Page 4 of Crazy Little Thing Called Love
“Get a move on boy. I’m an old lady.”
He pocketed his phone, grabbed his jacket, and felt his spirits lift. Ruth’s visits were always memorable, if occasionally bail worthy. Last time, he’d had to spring her from jail after she chained herself to a parking meter outside a liquor store, protesting their refusal to sell her whiskey on a Sunday.
Locking up the office, he wondered how he’d missed the gleaming black luxury SUV parked conspicuously in front of his home.
“There’s my handsome boy.” Ruth enveloped him in a surprisingly powerful hug for someone who barely reached his chest.
“The Murphy genes strike again,” he grinned, running a hand through hair the color of aged bourbon. With eyes as blue as deep ocean water and the confident smile of a man who knew exactly how attractive women found him, Jake had never lacked for company—just substance.
“It’s a burden we bear beautifully,” Ruth agreed. “Why else would I have collected husbands like some women collect shoes?”
Laughing, he lifted her into his pickup—fire-engine red, still smelling of new leather, with a gleaming toolbox secured in the bed. He gave Edward a wave and said, “Good to see you, Edward. The front door is unlocked. Make yourself at home.”
Edward was a small, white-haired garden gnome of a man who had the vitality of the Energizer Bunny and the strength of Samson. Anyone with lesser qualities would’ve been run ragged by his grandmother.
“When did you upgrade this monster?” Ruth asked. “Not that I’m complaining—anything beats that tetanus trap you used to drive.”
“The old girl’s in truck heaven. Even my mechanical wizardry couldn’t resurrect her this time.”
“Thank the Lord for small mercies.”
“Hey, we had good times in that truck.”
“You’re sitting on a fortune and no one would ever know it,” she said.
“Now you sound like Dad.”
“There’s no reason to get nasty,” she said, crinkling her nose. “I didn’t work my fingers to the bone to leave everything to you and your cousin just so you could drive rusty trucks and wear jeans with holes in them.”
“It’s my subtle rebellion against capitalism,” he deadpanned.
“Just like your grandfather. Stubborn as the day is long.”
Jake studied his grandmother’s profile as she settled into the passenger seat, noting the determined set of her jaw that usually meant trouble. Ruth had always been a force of nature, but her unexpected visit felt less like a social call and more like an intervention.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” Ruth observed without looking at him. “I can practically hear the gears grinding.”
“Just wondering what’s really brought you here, Gran.” Jake navigated the familiar streets toward Faith’s address, that sultry voice from the answering machine still echoing in his head. “You show up unannounced, tell me you’re moving in for a while, and now you’re coming to a client meeting. That’s not exactly your usual style.”
Ruth’s laugh held a hint of mischief. “Maybe I’m tired of watching you drift through life like you’re waiting for something to happen.”
“I’m not drifting. I have a successful business, a nice house?—”
“An ugly house,” Ruth interrupted. “And a successful business that you run like a hermit. When was the last time you took a real risk, Jake? When did you last do something that scared you?”
The question hit closer to home than he cared to admit. Jake had built his entire adult life around calculated moves, safe choices. Even his rebellion against his parents’ expectations had been methodical—he’d gotten his MBA before rejecting the corporate world, had established his company’s reputation before taking on challenging projects.
“I take risks every day,” he said. “Construction is inherently risky.”
“I’m not talking about structural engineering, dear boy.” Ruth’s voice carried the slight edge it always held when she was getting to the heart of something important. “I’m talking about your heart. Your soul. When did you last meet someone who made you forget to be careful?”
Jake’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. The familiar weight settled in his chest—the same heaviness he’d felt growing up watching his parents’ polite, passionless marriage. Two brilliant people who’d chosen compatibility on paper over any real connection until the resentment became too much to bear.
“Maybe I learned to be careful for good reasons,” he said quietly.
“Your parents’ marriage isn’t a cautionary tale, Jake. It’s just one example of what happens when people choose safety over everything else.” Ruth turned to study his profile. “Your mother still calls me, you know. Worried that you’re becoming like your father—successful, wealthy, and utterly alone.”
The comparison stung because it wasn’t entirely wrong. Jake had spent the last few years building walls almost as impressive as the ones he demolished for a living. Professional success, financial security, a carefully curated social life that never demanded too much emotional investment.
