Page 9 of Cupcak
“No wife. No kids,” he says, giving me a lingering look. “And I’d love to stay for dinner. Thank you, Mr. Townsend, for the invite.” He says that last part to Pop.
“Then get in here, son. And don’t call me Mr. Townsend. Sounds too stuffy,” Pop prattles as he waves Drake inside. “Call me Pop. Everyone else does.”
“I am literally the only other person who calls you that,” I say, trying not to laugh as he heads straight over to the stove and checks on dinner.
“And you are everyone else,” Pop shoots back.
“In that case, Pop,” Drake says with an amused smile as he moves further inside and I close and latch the back door, “I’d like you to call me Drake. I actually asked your granddaughter to do that earlier, but she seems stuck on calling me Mr. Grant.”
It’s either that or daddy…The moment the thought enters my mind, a hysterical laugh bubbles inside me.Where the hell did that come from?
I clamp down on my laughter, busying myself by adding an extra place setting to the table, hoping to hell I don’t accidentally call my boss ‘daddy’ over dinner. Because now that the thought has entered my mind, I’m having trouble letting go. And we all know how lacking I am in the filter department…
Drake
We eat dinner at a rickety table in the warm and cozy kitchen while Emmy and her grandfather playfully tease each other. It’s been so long since I’ve had a home-cooked meal, and since I don’t have any living relatives, I haven’t had the pleasure ofsharinga meal in a family environment for a long time either. It’s something you don’t realize you miss until you get the chance to experience it again. And there’s something about being here with Emmy and her grandfather that just feels…right.
“Can I get you some coffee, Mr. Grant?” Emmy asks as she clears my plate away.
I sit back and feel the heaviness of the pasta and meat in my belly.I could get used to this.“Love one,” I say, giving her a smile. “That meal was amazing, Pop.”
“My late wife’s recipe. She made it better, but I do OK,” he says with a wink, swiping a napkin across his mouth as he thanks Emmy for taking his plate too.
“Has she been gone long—your wife?” I ask as a steaming cup of coffee is placed before me. I lift my eyes and thank Emmy.
“A few years now,” Pop says, his eyes getting a faraway look as he smiles melancholily. “She was a good woman, my Margaret. But I’ll see her again before long. I’m old as dust, so I can’t hold on much longer.”
“Pop!” Emmy exclaims as she sets Pop’s coffee in front of him.
“What? It’s true. I’m old, and I miss my wife,” he says, digging his spoon in the sugar in the center of the table and stirring it into his drink.
Emmy gasps. “You did not just do that.”
Pop pokes his tongue out like a petulant child before he turns to me. “Sugar? Milk?”
“Ah,” I start, looking between Emmy and her grandfather as she takes his coffee away and replaces it with a fresh unsweetened one. She also takes the sugar bowl away.
“Mr. Grant isn’t too fond of sweets, so we won’t need this here at all,” Emmy says, a slight smile in place as she opens a cupboard and puts the sugar pot up as high as she can reach—too high for her grandad who’s shorter than the both of us.
“Spoilsport,” Pop mutters. I’m not entirely sure who the adult in this relationship is. But I do thoroughly enjoy their dynamic.
Emmy smiles as she returns with a small bottle of milk and sets it next to her grandfather. “I’m guessing you take your coffee black, Mr. Grant?”
“You’d be correct.” I flash her a grin as she turns away and returns with the sweetened coffee for herself. She adds a heavy splash of milk, telling me I was also correct—she takes her coffee sweet and white.
Pop looks from Emmy’s coffee to his own with a mournful gaze. “Got to watch my sugar, Emmy says,” he says, giving me a chagrined smile.
Emmy rolls her eyes. “Like you do everything thatEmmysays.”
Pop lets out a huff. “I’m seventy-five years old, girl, but you treat me like I’m a ten-year-old boy,” he retorts, but there’s a hint of a smile in his eyes.
“Maybe you should stop acting like a ten-year-old, Pop.” She slurps her coffee, giving him a stern look over the rim of her mug. I find her completely adorable, and far more mature than her years.
“She’s snippy because I found her stash of chocolates,” Pop informs me, and I return his grin. “Emmy loves her sweets.” He drags out the word ‘loves’ so it sounds like ‘lurves’.
“I did notice that,” I drawl, thinking back to the orgasmic way she was eating that cupcake last time I visited her at the mall. Emmy must read my mind because she turns a little pink before she tries to hide her face behind her mug.
“Strange, because her mother hated anything sweet. But then, she was a sour woman, so that’s kinda telling, don’t you think, Ems?”
