Page 52 of Bulletproof

I went to get what she needed, and when I got back, she gestured for me to sit down beside her.

“Who are you?” She smiled at me, her lovely, clear blue eyes glinting in the light.

“I’m Jory. I came with Hayes.” I tipped my head at the man looking stunned, sitting across the room from me.

“And I didn’t get an introduction, why?” she asked, turning to Hayes.

“He was cooking for and entertaining your grandchildren,” David chimed in.

“Was he?” Her eyes were warm. “Well, I’m Libby Fisher.”

“Pleasure,” I said, grinning. “So, what’d ya get so far?”

“Well,” she began, pointing to things, calling them out to me, and I wrote them down and took the cards she passed over.

When she got to the box from Hayes, she was genuinely touched at the scarf inside.

“My goodness, Hayes, and my favorite colors too,” she said, beaming at her son. “I love it.”

And she had the newest iPad and jewelry and tickets for a cruise and many more things that made my brain spin, but the scarf she put on and patted over and over. When I got back from the kitchen, where the garbage bags were, to help clean up the paper, Libby reached for my hand and stopped me from moving.

“Ma’am?”

“Libby.”

I smiled at her. “Libby.”

“Hayes says that it was your idea for the scarf. How did you know I’d love it?”

“It’s getting a little colder, but not cold enough for a muffler, but Chanel, with fall colors …” I arched an eyebrow at her. “C’mon. And I figured if your coloring was anywhere near his … we’ve got this, right?”

She was enchanted with me. It happened sometimes. “Did you eat?”

“Not yet.”

“Come with me.”

I was filling a plate from the buffet table, with Libby supervising, when the door chimed and more people showed up. When she left, David was there.

“I wanted to thank you for being nice to my kids, Jory.”

“You don’t hafta thank me for that. They’re great kids. Their mom is cool too.”

He nodded. “The reason for the divorce is obvious, I'm sure—you’ve met Derek. I had no idea that Hayes and I were the same way.”

“Both gay, ya mean?”

“I—”

“Say gay, man,” I told him, talking like a high-end fashion photographer ordering around models. “Spit it out. Nothin’ to be embarrassed about. Own it.”

He stared at me. I cackled evilly.

“It’s not⁠—”

“I haven’t met your father, but your mother couldn’t care less.”

“She used to.”