Page 141 of Ice Me Out

“He prepared a crispy sweet potato croquette with whipped maple brown butter, candied pecans, smoked sea salt, and fried sage.” She picked one up and moaned after one bite. “It’s not that good.”

“This,” she announced, holding it up for me to see, “should be put into waffle form.”

“I’ll pass your feedback to the chef.”

She finished both croquettes, wiped her mouth, and downed her shot. She reached across the table and gathered her hands in mine. They were small and soft, except for a few calluses. I brushed my thumbs over her knuckles to encourage her. She squeezed my hands in return.

“I don’t share much about my family. I’ve found that once people find out, they get to know me for the wrong reasons. I’m trusting you with this.” I immediately straightened. “If this relationship wasn’t headed somewhere, then we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

I nodded appreciatively, relieved she was finally letting down the walls that kept me from knowing more.

“I understand, Vera.”

She locked eyes with me, searching mine for any hint of deception or uncertainty. She sighed in relief when she was finally certain.

“You’re right. My grandfather did pretty well for himself.”

“How well are we talking?”

“Do you remember that song I played for you on my guitar?”

I nodded. “It was one of my mother’s favorite songs. That’s…”

“It’s my grandfather’s song.”

My mouth dropped. “You’re shitting me?”

“My grandfather, Bo Gray IV, got his start during the Motown era. He was one of the biggest soul artists of his generation before branching into songwriting and producing. Eventually, he founded Gray Legacy Records.”

My brows climbed my forehead.

“Wait… he owns a record label?”

“He does. He’s also won eight Grammys and earned the Recording Academy Lifetime Achievement Award.”

I lowered her hands to the table and took my shot before pouring another one.

“Hart? Are you okay?” she asked after my third shot. The concern in her voice was a shock to my system.

Get it together, Hart.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” I repeated. “I have questions.”

“I know you do,” she said, grabbing my hands again. “But there’s something else I have to get out, and then you can ask all the questions you want.”

“Okay. Let’s hear it. I doubt anything you say will be as shocking as that.”

“Obsydian Trip… they’re my cousins.”

Obsydian Trip

Hart

“Sweet Hart… are you okay?” I heard Vera ask. Her voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere far off in the distance, but I knew damn well she was sitting no further than six feet away. The woman I loved just revealed that her cousins were in my favorite band, and I didn’t know how to handle it. Gray Social Lager? Fine. Famous DJ cousin? Cool. Multi-Grammy-winning grandfather of soul? Fucking awesome. Obsydian Trip?

No fucking way.

“Hart?”