Raid - By Kristen Ashley Page 0,10

I was cute, so I was having trouble breathing.

He jerked his head to the door. “Go. Take a load off. I’ll be out when I’m done with this.”

“Righty ho,” I muttered.

His grin came back, I decided to check online for a hairshirt so I could wear it and torture myself for my idiocy (I mean, “righty ho”?), and I scuttled out.

Grams was snoozing in the sun, but she came to when I threw myself in the cushioned Adirondack chair kitty-corner to her and across from the loveseat Raiden had been sitting in.

“Where’s our handsome company?” she asked, searching behind me with not a small amount of obvious excitement, looking for Raiden.

Seriously, I was so totally of her loins, except I wasn’t funny and interesting.

“Putting away the groceries,” I answered, and she gave me a big smile.

“Coulda knocked me over with a feather, the front bell went and I opened the door to that tall drink of cool water,” she remarked, settling back into her chair and closing her eyes. “Woke up and I knew it was a good day. Felt it in my bones. Opened the door to him, glad I was right.”

I wasn’t.

“Grew up good and strong, that one did,” Grams kept talking. “Coulda called it. You asked me thirty years ago, would Raiden Miller be a fine, tall, strong, handsome man? I woulda said, ‘You betcha.’”

I sucked back root beer, wishing it was vodka.

Then I sat back and lifted my feet up to the coffee table, saying, “You’re rarely wrong, Grams.”

“Damn tootin’,” she replied. “And, get this,” she started, so I looked at her to see her eyes open and her head turned to me. “He asked if there was anything he could do around here. Says his Momma sent him to check on me, make sure I was okay and that the house was in tiptop shape. I told him I had to pay that Crane boy twenty dollars a week to mow my lawn and cut back my bushes. He said he’d be out every Friday to see that’s done and won’t charge me a penny. I took him up on that, you better believe it.”

Seriously?

What was going on?

Years, Raiden Miller didn’t know I existed. He took off, was gone for years more. He came back and for months he still didn’t know I existed. And suddenly he was everywhere I was?

I straightened, taking my feet from the coffee table and began, “Grams—”

She waved a hand at me. “Don’t take away my fun.” Then she smiled and leaned my way. “Every Friday, him in my yard, sweatin’ and mowin’ my lawn. Even old women need a thrill.” She settled back and closed her eyes. “That right there’s gonna be mine.”

If I didn’t act like a klutzy, dorky idiot every time I was around him, I would be there every Friday to watch Raiden mow the lawn, too.

Instead, I would do my best to be in Bangladesh.

I put my feet back up on the coffee table and sucked back more root beer. I knew it would be useless to argue with Grams, tell her favors never came for free, explain what my Dad reminded me of time and again. You paid for it, like Dad did, sending up money for Grams to pay the Crane kid, or you did it in the family.

You didn’t owe anybody.

And I was thinking, even for a ninety-eight year old woman, you really didn’t owe Raiden Ulysses Miller.

On this thought, Grams straightened like a shot two seconds before Raiden showed on the porch.

Ninety-eight or not, she had the hearing of a German shepherd. Always did.

“Good! You’re back!” she cried then snapped her fingers at me. “Hanna, go get your afghans. The taupe one. And the cream.”

I couldn’t see me, but I was relatively certain my eyes bugged out, and I was relatively certain because I could feel them protruding from my head.

“Raiden, child, sit. Let Hanna show you her handiwork.” She threw a bony, wrinkled hand toward the loveseat then leaned that way over the arm of her chair to get closer to Raiden, who was folding himself in and grabbing his tea. “My precious Hanna, she not only makes, but designs the most divine afghans you’ll ever see and feel,” she bragged.

“Grams—” I tried to cut in.

“I know this not only because I have three, but also because she sends them everywhere, even all the way to New York City, and not one of them sells for less than two hundred