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Love the smell of my Nana.
    “Cassidy Christensen, what on earth are you doing sneaking out of my house at this hour of the morning?”
    Can’t say I love her screeching voice quite as much as her smell.
    After my dad was attacked by Panetti, I hired professional cleaners to get the blood off my living room walls, sold my house, and moved in with my dad’s mother until I could find a new home. Nana, my brother, and my parents were so thrilled with the arrangement I had a hard time moving out. Then my parents died and Nana was diagnosed with adult-onset diabetes. I couldn’t leave her alone.
    With my share of the life insurance money I could have bought us a mansion and enjoyed positive cash flow for a long, long time. I refused to touch the money created by my loss, especially when I still missed my mom and dad so much. I socked it into a safe investment fund and lived with Nana. Someday I’d find a worthwhile cause for the money, right now I was grateful I didn’t have to be alone. Well, sometimes I was grateful.
    Flipping on the light switch, I paused by the back door. Rain pounded outside the window, did I really want to run in that? No, but I had no choice if I wanted to prove to everyone that I could run this marathon. “What are you doing awake?”
    “Answer the question.”
    I sighed. A fight in the pre-dawn hours with Nana was never good, but did she have to treat me like I was sixteen? “I told you, I’m starting my marathon training today.” Yesterday, I’d done a little online research and printed out the most advanced training schedule Runner’s World offered. Then I took a Valium and focused on preparing for my sixteen-week stint of glory. Glory? At least the Valium worked.
    “Hardly see you as it is,” she muttered, “now you’re going to be gone all the time.” She peered at me from one of her cushioned kitchen chairs, hovering over a cup of cocoa, as if I was going to arm-wrestle her for it.
    Her dark gaze seared into me, daring me to say something about the cocoa. I should’ve snatched it and poured it down the sink. Being fifty pounds overweight and adoring sweets weren’t a good combination for someone with diabetes and high blood pressure.
    Her childlike defiance softened my frustration. I hurried around the chair to give her a peck on the cheek. Nana’s skin was soft and warm beneath my lips. I savored her sweetbread scent before pulling away. “I’ll be ready for breakfast a little after eight,” I said.
    She almost looked loving when I kissed her, but then she patted the back of her head, smooshing the dark grey fluff. “Darnit, I need to go see Maria. My hair is as flat as your chest.”
    I arched my eyebrows but didn’t reply. She’d moved onto my chest. Maybe now was a good time to sneak out the back door. I made it one step in that direction.
    Are you actually going to eat anything I cook for breakfast?”
    I froze. “Um, what are you cooking?”
    Nana straightened, puffing out her well-endowed front, a mother hen ready for a fight. “Bacon, eggs, pancakes, anything you want, girlie. If you’ll eat it.”
    “Well, I’m in training, you know. I need to limit my fat intake.” So should you, I thought.
    “In a training bra,” she grunted.
    I ignored the jab. “But we can sit at the table together. I’ll eat my egg whites and banana and you can eat . . . your stuff.” I really needed to give her the riot act about what she ate instead of the other way around. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”
    “It’d be nice if I could put some real food into that body.” Nana’s arm darted out. She grabbed the skin on my waist and twisted. “No man wants to dance with a girl with skinny legs.”
    “Maybe not in your day,” I muttered, bending down to slip my shoes on.
    “Speak up, girlie, you talking to the floor?”
    I bit my tongue one more time. Why could I mouth off to everybody but Nana? The worry of Nana having a heart attack always kept me from picking too many