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“Well, yes, but—”
“So what’s the difference?”
“There isn’t one I guess, but—”
“There’s a difference,” Cam said as he dug into his hash browns. He took his time chewing and swallowing, and it took everything in Nash not to jump across the table and wipe that silly grin off his brother’s face. Cam pointed his fork at Nash. “Honey’s sleeping with him.”
“Well, I… That’s not what I was asking, and it’s not appropriate conversation for the dinner table.” His mother cleared her throat and shot a look at Cam, one that would silence most smart people. But Cam was playing it dangerous, and his grin widened.
“While we’re on the subject, why don’t you ask Nash if they’re being careful?”
“Why do you have to be careful, Uncle Nash? Are you going to hurt yourself?” Tink spoke up, looking around the table at the adults, obviously confused.
“No,” Nash said with a smile. “Your Uncle Cam is an idiot, so don’t pay any attention to him.”
“Mommy says that idiot is not a nice word.”
“Your mom’s right,” Nash replied, reaching for a bun. “But sometimes, it’s the only word.”
For a few moments, there was blessed silence. But then Cam asked for more hash browns, and as Nash grabbed the plate and handed it off to his mother, she shook her head. “She came for Thanksgiving.”
For the love of God. Nash ignored her.
“But they weren’t having—” Cameron’s words froze as Lisa Booker shot darts with her eyes. “Let me rephrase.” He looked at his nephew and paused before continuing. “They weren’t having fun then.”
“I remember Thanksgiving,” Tink said, chomping away on his food. “It was fun.” He looked at Nash. “We had fun.”
“Theodore, don’t speak with food in your mouth.” Melody Booker eyed her son for a couple of seconds and then turned back to the baby.
“Bud, we’re talking about two different kinds of fun.” Cam was laughing now, and damned if Nash wasn’t trying to hide his own grin.
But their mom wasn’t having any of it.
“I just think she should be here, is all.” Lisa looked at Nash. “If you two are…having fun, well then, she should be here with your family.”
“We don’t know what kind of fun it is, though.” Cam’s brow furrowed. “There’s lots of different kinds of fun.”
Nash kicked at his brother under the table but missed.
“There’s casual fun. One-night-only fun. Then you got your semiserious fun or your”—Nash narrowed his eyes as his brother air quoted—“on-the-cusp-of-something-big kind of fun.”
“What kind of fun is it, Uncle Nash?” Tink pushed his glasses up and looked at Nash expectantly. “The last one sounds cool, even though I don’t know what it means.”
“You gotta be kidding me,” Nash muttered.
“No,” Tink replied seriously. “I want to know.”
“I do too,” his mother said.
Nash set down his fork, aware that every member of his family was staring at him. Even Melody had turned in her chair.
It was a losing battle, and his temper was about to blow. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what we’re doing. I have no idea what kind of…fun…we’re having. I asked her to come, and she said another time.” He frowned. “Maybe another time is what she said. Can we move on to something else?” He glared at his brother. “Any news on the trial date? That sounds like fun. But what kind of fun would that be, exactly?”
And just like that, the light went out of Cam’s eyes. “You’re an asshole.” Cam got to his feet and grabbed his plate before clearing the others and heading to the kitchen.
“That was a cheap shot, Nash.” Lisa Booker followed her younger son out to the kitchen, while his dad said he was going to take out the garbage.
Tink looked at him. “I think Uncle Cam is mad at you.”
