So it's2:30 AM, yet here I am, updating. I shouldn't put it like that, considering how long I've been taking lately. This time, though, I've got a legit excuse. Hurricane Rita. Anyway, now I'm back on track, and I will totally be updating more quickly next time. PROMISE.

I read over this, and it seems a little sub-par, but I've rewritten this chapter a couple of times now (I've been having to do rewrites since I worked a couple of new subplots in) and it still doesn't come out to anything fantastic. So sorry about that. It'll get better, though. Pinky-swear.

To Kristin, for being way too patient. And for writing kick-ass stories. Have mucho fun at Weezer.

It's been FOUR days, and she still hasn't left.

"Do you think she's going to be much longer?" Michael asked one night. We were snuggled up on the couch attempting to sleep. But it's not the most comfortable position, and with the stress of Grandmere being here weighing on our shoulders, it's taking its toll.

"I don't know. In fact, I'm not entirely sure why she's here in the first place. I mean, if she was planning on whisking Olivia off to the Palace, surely she would have done it already, right?"

He murmured something against my back but didn't actually reply. He's scared. I know it.

He's scared of my seventy eight year old grandmother, who has tattooed eyeliner and a receding hairline (even though she covers it well).

"And Olivia still hates her, though she's getting better at hiding it. Do you think she'll ever come around?"

"To tell you the truth I didn't think she'd ever like you, but we overcame that obstacle, didn't we?"

"Yeah," I agreed, shifting my position so I could see him over my shoulder. "Once you stopped being a dick and weren't whispering bad things about me in her ear every five minutes."

He faked a gasp. "Me? Never...Okay, maybe once. But you proved too irresistible and charming for me AND for her, so no complaining. Right?" He leaned down and kissed me on the cheek as I took a deep breath. "What's up?"

"Michael...What are we doing?"

"Snuggling? Attempting to sleep on a tiny couch? Avoiding your grandmother? I don't know...you pick one. They're all relevant for me."

"No, I mean...Never mind."

"What is it?" he asked, looking sincere. More sincere than I've seen him look in years. "You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is, I'm here for you."

And that may be the problem, I thought.

I shook my head at him and braved a smile. "It's okay, really. It's nothing. Let's just sleep now."

He looked unconvinced, and he had good reason to be. But he shrugged it off and snuggled down into the couch deeper.

- - -

With Grandmere's staff at her beck and call, we ate far more sumptuously than the PB&Js and Doritos of the past few weeks.

Michael, never one for liver, was less than pleased by this turn of events, and he wasn't the only one.

"What's this?" asked Olivia, her round face screwed up in concentration as she attempted to unlock the mysteries of foie gras.

"Dinner," snapped Grandmere. You'd think she'd turn down the coldness just a notch for a seven-year-old, but even I, her only granddaughter, don't receive any sort of special treatment. She's obviously not one of those people genetically inclined to baby her offspring's offspring. But as much as Grandmere seems to despise youthfulness (along with light, joy, puppies, long walks on the beach, and Bob Saget), she certainly has no problem surgically altering her appearance to look younger. Or at least inhuman.

Not for the first time, super-imposed over the image of Olivia was my own seven-year old self, forlornly stabbing a rubbery slab of meat.

"It's already dead, Amelia," hissed Past-Grandmere, "Now eat it."

It was always the same when I was in Grandmere's company. Allowing me a choice in any matter was absolutely ridiculous in her opinion. And no matter how much my brain screamed "NO!" the message was never relayed to the rest of my body. So I'd sit, completely miserable, and mutely follow her every whim.

Now older and fully capable of standing up to one little old lady (towering over her, in fact), I did so. There was no way I'd allow my lack of self-confidence get in the way of my kid's happiness. "Come on, Liv," I said, scooting my chair away from the table. "I'm taking you for a burger."

"Burger?" laughed Michael, staring at me as though I'd sprouted a third ear.

Grandmere wore a similar expression. Though I had certainly changed over the years, she was every bit as insistent that she get her own way. "The food has already been served, Amelia."

"Sorry, Grandmere," I replied firmly, my trembling knees barely noticeable. "But I think I'll take my daughter and…and…her father out for something else."

"This is not behavior befitting of—"

I cut her off for perhaps the first time ever. "It's my choice, Grandmere."

Michael rested his hand lightly on my waist as we walked towards the door, and I stood up a little straighter.

- - -

Though I knew the stony silence from Grandmere upon our return wouldn't last long, I enjoyed it nonetheless.

"Two hundred smackarinos! Pay up, dahling."

I tossed four blue bills Michael's way. It was hard not to enjoy his victory, even though it meant bankruptcy for me.

"Tsk tsk," said Michael, shaking his head at my solitary ten-dollar bill. "If only you'd paid more attention to my tutelage in G&T."

"I don't see any quadratic equations here! Just your little red houses all over Park Place and Boardwalk."

He stroked one of the plastic pieces lovingly. "Yes, that was rather tactful of me, don't you think?"

"I think I'm going to put Olivia to bed." She had curled up on the couch in the middle of Michael's long-winded lecture on why his choice for a playing piece (cannon) aided him in demolishing my puny thimble.

She stirred a bit as I picked her up, resting her warm head on my shoulder.

"Suit yourself!" he called after me. "I'm just going to put the game away. After that I might lie down on the couch and watch the news. I can tell by your footsteps that you're insanely jealous."

Now what exactly could spark my envy? My smokin' boyfriend has got a preternatural talent for real estate. What more could a girl want?

Well, it might be nice to get more than a general idea of his feelings for me. All I've got to go by are the fact that he gets great joy from taking my money, and he is not totally opposed to making out with me.

And really, that's not much help at all.

- - -

Grandmere's tiff with me didn't prevent her from palling around with Olivia. "We're going shopping!" she announced gaily to the living room, while still managing to pointedly ignore its only occupants, Michael and me. "Come along, dear," she said to my sullen daughter. "I think our main objective today should be—" She glanced down at Olivia's pale pink tank top. "—sleeves."

Michael's head snapped around, but before he could utter an angry word, they were out the door. "Can you believe that?" he complained instead to me. "She's…well, she's a piece of work, I'll tell you. Doggone it."

I bit back a grin, though he continued seething. "You can say it, you know. I don't care."

"Say what? I just…I can't tolerate her. She's kind of a mood-killer."

Can't disagree with that.

"Bitch," I said firmly. "She's a cold-hearted bitch. Go on. No virgin ears in this room."

He raised his eyebrows, but I could see the corner of his mouth turning up. "Don't know what you're talking about."

"You haven't said a bad word in six years. It's gotta be tempting."

"I happen to enjoy my celibacy." He cleared his throat. "Verbal celibacy, that is."

"Fine, Barney." I padded into the kitchen in search of cereal, but before I get after some Lucky Charms, a pair of hands clamped firmly around my waist.

"I'm not that wholesome," laughed Michael in my ear. "Unless, ya know, you want me to put on a cardigan…then you can take it off…"

His hand had somehow worked its way up the back of my shirt. I closed my eyes for a second, enjoying the tickling sensation of his fingers against my bare skin.

It was really the perfect opportunity. Grandmere and Liv out for God knows how long…an entire beach house to ourselves…years and years without this sort of contact…

But what would happen afterwards? I mean, there's always the possibility that Michael's just been playing this up because he's horny. In fact, I know he's horny. I've slept with him in close quarters for almost a week now. Felt the proof, if you catch my drift.

"Wait," I said, wriggling out of his grasp. "Michael, I just—"

He arched an eyebrow. "Something wrong? We could always go to the bedr—"

"It's not that, I just don't—"

His expression changed from confused to genuinely pissed rather quickly. "Are you kidding, Mia? It's not like we haven't…"

"Things were different then."

"What? We didn't have Liv? You weren't so uptight?"

"Uptight! Since when am I uptight?"

"Uh, since you won't even let me touch you any more. When did you go all born-again-Christian?"

"I'm not. I just…I'd really rather not do this right now when I don't even—"

"Is this about protection? Cuz we don't need that, you know."

Gah. It seems that no amount of time will change Michael's lack of tact. "Just forget it, okay?"

He scratched at his head furiously, either fighting a bad case of lice or nearing his breaking point. "Forgotten," snapped Michael, circumventing me on his way out of the kitchen.

Now see, if he was actually in love with me, he'd totally understand. And THEN I'd shed my clothes. So it's a win-win situation.

But obviously, Michael's just in this for the meaningless fling. After he got what he wanted, he'd just…

Well, he wouldn't leave, considering his reason for coming here in the first place wasn't exactly my warm embrace.

That would get awkward awfully quick. Ya know, with Michael just hanging around, back to being his annoying, counterproductive self, I'm sure.

Of course, eventually he'd want to do it again. And again. And when we weren't unclothed, he'd probably just hang out at the palace, joking around with me like we've been doing lately. Like we've always done…at least when we've been together.

It's hard to tell where old Michael begins, and this new, sexually driven Michael begins. I mean, it's not like the old Michael wasn't interested in my body. Like Freud says, all of our actions are motivated by either sex or aggression, and Michael's never ever been the least bit violent towards me.

But then again, I always felt that his love for me beat out his…masculine urges by just a bit. In fact, they were kind of tangled up in a way. I won't pretend it wasn't the same for me. But without the masculine bit, obviously.

Now, though, well, Michael's just…he's different, I guess…I mean, sure, he ACTS the same and all. But he has yet to say those three little words that set the two Michaels apart by leaps and bounds.

I peeked into the living room, where Michael slumped on the couch, glaring at the football game on TV. "Since when do you like sports?" I called out before I could help myself.

He didn't reply.

"Who's winning?" I tried again, walking over to him.

"The LSU guys."

"Which ones are they?"

"No clue." His brown eyes flicked up towards me questioningly. "Is there something you need?"

Surprisingly enough, when I sat down next to him, he didn't move away. Far from it. His arm curled around my waist, and I leaned into him.

"Don't you trust me?" he asked softly.

"Yes, " I said, before I even had time to think about it. But what was there to consider? I just kind of…knew.

"And you…love me, don't you?"

I chewed viciously on my lip, my eyes welling up as they met his. "Yeah," I exhaled. "Do…do you?"

"Love you?" asked Michael. "What do you think?"

And right then, I knew there was nothing whatsoever to think about it. Just a collar to grab and a much hunkier version of Mr. Rogers to kiss.