Page 43 of Forget That Guy
When I got inside, Denver was at the stove plating his food so high that queso was spilling over the sides.
I chose his moment of inattention to find a plastic grocery sack in the pantry to stuff them inside.
Those papers were something I’d be dealing with later.
“This is amazing,” Jetty said with what looked like a second portion on his plate. “Who’d you learn this recipe from?”
I glanced surreptitiously at the man who was now leaning against the counter with a plate in his big hand, shoveling food into his mouth at the speed of light. In between bites and chewing, he wore a scowl.
“I had a roommate from Texas,” I said, forcing myself to look away. “She had the art of queso, rice, and beans down pat because she said it’s her favorite meal when she goes back home and eats Tex-Mex. It’s fantastic.”
“It is,” DeeDee said. “Oh, my god. This is like the best thing that I’ve ever put in my mouth!”
“She’s not lying,” Jetty said around a mouthful. “I don’t have enough words for how great this food is.”
“I went home with her once and we had Tex-Mex nearly every single time we went out to eat. So she could fill herself up on it before we came back to college. This is a pretty good replica, of course, but it’s not nearly as good as the stuff at the restaurants.”
“We’ll have to go to Texas and experience this in person one day, Daddy,” Catalina ordered. “We’ll need like three days. One day to fly down there. Eat that night. One day to experience the great state of Texas, and then we fly home.”
“I think I can handle three days for more of this,” Denver muttered, his gaze going out the front window. “Shit.”
I looked to the side to see a police cruiser coming to a stop at the front of the house and a white Beemer pulling to a stop directly behind it.
Juliana.
There was also a golf cart flying across the manicured lawn, heading right for the cruiser.
“Shit,” Denver groaned.
“What’s Grams doing here?” Joe asked. “Didn’t you take away her driving privileges?”
“Sure did,” Denver muttered as he reluctantly set his plate down, looking furious.
He walked out of the house, passed by the big-ass sheriff with his permanent scowl, and marched right up to his mother.
“Uh-oh,” Catalina murmured.
“What?” I asked.
Catalina started eating pieces of chicken off her dad’s plate, which was now in her hand. “Grams hit a stump last month, and they took away her driving privileges. She moves pretty slow now, and doesn’t have the reaction time to be driving anymore. She got a concussion from that incident, and Dad, Uncle Sawyer, and Aunt Sorcha decided that she wasn’t allowed to drive anymore. Not even the golf cart. Needless to say, Grams was pissed. But she understood. Looks like she might’ve forgotten.”
She opened up the window between the front porch and the living room, and we all watched on as the confrontation ensued.
“Sinclair Anderson Windsor, now’s not the time for berating me,” she urged. “Let’s first talk about why this woman is back on my property when she’s been trespassed.”
What?
That was news to me.
“Grams got her trespassed when she came back onto the property and tried to steal Gram’s Christmas Cactus off our porch.” Catalina kept me up to date. “Mom’s not allowed to be here anymore. Not even to pick us up.”
“Whoa,” I breathed.
“I’m here because that man stole my dogs! I’m pressing charges.”
Grams ignored her and looked at the sheriff.
“Sheriff Black.” Margery nodded. “It’s nice to see you again. How are you?”
