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She laughed. Seemed as if the kid was a charmer. Again, not unlike his uncle. “Thanks.”
“I’m Tink.”
“That’s an interesting name.”
The little boy shrugged. “My real name is Theodore, but everyone calls me Tink.” His eyes got bigger. “Derek at school called me Tinker Bell, and everyone laughed.”
Nash ruffled his curls again. “Sorry about that, bud.”
“It’s okay. He won’t do it again. I punched him in the nose, and then Mrs. Elliot called Mom, so I got into a lot of trouble.”
“Geez, Tink. You can’t go around hitting kids at school.”
“I didn’t do it at school. We were on the bus.”
Honey hid another smile. Hard to argue with that kind of logic.
“Is everyone in the kitchen?”
Tink nodded and grabbed Nash’s hand. “Even Uncle Cam is here.”
“Is he, now.” Nash scooped up the boy.
“Uh-huh. Mommy says we’re not supposed to talk about the thing.”
Nash scowled. “How in hell do you know about the thing?”
“Uncle Nash, you said a bad word.”
“How do you know about the thing?” he asked again.
“I don’t know about the thing. I heard Mommy on the phone talking about not talking about the thing. But she never said what the thing was.” Tink yanked on Nash’s chin. “You won’t tell Mommy, right? ’Cause then she’ll get mad. And when she gets mad, Hattie starts to wail like a stuck pig.”
“A stuck pig?” Nash made a face. “No kidding.”
“Uh-huh.” Tink nodded, his expression serious. “It’s so loud, it hurts.”
“Well, we better not upset your mom.”
“Nope. And we can’t talk about the thing.” The kid paused, his expression hopeful. “Can you tell me what the thing is?”
“What do you think?” Nash replied with a chuckle.
“I knew it.” Tink pouted.
Honey couldn’t help but think that maybe Thanksgiving would prove more interesting than watching Netflix on her old laptop after all.
Nash and Tink headed down the hall, and Honey grabbed the wine he’d left on the Queen Anne table near the front door. She paused in front of the mirror. She’d applied some gloss and mascara, but that was about it. Her hair was pulled into a high ponytail, the thick ends swinging around her shoulders. Her wardrobe wasn’t exactly fashion forward, but the simple black turtleneck she’d pulled on did the trick. Thank God. She studied her reflection for a moment and pulled at the edge of the three-quarter-length sleeves. Her tattoos were covered, and she looked respectable.
Not at all the image she was used to. A wry smile lit her face. Her friends back in Louisiana would get a kick out of this. She actually looked respectable.
Honey headed after Nash. She passed a library and an office, and then paused at the entrance to a large country kitchen that would have made Martha Stewart envious. A massive table took up the entire right side. It looked as if it were made from barn beams, and there were rustic benches for chairs. The large centerpiece, a cornucopia filled to the brim, set off the table beautifully, the dishes a deep blue stoneware. An island that matched the size of the table boasted an overhead rack filled with copper pots and pans, and several trendy stools were currently occupied. The white cupboards were crisp, the white granite shot through with gray, and the black stainless-steel appliances were perfect. The flooring was the same old worn oak plank as the entrance, and it was about the only thing that was original. Lisa Booker loved her kitchen. No way around that.
Nash stood next to his mother, Tink still in his arms. Honey had met Lisa a few times, and her impression of the woman was that of one who loved life and her family even more. A man leaned over the counter, listening in on the conversation. His head was full of thick silver hair and his face was lined with age, but he was undoubtedly Nash’s father. He turned to chat with a woman scrubbing something in the sink. She was an attractive blonde and wore an elegant navy dress that fell to just above the knee, with billowy sleeves. She turned slightly, and Honey noticed pearls clung to her neck and matching studs gleamed from her ears. She looked about thirty. Propped up on the counter beside her was a toddler wearing head-to-toe pink.
“Well, who is this?” A deep voice slid from behind her, and Honey damn near jumped out of her boots. She turned around and gazed up into the eyes of maybe the handsomest man she’d ever seen. His features resembled Nash’s—this had to be the mysterious Cam—but where Nash was more rugged in looks, this guy was too damn pretty. A slow, lazy smile curved his generous mouth, and his eyes, a shade of silver gray she’d never seen before, took in every inch of her.
He was beautiful. Hollywood beautiful. Thick lashes framed those unusual eyes, and his mouth was full. On another man, it might appear almost feminine, but a square jaw gave him the right edge, while high cheekbones and a perfect nose made the package complete. Judging from his expression…he damn well knew it.
