“He does when it matters. Most things aren’t that important.” I think he should talk more too, but that doesn’t mean I’m okay with Margaret saying stuff about him.
“If you want to take a tour inside, you can, Devlin.” Margaret’s tone is as smug and condescending as a queen bestowing a favor. But her eyes are on Becca, who’s tense against me. Is Margaret actually smirking? What kind of geriatric bitch enjoys her grandchild’s misery?
I want to tell Margaret to suck it because now it’s my damn house, but I bite my tongue. “No, thanks. I’m good.”
“Are you sure?” Margaret says, her gaze boring into Becca.
“He said he’s good,” Becca mutters stiffly.
“Well, if you’re sure. But if you change your mind, you know where to find me.” Margaret smiles, climbs into her car and drives away.
That bitch. I’m going to have the locks changed immediately so she can’t act like she still owns the place. In fact, I don’t want that woman inside ever again.
I look at Becca. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” She doesn’t look fine. Her face is blotchy, and the corners of her mouth are turned downward.
It suddenly strikes me that maybe she wanted to tour the house with me when Margaret asked. I just didn’t think to ask because it’s mine already anyway.
“You know what? Let’s come back here later.”
“No, let’s not,” she says, her shoulders drooping low.
“Why not?” I hate the sad line her lips are making. She was so happy and excited just this morning. Fuckin’ Margaret. I’m going to find a way to screw her, I swear. “We can tour the house at our own pace, without Margaret hovering around like some kind of”—I have to think for a moment—“vulture hummingbird.”
A corner of her mouth twitches. “I don’t have keys.”
“Doesn’t matter. Breaking and entering is what I do best. Other than drumming and sex, of course.” I pause. “Not in that order.”
She laughs, about seventy-five percent horrified and twenty-five percent amused. No matter how bad she tries to be, she’s always going to be a good girl, I decide with affection. I tuck a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.
“You’re terrible,” she says finally, her cheeks flushing. There’s something other than upset in her gorgeous eyes as she looks up at me.
“Yeah, but you said the house is empty, right? So nobody’s going to shoot me or anything.”
She gives me a skeptical look.
“And who’s going to call 911? People are just going to assume maybe something critical broke inside and somebody needed to come out to get it looked at immediately.”
She shakes her head. “I’m not worried about 911. I’m more worried about people contacting my grandmother that somebody broke in, and I’d rather not get into a confrontation with her. I only need to wait a year—actually less than that—before she’s going to hand over the house.”
I don’t have the heart to tell her Margaret never meant to give her the house. Thankfully, I can give it to her later.
“So I don’t want to do anything to upset her and have her change her min
d.” She looks around a little, like she’s searching for a different topic. “Anyway, did you see banners about the festival?” She points at one that’s flying on the other side of the street.
“Yeah, I did.”
“You want to go?” Becca asks. “It’s this weekend. It might be fun. A lot of families and couples come out for it.”
Couples, huh? I realize we haven’t really done much together, not like most couples do. Me cooking dinner doesn’t count. “Sure. It’s a date.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Devlin
Becca might not want to go in, but I still want to look at the house.