of the story, from the first bad date to the balcony talks, and the whole fake girlfriend thing.
“How long has he been living next door?” she asks.
“Three weeks.”
She whistles. “Been a busy boy.”
I sigh. “I know. Busy is the whole problem. I don’t have time for this right now.”
“Sam, if you think that’s the only issue here, you’ve got less common sense than I usually give you credit for,” she says.
I straighten, a pinch of hurt trying to worm its way into my chest. “I just told you I’m not going to date him.”
“But you want to,” she says. “You need to think about why. He’s a distraction right now with your music stuff heating up, isn’t he?” I nod. “And you’ve been glancing at that balcony since we got up here like you want to climb over it to his and spend some quality time.”
Definitely a mind reader. But I say, “I want to be here with you.”
“Good, because I’m not going to tell you to go chasing after that boy. Even if it was actual young Warren Beatty.” She squeezes my hand. “You don’t see it, do you?”
“See what?”
“Tell me how this is different than Bryce.” Her eyes study me, shrewd and unrelenting.
“He’s . . . nicer.”
“Like Bryce was in the beginning when he was trying to win you over?”
I have to admit this is true.
“Bryce was nice until he caught you. Then it seemed to me like you spent the next three years chasing him, trying to prove you were who he wanted. But that was never going to work because people like Bryce and his family tree of jackasses measure people by all the wrong things. They can’t see past the money and houses that make them feel important, and if you don’t come from that, you’re going to be suspected of trying to get it by marriage.”
I flinch, and she rests her hand against my cheek. “Honey, none of them rejected you, because they never sawyou, not even Bryce. They rejected who they assumed you to be. Now you’re telling me that this Josh guy is chasing you, that he was brought up the exact same way, and you don’t think you’re in some kind of history repeating itself situation here?” She pats my cheek again before leaning back. “You have a type.”
“Emotionally unavailable rich boys who want me as a trophy?”
“You said it, sister.” Grandma rolls to her side to meet my eyes. “We’re Webster women. It has never worked for us to count on a man. But baby”—and here she presses a kiss to my forehead—“we’ve never needed to. We do for ourselves. Always have done.”
She’s right. I don’t want any of the things Bryce wanted or Josh wants. I want to be a working musician. Touring, writing music. Not a society wife. Not a country club member. And while a weekly Sunday dinner sounds nice, I’ve got family any time I want to go back to Hillsboro for them. Or even right here in the condo, with the family I’ve made.
All Josh can offer me long-term is a lifestyle I’m not made for. Bryce’s rejection had been a blessing in disguise like breakups with the wrong guy always are. Maybe it had taken stepping into the shoes of Lady Mantha to understand what I really want, but I can’t unknow the feeling of connecting with music fans through lyrics in a deep and real way, of feeding each other our energy in a live show, and . . . I don’t want to.
I’ll keep Josh at arm’s length until he loses interest. Once he realizes he’s more into the idea of catching me than keeping me, he’ll move on. Webothcan move on. But for right now, for me, it’s going to be all about keeping away.
Chapter Twenty-One
Josh
