Rogue Beast (The Rourkes #12) - Kylie Gilmore Page 0,53

much cleavage. Everything’s covered. I take off my jean jacket, a favorite of mine I don’t get to wear often. It’s warm now that we’re not riding with the wind whipping past us.

“Ready?” I ask him.

“I feel like we’re preparing for an ambush.”

“Close.” He’s in a black leather jacket, faded jeans, and black motorcycle boots. Sexy as hell. I wasn’t about to tell him to change, but I know what my grandmother will think. That’s her problem.

He starts toward the front door. I grab the sleeve of his jacket. He stops and turns, his brows lifting in question.

I go on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, “Don’t take offense at anything she says, and please don’t judge me by what she says either. We don’t see eye-to-eye on most things.”

He glances at my hand clutching his sleeve. “Anything else?”

“She doesn’t approve of motorcycles. Says they’re a quick trip to the morgue. Sorry. I’m sure you’re very experienced and only take planned trips to grandmothers’ houses, not the morgue.”

He chuckles. “Yeah. Would you have preferred we rented a car?”

“Oh no, I loved it. I’ve ridden a Vespa in Italy before. Tons of fun.”

He takes my hand and walks me down the driveway to the front door. “You did not just compare my Harley to a Vespa.”

I smile. “Your bike is much more powerful.”

“Uh, yeah, and way cooler. You basically rode a scooter.”

“It was not a scooter.”

“Top speed was probably thirty miles per hour.”

“Ha! I’m pretty sure I hit forty-five.”

“In kilometers?”

I purse my lips, thinking that over. We were in Italy. Hmm…

We step onto the concrete front porch, and I stare at the doorbell. I told her to expect us between two and two thirty, and we’re on time. She should be awake. She eats meals on the early side and takes a nap two hours after her early lunch.

“Are ya ever gonna ring the bell?” he asks.

“You rang my bell earlier,” I say, stalling with some of his innuendo stuff. Anything to delay.

“You want me to do it?” he asks gently.

“I’m perfectly capable of pressing a doorbell. Oh, and you should call her Mrs. Ellis.” I press the bell and steel myself. I refuse to rise to the bait or let anything she says hurt me. We’ve always been opposites. I’m sensitive; she’s tough. Therefore, she had to make me tough.

The door opens a few moments later, and my grandmother appears, staring at us through the glass of the storm door. She looks put together as usual, with a turquoise scarf tied around her neck, a long-sleeved pale yellow cotton shirt, and black pants. Her hair is white, short, and parted to the side with a small wave; her brown eyes are sharp, her cheekbones sharper. She glances at me before staring at Garrett, making no move to open the storm door.

“Hello, ma’am,” Garrett says through the door.

She turns to me and shouts through the glass, “He looks like a hoodlum!”

“Grandmom! He is not a hoodlum. Can you please let us in?”

She arches a brow, unlocks the storm door, and limps her way back to her favorite chair in the living room. It’s a light blue wingback chair with a small ottoman. That chair is older than me. I’ve tried to upgrade the furniture around here, but she doesn’t want me “throwing my money away” on unnecessary things.

I take a seat across from her on the lumpy floral sofa with its plastic slipcover. Garrett sits next to me, and the plastic squeaks loudly with his movement.

My grandmother’s attention turns to me as she says with her trademark General Joan piercing stare, “Been in town for six weeks and finally made it out here. ’Bout time.”

“I’m overdue for a visit, I know,” I say. “My schedule is packed with work.”

She sniffs. “Had time to dally with a man.” She turns to Garrett. “Always take my granddaughter around on your crotch rocket? That’s how it goes in the hood, huh?”

I choke on my own spit, mortified at her take on Garrett, who’s one of the nicest guys I’ve met in a really long time. I turn to him, about to apologize for her, but the deranged man is smiling.

He rests his elbows on his knees, leaning toward her. “I live in a nice neighborhood in Brooklyn, ma’am. I work in construction at my family’s business. This is the first time I’ve taken Harper on my bike, but if she’s not comfortable, of course I’ll find an alternate way to get us where we