his poster on my wall when I was fif-fucking-teen. Are we done now? Can someone tell me how dad is doing?”
“He’s in the cath lab,” her mother answered. “They’re doing an angioplasty to open up his clogged arteries. We should know more in an hour or so.”
Annabeth snorted. “It’s gonna take more than that. If they’re hoping to open up dad’s arteries, they’d better call Roto-Rooter and break out the big guns, because there’s probably seventy years’ worth of double bacon cheeseburgers in there.”
No lies detected on that one. Their dad was a huge fan of bacon, lard, and grease. If burgers had a fan club, Sam Quinn would be president.
“Is everyone just going to leave me here to rot all by myself?”
All eyes turned to the disgruntled old man bellowing from his spot in the corner of the waiting room, a forgotten copy of Men’s Health hanging from his gnarled fingers.
Her mom rolled her eyes. “We’re right here, dad. No one left you all by yourself.”
Kendall raised a brow at Annabeth. “You brought grandpa? Why the hell would you do that?”
Annabeth raised her hands in surrender. “It wasn’t me. He was at mom’s house when dad got sick. She brought him.”
“It’s not like I had a choice,” their mother said under her breath. “He got kicked out of the assisted living facility.”
“Jesus, again?” Kendall asked.
“He’s been banned by every facility in this half of the state. We might have to ship him to Ohio at this point,” Annabeth grumbled.
“Oh, it’s fine, Lilian,” the grumpy old bastard in question groused. Loudly. “Don’t worry about me. You just keep up your conversation and leave me in this corner like a dying, potted ficus, surrounded by degenerates and losers.”
The “degenerates and losers” (a.k.a.: The other loved ones in the waiting room) were not amused by Kendall’s, um, quirky grandfather.
Kendall went over and leaned in to give him a hug. “Hi, grandpa. It’s good to see you. It’s been a while, huh?”
He gave her a quick pat on the back (he’d never been much of a hugger) and harrumphed into her hair before she pulled back. “Heard you got fired from your fancy job in California,” he said.
“Heard you got kicked out of another nursing home,” she shot back. “What’d you do this time?”
“Nothing they can prove!” He sniffed. “That medical-grade pot could’ve been anyone’s.”
Oh-kay.
His gazed shifted past her to Jackson. “Your boyfriend looks like a criminal. Or a hippie.” He shuddered as if he’d rather have his granddaughter end up with a criminal than a hippie.
Kendall rolled her eyes. “Jackson, this is my grandad, Frank Quinn. Grandad, this is Jackson. He’s—”
Grandad waved her off and pointed his cane at Jackson. “Which are you—criminal or hippie?”
Jackson pondered it a moment before answering, “I’m a musician.”
“Ah, God,” the old man muttered, shaking his head. “That’s even worse. He turned back to Kendall. “Watch your purse. He’ll steal your money to buy crack.”
“Says the man who got thrown out of his nursing home for dealing pot. Again,” she reminded him. “I should probably watch my purse around you.”
Jackson, who’d been a real trouper and had been biting his tongue the whole time, lost it at that point. He let out a belly laugh that got the attention of everyone in the room and half the nurses’ station outside it.
That laugh, in combination with the memories of his kiss and how he’d sounded singing directly to her at the concert (because he had been singing to her, that much was clear) did things to Kendall. Naughty, dirty things that she had no business thinking about in front of her mother, sister, and 92-year-old grandfather.
When he was finally able to compose himself, Jackson swiped at his watering eyes and dropped an arm around her shoulders. "So much of your personality now makes perfect sense to me,” he said.
Well, that couldn’t be good. “Which part?” she asked warily. “The sister and mother who blurt out inappropriate comments at the worst possible moment, or the grandpa who gets thrown out of a different care facility every month?”
“All of it. And here you thought you were messed up. The way I see it, you’re more put together than you have any right to be.”
Well, wasn’t that just a bar you could stub your toe on while trying to clear?
Jackson wasn’t a guy who got jealous easily. He’d had a great career, had plenty of money, and he had his health. What did he have to complain about?
But, he was ashamed