Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 94883 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 474(@200wpm)___ 380(@250wpm)___ 316(@300wpm)
“She crochets penis cozies.”
I blink. “She what now?”
“Dick cozies. Cock socks. Willy warmers.” His grin widens at my no doubt stunned expression. “She sells them at craft fairs. Says old ladies need hobbies that make young people uncomfortable.”
“I already love her,” I say, grinning.
“Yeah, you will.” He reaches over, giving my thigh an affectionate squeeze. “She’s going to love you, too.”
We pull into a driveway bordered by azaleas gone wild, the house rising before us like a Victorian fever dream—purple and green, with peeling golden accents. Dozens of wind chimes made from forks and spoons tinkle from the wraparound porch. A sign by the door reads “Ring Bell and Run Like Hell,” and there’s a statue in the front yard that could be a woman’s silhouette or a middle finger.
It’s hard to tell, and I’m pretty sure that’s the point.
I pull in a breath, suddenly wondering if I’m going to be cool enough for this woman.
“Welcome to Nana’s house.” Parker cuts the engine. “Ready?”
Before I can answer, the front door flies open. A tiny woman in paint-splattered overalls and combat boots emerges, white hair piled in a messy bun secured with chopsticks. Or…paintbrushes?
“Leo Parker, my baby boy!” she hollers. “Get your ass up here and hug your Nana before I die of old age!”
The joy on Parker’s face makes my chest ache. Aw, he really loves his grandma, and it’s maybe the sweetest thing I’ve ever seen. He’s out of the truck and up the steps faster than a man in a knee brace should move, catching her in a hug that lifts her off her feet.
“Careful with the goods,” she squawks, but she’s clinging to him like she’s never going to let go. “These bones are vintage.”
I climb out more slowly, wanting to give them some privacy for their reunion. But when Nana’s eyes land on me over Parker’s shoulder, her face lights up for me the same way Parker’s did for her.
“Makena! Welcome!” She extracts herself from her grandson’s arms and marches down the steps with surprising speed. “Christ on a cracker, you’re even prettier than Parker said you were. Come here, honey, and get yourself a hug. I’m Chaz, Parker’s nana.”
She pulls me into a hug that smells like linseed oil and vanilla. I return the tight embrace, earning a chuckle of approval. “Atta girl,” she murmurs against my ear. “Love a woman who doesn’t hold back in a hug.”
When she pulls back, her eyes—the same blue as Parker’s—study my face for a long beat. Whatever she sees makes her nod.
“Yep. This’ll do nicely.” She loops her arm through mine, steering me toward the house. “Come on, babies. Let’s get you fed. Parker, go grab y’alls bags. I’ll see how many embarrassing things I can tell Makena about you before you get back.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, shooting me a look that says told you so and you okay? at the same time.
I nod, letting Nana lead me up the steps. And there, draped over the porch railing like the world’s most inappropriate welcome mat: a massive, rainbow-colored crocheted penis.
“That’s Herbert,” Nana says conversationally. “He usually lives on the wood stove in the summer, but I like to air him out every now and then.”
I nod. “Of course you do.”
“See?” She pats my hand. “I knew you’d fit right in.”
The inside of the house is even better. Walls painted colors that shouldn’t work together but do—coral and turquoise, butter yellow and plum. Art everywhere: sculptures made from more kitchen utensils, paintings of nude women eating cake that I instantly want for my food truck, and a mobile constructed entirely from vintage bras.
“So, Parker said you were a chef?” Nana says, leading me through a living room where every surface holds something strange and wonderful. “Thank goodness. Maybe you’ll finally get that boy to eat a vegetable.”
“He’s very open to vegetables,” I say, still taking it all in. A papier mâché armadillo wearing a tutu stares at me from a bookshelf, and I decide I might need one of those, too. “He has a garden in his backyard, my friend Charlotte is watering for us while we’re gone and everything.”
“Oh, that’s good to hear. Good to hear.” We enter the kitchen—olive green cabinets, checkered floor, herbs growing in mismatched pots along every windowsill. “Now, pimento cheese sandwiches. You know how to make a proper one?”
“I’m from New Orleans, too,” I say. “We know our way around mayonnaise.”
She cackles. “Oh, I like you. Parker, get over here and grab the good cheese from the fridge. We’ll whip up something tasty to take the edge off before supper.”
What follows is one of the best cooking sessions of my life. I’m not usually a fan of sharing a kitchen, but we move around each other like we’ve done this a hundred times, chatting and laughing, blending ingredients like magic. It’s warm and easy, and the tomato Nana grabbed from her own garden this morning smells like a spicy piece of heaven.