“Don’t start.”
“Don’t avoid the question.”
“I’m reminding you that this is my business.”
“What does he do?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“We can do this the easy way,” Marty said, “or I can sic my honey badger on you.”
His honey badger was his mother, Elaina. She was in her late seventies, sweet and optimistic and altruistic. She was also the most persistent, most persuasive woman alive. Miranda knew from experience Elaina would get far more out of her later than if she just humored Marty now.
But as soon as she started talking about Jack, Marty’s eyes would turn into hearts. He didn’t like her hooking up with different guys, despite how infrequently she indulged. He also didn’t like her being alone. And he knew it took something special in a guy for her to go home with him.
“He’s an architect,” she finally told him.
Marty’s eyes lit up, just as she’d expected.
“No, I didn’t tell him what I do or what I want to do,” she said before he could ask. “And you already know why.”
“You said he was different.”
“Not that different.”
“You wouldn’t really know, would you? You didn’t give him a chance.”
She squinted up at him. “Could I get more coffee before we dive into this old argument?”
“Miranda—”
“He lives in New York. There’s no point in investing in a guy who’s going to be gone next week. Talk about asking for heartache. Forget it.”
“Then let’s talk about Gypsy.”
Miranda groaned and lowered her head. “She’ll probably be gone by the time we get home tonight.”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“Why not? What did she say?”
He shook his head. “Seems the club she worked for was raided by the DEA and shut down indefinitely. She wanted to be with family, and Dylan is covering the uprising in Syria.”
Miranda found that suspiciously dramatic. “Well, her version of family and mine aren’t the same. You and Elaina are my family. Gypsy is a fair-weather acquaintance who happens to share a little of my DNA. She’s concerned with filling her own needs, regardless of how that might affect anyone else.”
“Damn, you’re a real grouch when you’re sleep deprived.”
“I’m not interested in throwing around opportunities to be hurt like piñata candy.” She frowned at her empty coffee cup. “This is beginning to feel like the Dr. Phil show, and I don’t have the interest or the energy for it right now.”
“She was just a teenager when Teresa died,” Marty reminded her.
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“Nineteen isn’t exactly a teenager. She was a full-fledged adult, living on her own, going to college.”
“Five years older. Five years wiser,” Marty said.
“Five years more selfish,” Miranda countered.