Page 137 of The Next Lie

Cal keeps his eyes on the coffee maker with the determination of a man defusing a bomb. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“You didn’t,” Shiloh says.

“Stop kissing ass,” I say.

Cal opens a cabinet, takes out a mug, and fills it. His movements are careful. I have watched him move like that around frightened animals, grieving parents, and me at thirteen when I slammed a bedroom door hard enough to knock a picture off the wall.

He is trying not to make me feel small.

He leans against the far counter, coffee mug in hand, eyes now fixed on the floor somewhere near Shiloh’s shoes. “I’ll just pretend I saw nothing.”

“Generous of you, Dad,” Shiloh says.

“Jeezum Pete,” I exclaim.

He lifts both hands.

Then Nash walks in.

He is on the phone, already frowning, dressed in a dark suit with no tie. He looks at Cal, then Shiloh, then me standing barefoot in my underwear beside the counter. His eyes pause on the shirt. Recognition flickers there. One of the new ones.

Something in my chest pinches as he ends the call without saying goodbye.

“Nash,” Cal says, wary now.

Nash ignores the warning completely, crosses the kitchen, takes my face in one hand, and kisses me.

Not a peck. Not a polite good morning. A full, possessive, hand-at-my-jaw, breath-stealing kiss that makes my toes curl against the tile and every intelligent thought in my head take a brief leave of absence.

Behind him, Cal chokes. Coffee sprays across the counter.

I break the kiss and look over Nash’s shoulder.

Cal stands frozen with his mug halfway to his mouth, eyes wide, coffee on the counter, coffee on his shirt, coffee possibly in his soul.

Shiloh closes his eyes and presses two fingers to his mouth. He is laughing. Silently, which is better for his survival but not by much.

Nash looks back at Cal, forehead wrinkling. “Problem?”

Cal sets the mug down slowly. “I’m going to need a minute.”

My face heats. “Nash.”

“What?”

“You cannot just walk in and do that.”

His gaze comes back to mine. “Why can’t I?”

“Because I don’t think he knew…”

“I think he knew.”

Cal grabs a dish towel and starts wiping coffee off the counter with the haunted expression of a man who has seen the inside of war zones and was still not prepared for this kitchen.

I pull at the hem of my shirt again. “Maybe everyone could just stop kissing me in front of my father.”

The room goes very still. The word hits me after I say it.