The Crazy Rich Davenports: Dare to Enter (the CRD Series)

Chapters 7-8

Chapter Seven

Yaya

I THINK I'm going to vomit. I stop at the top of the stairs and grip the railing.

I gag. Two times. Three. I'm getting too old for spewing chunks of undigested oily popcorn.

I gag again.

Shit.

I have an appointment in ten minutes so I need to pull myself together.

Another gag. This is ridiculous. I used to clean up my daughter's puke on sick days for Christ's sake. I stop and think about that for a second. Nope, I'm wrong. I got the hell out of the house on sick days. I could never handle other people's bodily fluids. Unless of course they are the good kind like my husband's delivery today. Hands down for Viagra.

I'm starting to calm down when the front door opens and in trots my little virgin granddaughter. I'm surprised to find she's skipped school on what appears to be a grocery shopping spree. Hmm. I may actually have to put an effort into the loot bags for this party. She's taking it pretty serious. And what grown-ass adult hands out loot bags at a party? The spoiled brat my son-in-law produced before marrying my daughter, that's who.

I start down the stairs.

"Let me help you." Rye closes the door behind them and scoops a bag from my blushing granddaughter.

"Thank you." She casually tucks a piece of hair behind one ear and smiles shyly up at him.

I stop midway down the stairs to watch. I know this brainless rabbit is mowing my daughter's garden, but what do we have here? Did his hand linger a little longer than appropriate on my granddaughter? And is she undressing him with her mind?

I clear my throat. Gemma practically jumps away, but rabbit boy smiles up at me, innocent or uncaring. He's somehow wedged himself into our family routine and I'm yet to discover if it's because he's a gold digger or plain dumber than a rabbit.

"Yaya, I'm loving the purple wig today. The color and cut looks good on you."

Is he hitting on me too? I'd fuck that boy into tomorrow. He wouldn't know what hit him after a night with me.

"You know, my sister works at a hair salon and I bet we could arrange some discounted product."

I like where he's going. This is better than sex and my mind starts reeling at the possibilities of another side job.

"What kind of discounts? Out the back door in a garbage bag? Pick up from the bin and run?"

He laughs and shakes his head. "Yaya, you're too funny." Does he know "Yaya" is not my real name and only my grandkids call me it? He looks at Gemma and says, "Out the back door." Another round of laughter rolls up his chest, but I'm not seeing the humor. That's how I get all my baggies to sell my pills in, not to mention my beauty products, shampoo, soap toothpaste. My friend—more my customer—who works at the dollar store and tosses out a weekly stash for me. You know, in exchange for a pill here or there.

"I don't steal, Yaya." He points at me, a rather swift motion considering he's juggling bags of what looks like a Caribbean platter of fruits and veggies. Gemma's going to have to worry about more than party planning if we're all having the scoots all night.

"And neither should you," he says.

Clearly he doesn't know me at all.

"I'll start unpacking these," he tells Gemma as his thong flip flops slap across the marble floors. "Oh, and tonight I'll make you my famous smoothie after supper."