“Do you know my dad?” Jesse asked after a moment.
“Haven’t seen him in a while,” Grease replied tenderly. “But, sure. Knew Royce when he was a boy.”
“Yeah?”
“He was hell on wheels, even then,” Grease said, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You ever make it out to see him?” He looked at me.
“We go once a year, always,” I confirmed, giving Jess a squeeze. “More if we can, but always at least once.”
“Good,” Grease said as Finn came racing back into the room. “Means a lot, gettin’ visitors.”
“Done,” Finn announced. “Hey, I’m Finn!” He reached for Grease’s hand. “Oh, cool!” He looked back and forth between where Curtis was standing, leaning against the counter, and Grease. “You match. Are you on Curt’s team?”
Curtis chuckled.
“Club,” Jesse corrected impatiently, yanking Finn back toward us. “Jesus, Finn.”
“What?” he asked in bewilderment. “You said they’re like team shirts.”
“Yeah, boy,” Grease said with a chuckle. “I’m on Curt’s team.”
“Awesome,” Finn mumbled, embarrassed.
“I got brats for dinner,” I told Grease, gesturing to the groceries. “Are you staying?”
“It’s two in the afternoon and already she’s askin’ about dinner,” Grease grumbled good-naturedly to Curtis.
“You’re old,” I retorted. “Don’t you have dinner at like four o’clock?”
Curtis laughed, and Grease glared at me.
“Feelin’ awfully brave with your new man at your back,” Grease joked.
“Eh.” I shrugged. “I could take you.”
He chuckled. “Won’t be stayin’ for dinner. Got some shit to do. Just wanted to stop by and make sure you were settlin’ in.”
“We’re good,” Curtis said, moving to me so he could slide an arm around my shoulders, his hand dangling down my chest.
“See that,” Grease replied with a nod. “Well, I’ll get outta your hair so you can get those groceries put away.” He smiled at the kids and then looked back at me. “Barbecue at the compound on Saturday. Callie said to tell you to bring a side.”
“We’ll be there,” Curtis replied for both of us.
“Good.” Grease squeezed my shoulder as he left, giving it a little shake. Then he disappeared. A few moments later, I heard the Harley out front roar to life.
“That Fat Boy is Grease’s?” I asked in surprise.
“Yep. My bike’s in the garage. Why?”
“He’s old,” Jesse answered, understanding my comment.
Curtis laughed as we started unpacking the groceries. “He’s not that old.”
I shot him a look.
“He’ll be sittin’ a bike until the day he dies,” he told me seriously, glancing toward the front door. “No such thing as too old.”
I wanted to argue, but by the look on Curtis’s face, the subject was not only a sensitive one but one he considered closed.
