Which is the only reason I’m doing this. Not because it’s actually kind of calming, and I always do enjoy working on things with my hands….
Son of a bitch! Fucking island voodoo.
“Summersweetened,” Quinn repeats the stupid word. “Adjective. From the Latin word aestas condimentum. When an individual who isn’t normally sweet comes to the island and is suddenly filled with sugar and happiness. Summersweetened.”
“It happened to all of us.” Palmer nods, his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth as he bends over his piece of paper and concentrates. “We came to the island, we fell in love, and the only thing we give two shits about now is making sure our women are happy, and sometimes that involves glitter.”
“I like to call us the Stale Cinnamon Rolls,” Bodhi adds.
“Stop trying to make that happen. It’s not going to happen. You read entirely too many romance novels,” Shepherd complains.
Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t you dare fucking ask.
“What the hell is a stale cinnamon roll?”
You fucking idiot.
“I thought you’d never ask!” Bodhi claps his hands together excitedly as he sits forward in his chair and rests his arms on the table. “A cinnamon roll hero in a romance novel is a dude who is kind, supportive, oh-so-sweet, and too good for this world. But I added in the stale part just for us. Tell him about the stale part. It’s sexier when you do it.”
Bodhi nudges Quinn’s arm with his elbow, and Quinn finishes the asinine explanation without looking up from the wedding program he’s folding.
“He added the stale part, because even though we’re soft and gooey on the inside to make our women happy, they make us happy by letting us be hard and rough on the outside when we fuck them like champs. Stale Cinnamon Rolls.”
“Chills,” Bodhi says with a shiver. “Honest to God chills every time you say it.”
“Oooh, maybe he’ll take up knitting while he’s here,” Shepherd suggests.
“I will not take up knitting,” I growl, shaking out my hand aggressively when a glittery piece of paper covered in glue gets stuck to it.
“I think latch hook might be more his speed,” Shepherd continues like I didn’t even speak. “I’ve got a few extra patterns in a drawer I’ll send back to the hotel with you.”
“Whatever the fuck that is, I’m not taking it up either.” A stream of curses flies out of me when the damn piece of glitter paper still won’t come off my hand, and Palmer takes pity on me, reaching over and yanking it off. “I’m going to drink beer, flip back and forth on the television between football and porn, maybe do a little fishing, get some work done, and enjoy my peace and quiet. I’m not doing anything that involves knitting or talking about my feelings.”
“You’ll change your mind when you see all the new yarn colors I got on sale last weekend.” Shepherd chuckles. “The periwinkle is to die for.”
“You all need a fucking intervention.” I shake my head at them, while thoughts of all the things I could do to make Laura happy and not so filled with panic about getting older flip through my head.
“We’re just fine. You need the intervention,” Palmer informs me, turning in his seat to lean back and cross his arms over his chest. “You don’t have to be your usual crabby self with a chip on your shoulder at all times, you know. And you can’t stay in your hotel room and skip out on all the activities. You’re going on the sightseeing tour around the island tonight if I have to drag you there myself. Let the island work its magic and make you feel lighter. You’re allowed to be happy.”
“It hurts my face,” I deadpan.
A flash of guilt makes its way through me, but I quickly push it aside. I’m a crabby man. I don’t put up with bullshit, and I don’t like people in general, so I try to avoid them as much as possible. I’ve told him a million times that I prefer my solitude, my peace and quiet, and not having to worry about anything or anyone but myself. This is who I am, and my nephew knows that. Except…
“It didn’t seem to hurt your face too much at the welcome dinner with Laura,” Bodhi pipes up with a knowing smile. “I saw you being all laughy and fun and not at all murderous with her.”
And he doesn’t even know about my hotel room yesterday and what a fucking Chatty Cathy I was.
“I thought I was high and seeing things.” Bodhi laughs.
“You were high,” Quinn reminds him.
“Oh, I know! But I can confirm that I wasn’t seeing things. Uncle Dean has the hots for Mom, and he’s totally going to fall in love with her and live happily ever after with us on the island. You better not hurt her, or we’ll hurt you.”
My eyes narrow on him.
“Okay, so we won’t physically hurt you. You’re like a goddamn brick wall. But we will say some really mean things that will totally hurt your feelings,” Bodhi warns me, pointing a glue stick at me instead of his finger.
Yes, I have the hots for Laura. What isn’t there to get hot about? Long blonde hair, bright blue eyes, an ass that I want to sink my teeth into, and legs for days that I can already feel wrapped around my waist. But love? Oh hell no. Been there, done that, got the scars and the divorce papers to prove it. Besides, I’ve heard twice now—from her own sassy little mouth—that she doesn’t do love.