Unveiled(81)
“Hmmm,” she hums, rubbing across the peak of my ring with the pad of her thumb. “So, Miller, when are you marrying my beautiful granddaughter?” Her raised gray eyebrows are quickly on me, despite the question being directed at Miller, and I shrink into the leather seat. He better think of something quick-sharp, because I haven’t the foggiest idea of what to tell her. I need her to stop looking at me like that. My cheeks are flaming-red hot, and my throat is closing off under the pressure, making speech impossible. “Well?” she prompts.
“I’m not.” Miller’s short, sharp response makes everything die inside. He has no problem telling my spunky nan, and while I understand him, I’m not sure she will. She’s old-school.
“Whyever not?” She sounds offended, almost angry, and I consider the possibility of her reaching forward and smacking the back of Miller’s head. She probably would. “What’s wrong with her?”
I’d laugh if I could find air to draw breath. What’s wrong with me? Everything!
“That ring is a sign of my love, Mrs. Taylor. My eternal love.”
“That’s all good and well, but what’s it doing on her wedding finger?”
“Because your beautiful ring holds position on her right hand, and I wouldn’t be so disrespectful as to ask her to replace what’s been in her life for longer than me.”
I swell with pride, and Nan stutters her astonishment. “Can’t we just swap them?”
“Are you trying to marry me off?” I ask, finally finding some words.
“So?” she huffs, her nose put firmly out of joint, not even Miller’s respectful explanation diluting her displeasure. “You plan on living in sin forever?”
Her absent-minded choice of word resonates deeply, and I find mine and Miller’s eyes locked together in the mirror, mine wide, his wary.
Sin.
There are so many sinful things she’s unaware of, things that my poor mind is struggling to deal with. I wouldn’t have exposed her to it before, no matter how sassy and spunky she might be, and I’m most certainly not exposing her to it now. Not with her being so delicate after her heart attack, though you’d never know it. Being hospitalized for the past few days seems to have injected even more sass into her Taylor bones.
Miller returns his eyes to the road, and I remain tense in my seat, but Nan keeps expectant eyes on my OCD-suffering, ex-prostitute, notorious male ex-escort…
I sigh. My mind hasn’t the strength to even mentally list the endless sinful things that Miller was.
“I plan on worshipping your granddaughter for the rest of my life, Mrs. Taylor,” Miller says quietly, yet Nan’s wistful coo indicates she heard it perfectly, and that might just be good enough. It is for me, and though I constantly tell myself no one else matters, Nan’s approval really does. I think I have it. I’ll just have to keep telling myself that her lacking knowledge is of no consequence, that her opinion wouldn’t change in the least bit if she knew every sordid detail.
“Home sweet home, my lady.” Miller breaks into my stray thoughts as we pull up to Nan’s house. I notice George and Gregory on the pavement outside, both men sitting on the low wall at the end of our front garden, both men looking apprehensive. I haven’t the time or energy to waste on worrying about Miller and Gregory in such close proximity. They just better behave.
“What are they doing here?” Nan grumbles, making no attempt to get out, instead waiting for Miller to open the door for her. She’s not fooling me. She’s loving all of the special treatment, not that she doesn’t get it under normal circumstances. “I’m not an invalid!”
“I beg to differ,” Miller retorts firmly, offering his hand, which she takes with a little scowl. “Less of the sass, Mrs. Taylor.”
I chuckle to myself as I get out of the car and join them on the pavement, hearing Nan huffing and puffing all over Miller. “The cheek!”
“Olivia’s certainly learned from the best of them,” he grumbles, giving Nan up to George when he steps forward, a worried look all over his old round face.
“How are you feeling, Josephine?” George says, taking Nan’s arm.
“I’m fine!” She accepts George’s arm, indicating her need for support, and lets him lead her up the garden path. “How are you, Gregory?” she asks as she passes him. “And Ben?”
He’s told her? I look to my friend, as does Miller, as does George. Four sets of eyes are all resting on Gregory, spiking a string of uncomfortable shifting movements to play out before us. His boots scuff the concrete, he flicks us all wide eyes, and we all just stand staring at the poor guy, waiting for his reply. He coughs. “Um, yeah, fine. We’re fine. How are you, Nan?”