Chewing the corner of my mouth, I lean my elbows against the kitchen counter and take a deep breath.
“The flowers were from Zane.” I brace myself for her response.
Shoving the pretties in the vase, her hand flies to her O-shaped mouth. “Now why on God’s green earth would he bring you flowers, Delilah? I thought you were going over there to shut him up the other night, not sweep him off his feet.”
I try not to laugh at the image of me sweeping him off his feet, and I hold my hands up in protest. “I don’t know. I didn’t . . . we didn’t . . . there’s nothing going on.”
Balling a fist and lifting it to her mouth, she turns to glance out the kitchen window; the one with the view straight into Zane’s living room.
“I’m not upset with you, sugar. It’s him.” She says it with a hint of disgust. “I told him to stay away from you.”
I take a hesitant step her way, resting my hand on her back. “I know you mean well, but I’m all grown up now. It doesn’t exactly work like that anymore.”
She grabs a dishrag and lashes it against the granite before polishing invisible smudges and mumbling under her breath.
“He’s filthy, Delilah. No good. He’s beneath you.” She shakes her head. “He’s only going to break your heart.” She straightens her posture, wagging the rag in my face. “And I’ll kill him if he does.”
I laugh.
“He knows it too,” she adds before returning the rag to the sink. She glances around, looking for something else to clean or polish or wash, but this place is ridiculously spotless. “It’s not funny. I mean it, Delilah. Stay away from him.”
“Oh, come on.” I paw at the air. “Don’t you think you’re being a little over the top here?”
“You don’t know the half of what I know.” Her voice softens to a whisper. “That boy is nothing but trouble. He’s . . . he’s like that Beaver kid. Justin Beaver.”
I suppress a chuckle. “You mean Justin Bieber?”
“Yes.” She wags a pointer finger. “You give a kid a bunch of money and they act crazy, thinking they can do and say what they want and they’ll never have to face the consequences.”
“With all due respect, Aunt Rue, Zane is far from a kid.” I can’t believe I’m defending him. “I’m pretty sure he’s older than me.”
“Age is nothing but a number, Delilah. If I say he’s a child, it’s because he acts like one.” Her eyes roll to the back of her head. “That man takes every rule life’s ever thrown at him and throws it out the window. I’ve never met someone so disrespectful. And arrogant. And the women. So many women, in and out, all hours of the day and night.”
She fans herself, like the room’s suddenly grown too warm.
“I think he’s doing what anyone would do in his position. He’s young and attractive and successful and filthy rich,” I say with a shrug.
“That’s precisely the problem.” She lifts a clenched fist to the air. “He can’t control himself. He does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, with no regard to anyone else. He’s a damn bull in a china shop.”
“Wrong analogy.”
“Kid in a candy shop.”
“Eh. Closer.” I smirk. Still feels strange defending him, but I’m having a grand old time watching Rue get all flustered when she talks about him. “Aunt Rue, you have the hots for him, don’t you?”
Her expression falls. “Absolutely not, Delilah. I’m a seventy-five-year-old woman. I don’t look at men that way. Not anymore.”
“Oh, come on.” My head tilts to the side.
This woman was a bona fide playgirl in her younger days, complete with a penthouse apartment in L.A. and a bank account the size of Alaska. Men dreamed of dating her. Women wanted to be her. The woman had not one but two little black books and a collection of engagement rings stowed away in a safety deposit box in an undisclosed location. The world was her oyster and she answered to no one.
They’re more alike than they are different, though I’ll hold off on mentioning that to her anytime in the near future.
Aunt Rue’s phone buzzes on the counter, and the screen lights up with a text. I reach for it, handing it off, and her shoulders seem to relax when she reads her message.
“Oh, goodness.” She pulls her visor off and runs a hand through her mussed-up hair. “I completely forgot. I have dinner tonight.”
“With . . . ?”
Turning to me, she purses her lips as the corners inch up. “His name isn’t important right now. I’ve got to jump into the shower. We’re eating at four thirty.”