Page 19 of Just Say Yes

Grandpa had been a widower for many years, and while I knew his love for my grandmother ran deep, it was nice to see him opening up to someone.

“Greta?” I teased. “Still striking out with the new girl?”

Grandpa smirked, and despite the lines on his face, it was easy to see that he had been a charmer in his prime. “Kid, you’re not the only one pining over a pretty woman who hasn’t called.”

A pain squeezed my side, but I shook my head with a grin. “You’re trouble, old man.”

We successfully dodged Beth, and I let Carol at the nurses’ station know I would be back later in the evening with my grandfather.

There was something that felt a bit wrong about checking him out of the assisted-living facility like some borrowed book, but he didn’t seem to mind.

My mother loved him, but she had grown accustomed to following my rugby career and enjoyed traveling as much as I did. When Grandpa could no longer safely live by himself, he had been the one to suggest Haven Pines. If I had learned anything, it was that when Grandpa set his mind to something, there was no talking him out of it.

That hadn’t stopped me from calling the facility behind his back to check on him as often as I could. I was sure I was a pain in the side to a few of the people who worked there, but I had done it all in the name of making sure my grandfather was comfortable and well taken care of. If it meant making a few enemies for his sake, well, then it was worth it.

On our way to town, we passed a sign for Sand Dune Art Barn. A beautiful old farmhouse with a large wraparound porch stood next to a gigantic old red barn that had been converted into what looked like an art studio. Signs encouraged tourists to stop in and create some art of their own.

Grandpa whistled as the art studio and the blueberry fields next to it whizzed past. “Sure has changed a lot around here over the years,” he noted.

“Did you spend a lot of time in Outtatowner?” I asked.

“Here and there,” he said. “Your grandma preferred a quiet country life, but I always thought the tourist towns had a buzz of energy that I couldn’t quite find in the country.”

I hummed in acknowledgment as we eased into the downtown area. Gone was the slow and quiet atmosphere of a small town shuttered down for the night. In the daylight, Outtatowner was bustling with people moving in and out of the shops and café and bakery. Even the local bar, the Grudge Holder, had an A-frame sign announcing its family lunch specials. From the lack of parking spaces, you would think it was still midsummer and not late September, creeping toward cooler autumn months. I glanced at the trees, whose tips were turning crimson and gold—the only hint of Michigan’s slow transition to fall.

“Where to?” I asked.

“You telling me you don’t remember where that bookstore is?” He raised one white, bushy eyebrow.

I shook my head and smirked, circling the block to try to find an open parking space. “Shit-stirrer,” I mumbled under my breath.

Grandpa huffed a laugh. “That’s what I thought.” He reached over to pat my knee, seemingly pleased with himself. “Good boy. That’s good.” He lifted a finger. “I told you hunting her down was the smart move. Mark my words.”

Once parked, I walked next to my grandfather down the sidewalk toward the bookstore, slowing my pace to match his and taking in all the people who flooded this small town.

“It’s kind of charming,” I noted as workers replaced dead summer blooms with vibrant bushy mums on the parkway.

We walked into Bluebird Books, and a flood of memories washed over me—MJ’s cheeks flushed pink. The way the warmth of her hazel eyes blazed with a ring of golden, radiating sunlight. That perfect pink pout frowning just so slightly in my direction.

I cleared my throat and shifted to avoid the uncomfortable swell behind my zipper. As we meandered, I flicked a finger over the spine of a few books. “So what are we looking for?”

“Greta likes true crime, domestic thrillers, some blood and guts, that kind of thing.” Grandpa scanned the racks.

“Well, that’s comforting,” I joked.

Grandpa shrugged. “She’s a tough woman with thick skin.” He pinned me with a knowing stare. “But underneath it all, she’s still a woman.”

I smiled and shook my head.The old bastard, still spitting game.

Grandpa spoke with a young kid who worked at the bookstore, and he directed us toward a newly released domestic thriller. I beat Grandpa to the register, paying for the book, and the employee was kind enough to wrap it simply in brown paper.

“I think I could go for a cup of coffee,” Grandpa announced, patting his still-flat stomach. While time may have robbed him of the bulk and muscle definition of his youth, he was still trim and well kept for his age.

I hooked a thumb over my shoulder. “There was a place we passed. The Sugar Bowl, I think it was called.”

Grandpa nodded and led the way.

The bakery was busy, and as soon as we opened the door, the enticing scent of cinnamon and sugar filled my nostrils. My stomach growled. The whir and sputter of an espresso machine was the backdrop to the din of customers communing and laughing.

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