which he provided his own answers. It drove me insane at times. “I just told you why.”
“And I told you that’s not why. Listen.” He reached through the order window and flicked the spot between my eyebrows before I realized what was happening, earning a yelp and a glare for his efforts. “Your mother named you Stormy Breeze to irritate me.”
Oh, well, this was a new variation. “Really? She saddled me with this stupid name because of you? How so?”
He looked around, perhaps to see if anybody was listening, and lowered his voice. “She’s a hippie.”
I pressed my lips together, unsure how to respond. “She’s a hippie?” I asked, amusement and annoyance warring in my busy brain. Seriously, why couldn’t he just cook the eggs and bacon? Why was I being forced to listen to this when I wanted to think about other things ... like homework and Hunter (although not necessarily in that order)?
“She’s a hippie,” he confirmed, bobbing his head. He said it in a manner that indicated he thought it was a big deal. “She left the family business. You know that.”
I was thrilled about that little development. Working with my grandfather, aunts, uncles, and cousins was difficult enough. Working with my mother on top of everything else would’ve sent me over the edge. “I’m well aware she left the family business,” I said dryly. “She didn’t like being a waitress.”
Grandpa’s expression darkened. “Yes, even though that business is the reason she had shoes on her feet and clothes on her back the entire time she was growing up.”
And here it was. He just wanted to rant about Mom quitting the diner. No matter how many shifts we worked together, the conversation always turned to Mom and her lack of appreciation. It was frustrating — and sometimes funny, because I enjoyed complaining about my mother almost as much as he did. “She doesn’t want to be a waitress,” I said, tapping the open ticket again for emphasis. “Cook my eggs.”
“I’m doing it.” He glared at me. “What’s wrong with waitressing? You’re a waitress and you’re happy.”
“I’m not happy being a waitress,” I argued. “I don’t mind the money. And I can tolerate smelling like French fries five days a week because Hunter thinks it’s better than perfume. But it’s not as if this is my dream job.”
“Oh, really?” Grandpa folded his arms across his stained apron. “Just what is your dream job?”
That was a good question. “I think I want to be a writer.”
Grandpa looked horrified at the prospect. “A writer? Like, a reporter?”
I shook my head. “I want to write books.”
His expression twisted. “That’s not a real job.”
“Says who?”
“Um ... everybody who has ever tried to be a writer. I don’t like the idea of you sitting around writing sex scenes for those stupid bodice-rippers all the women read.”
Now it was my turn to frown. “You know that women can write different sorts of books, right? Just because Grandma likes her romance novels on the kinky side doesn’t mean there aren’t other things to write about.”
Grandpa straightened his tall frame and looked around to see if anyone had heard the tidbit I’d dropped about my grandmother. When he lowered himself again, his expression was dark. “First off, your grandmother doesn’t read filth.”
I rolled my eyes.
“Second, nobody needs to know that your grandmother reads filth,” he hissed, extending a warning finger. “That’s a secret.”
“I’m sorry that Grandma reads filth,” I said dryly. I knew the books he was talking about. She had a whole stack of them next to her bed. I had a few theories about why, but I figured that was a conversation I could never share with my grandfather if I didn’t want to die of embarrassment. “Not all women read romance novels. And not all women writers write romance novels.”
“Of course not. That’s ridiculous. Some authors write westerns ... and war books ... and biographies. Those are good books.”
I knew what he was saying without saying it. “You mean male authors.”
He pretended an air of innocence. “I didn’t say that.” He focused on the griddle, where the bacon hissed and popped. “Why do you always jump to the men-versus-women thing? It’s ridiculous and, frankly, a little insulting. Not everything boils down to ovaries and testicles.”
My mouth fell open and I felt the color rushing to my cheeks. “I can’t believe you just said that!”
“What?” His brow furrowed. “It’s the truth. You should know by now that men and women have different plumbing.”