Happy Monday! Today I’m working on my Valentine’s Day novella, Playing Cupid, and I thought I’d share the opening excerpt with you even if it is a few months early. 🙂
Aimee Beasley held the door open to their apartment building’s lobby for her beloved and bespectacled Gram and shook her head cheerfully as the older woman listed the many wonderful qualities possessed by her pharmacist, starting with his full head of hair and ending with his detailed knowledge of the common side effects of every medication known to humankind.
“But he’s such a nice young man—“ her grandmother protested.
“I’m sure the two of you would have a lovely time getting to know each other.”
Gram held a quivering hand to her heart and sighed dramatically.
“Knock it off, Gram,” Aimee said, unperturbed and shifting the bag of groceries she carried to one hand so she could dig in her pocket for her keys with the other. “You know that won’t work on me.”
The older woman scowled, but the quiver in her hand abruptly disappeared. “I don’t know why you insist upon turning down every young man I find for you. I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an open mind about this sort of thing, Aimee.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you’d stop trying to pimp me out.” Aimee finally
found her keys and pulled them out to shove the right one into their mailbox.
Pulling out the handful of envelopes and flyers inside, she closed it again and led the way to the elevator.
“But, dear, my pharmacist is really very charming.”
“Then you go out with him.”
Gram frowned at Aimee again and took the mail from her so Aimee could better balance the groceries. “He’s barely thirty.”
Aimee let out a wolf whistle. “My grandma, the cougar!”
The elevator opened, and both women stepped inside. “It’s an older woman who likes to play with young boy-toys, Gram. But if you do decide to bring your pharmacist home with you one day, do me a favor and put a sock on the door or something so I know not to go barging in, okay?”
“Young lady—“ Gram began, sputtering at her granddaughter as the elevator carried them up to the fourth floor.
Aimee grinned at her.
The older woman recovered her composure. “Don’t think I’ll give up that easily. I’ve got plenty of time on my hands and little else to do besides think about these kinds of things, you know.”
“Bring it, lady,” Aimee returned, and then planted a kiss on top of the other woman’s headful of white curls as the elevator doors opened. “So, turkey or tuna today?” she asked as they reached their apartment door and she juggled keys and groceries again.
“Melt or mayo?”
“Melt, I think,” Gram decided, following Aimee into the apartment. “With the cheddar, if you don’t mind.”
“Cheddar it is. Give me five minutes to put this stuff away, and I’ll fix it.”
“Okay, three minutes.” Aimee pulled open the refrigerator door and began stuffing groceries inside. “Are you really that hungry?”
“What? Oh no, it’s not that.” Gram waved an envelope. “It appears we’ve gotten another piece of Mr. Berkley’s mail mixed in with ours again. Fifth time this month, I think.”
Aimee twitched at the sound of his name. Actually, it was the sixth time this month. Not all that shocking considering D. Berkley lived in apartment three-twelve and D. Beasley lived in four-twelve, but it was unfortunate all the same, because each time it meant Aimee had to go downstairs, knock on Doyle Berkley’s door, and then—she grimaced—actually speak to him. Judging by the expression on his face every time he opened the door and saw her standing there, he enjoyed these little mail exchanges about as much as she did.
But this particular piece of mail didn’t look all that thick. Maybe she could shove it under the door and make a break for it. Sort of like pulling the pin from a grenade and then running.
“Dear, would you mind…?” Gram held the letter out to her.
“Sure, Gram,” Aimee agreed, taking it and turning to go.
“Wait—here, take some scones,” her grandma said, hastily reaching into the
grocery bag for the pastries they’d picked up at the bakery minutes earlier and arranging some on a small plate. “It’s the polite thing to do when calling on a neighbor.”
“I’m not calling on him—“
“Manners, Aimee. You can’t go empty-handed.”
“I’m not empty-handed. I’ve got his mail.”
But her grandma thrust the plate of scones at her anyway. “Good neighbors are hard to come by, and Mr. Berkley is a good neighbor.”
“He is! He’s been very helpful to me in the past. I don’t know why you dislike him so.”
“Because he walks around like he’s got a stick up his—“
“Aimee Elizabeth Beasley!”
“I was going to say backside,” Aimee returned piously.
“No, you were not.”
No, she wasn’t, but all Aimee said in response was, “Be back in a minute,” and then she slipped back out the door…
* * *
It’s still a work-in-progress, but…what do you think?