Four
Wyatt
As we round from the second floor to the third, the guy ahead of us leers over his shoulder as if I’m trying to pick up the woman he refers to as G’ma D.
“You’re so sweet. What’s your name?” She pats my hand and stops at the landing with only half a staircase left.
I don’t blame her for taking a breather. I run every morning, but climbing these stairs three times today tells me I’m not as in shape as I thought. “Wyatt, ma’am.”
“Don’t ma’am me,” she says.
The guy who came down to meet her stares at us from the top step. “She’s Dori.”
“Yes, and not to be confused with anything blue, like that damn fish,” the elderly woman snipes.
My attention falls to her.
The guy above snickers.
“Unless you’re going to compliment my eyes.” She widens them, batting her eyelashes at me.
