Then Grant laughed.
Not loudly. Just enough.
Lauren froze.
He took the quilt from her hands, pinched the edge between two fingers as if he were testing the quality of a cheap napkin, and said with a thin smile that pretended to be humor, “Your mom’s just a lunch lady, babe.”
A couple of women laughed the way people do when wealthy men have trained a room to follow their lead.
Then Grant let the quilt fall.
Not onto a chair. Not back into the box.
Onto the floor.
Like garbage.
My daughter gasped. Celeste said, “Grant,” in that weak tone mothers use when they want to correct a scene rather than a son.
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