“Might have?” Gram asked. “How did you might have read it? Did you whack your head and get amnesia after you finished?”
“No, dammit!” Ruby shouted. “Okay, I read it. Then I joined MatureSingles.com.”
“And?” Gram encouraged.
“I met a man! Are you happy? Don’t you dare tell those prude daughters of mine that I found a man who’s into spanking.”
“Okay!” Noah interrupted. “That’s TMI!”
“Only if she leaves her jaw open too long for oral sex,” Gram said. “Do you, Ruby?”
“Oh, my God, Gram!” Noah shouted, drawing the looks of the people around him. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get that mental image out of his brain. “That’s TMJ, not TMI.”
“Oh, then what’s TMI?”
“Too much information,” Ruby supplied.
“How’d you know that?” Gram asked.
“I got a Twitter account.”
“I have one too and I still didn’t know that.”
“My grandkids taught me to use it,” Ruby added smugly.
“Huh,” Gram said, then returned her attention to Noah. “So is Libby into BPM?”
“I give up,” Ruby groaned.
“I don’t know if she is or not. It hasn’t come up in discussion.” Noah’s face was burning. “I haven’t even kissed her yet.”
“What?” Gram shouted.
“Maybe he’s old-fashioned,” Ruby said.
That seemed to appease Gram since she swung the conversation a different direction. “Are you like those fundamentalist Christians who think they should fill their baskets full of kids?”
“What?”
“Their quivers,” Ruby said. “How do you get everything so wrong?”
“Quiver? I bet those kids are quivering with lust. They can’t even hold hands or hug before they get engaged, and they don’t kiss until the wedding. I bet they don’t last thirty seconds on their wedding night. You don’t want that happening with Libby, do you?”
Noah stifled a groan. How was he having this conversation with two grandmothers? “Look, I appreciate the advice, but I know how to handle women.”
Both women started cackling.
“What?” he asked defensively.
“There’s a difference between handling tarts and handling the woman you want to marry,” Ruby said. “And it’s plain as day that Libby’s scared to make a commitment. Now how are you going to deal with that?”
“My plan was to give her all the space she needs . . . but that dress . . .”
Gram chuckled. “That’s why I called it a lucky dress. It’ll help you two get lucky.”
But he still didn’t think that was what she needed from him. She needed to know he was going to stick around. “I just did everything short of flat-out telling her I love her and want to marry her, and she jumped up like I’d shot her and said she wanted to play poker.”
“Libby hates to gamble,” Gram murmured.
“I know.”
“She’s gonna go looking for another man,” Gram said. “That’s what she does.”
“She already did,” Noah said, trying not to sound defeated. “But she didn’t do anything.”
“That’s good,” Gram encouraged. “That sounds like progress.”
“She told me she wants to take time away from relationships. If that’s what she wants, I’m going to give it to her.”
“While you play with your strumpets?” Ruby asked.
“No,” Noah said firmly. “I’m going to convince her that she’s the only woman I want. Ever.”
Gram chuckled. “There may be hope for you two yet.”
Chapter Eighteen
Noah was stuffing his phone into his pocket when Libby emerged from the restroom. He must have noticed her questioning glance because he said, “Gram. I told her about dinner. They’ll meet us at the restaurant.”
“Okay.” But Libby’s anxiety was making her skin feel too tight. Noah seemed more reserved as they made their way to the poker tables, yet his eyes never left her, making her more and more anxious.
Don’t blow this, Libby. Don’t lose him.
She still had no idea what he wanted. A fling? Something more long term? Their earlier conversation had insinuated he was interested in the latter . . . maybe even in marriage. But this was Noah, a man who’d informed her months ago that he was allergic to marriage. She would have chalked her confusion up to the alcohol she’d consumed, but she couldn’t do that since she’d barely even had a buzz all night. The drinks here must be watered down.
She knew she should just ask him, lay all the cards on the table, but when she started to ask, her throat squeezed tight.
They sat at a table with another couple and a middle-aged man with a Texas drawl. Noah was right—she hated poker—but you couldn’t really talk to your tablemates, so she had some time to think. But half an hour later, she was a hundred dollars poorer, totally sober, and ready to move on.
“What do you want to do?” he asked. “Tomorrow is your birthday.”
“My birthday,” she sneered. “A pox upon my fucking birthday.”
He looked amused. “Someone’s been binge-watching Game of Thrones.”
She curled her upper lip and looked for another waitress. Getting drunk sounded like an even better idea than before they sat down the poker table. She’d gotten sidetracked with her plan by the game.