Page 29 of The Wounded Warrior

“That’s what we do in emergencies. I’m proud of you, son. That takes balls.”

“Thanks, Pop.” He meant it. His pop wasn’t exactly stingy with praise, but he was a tough call for a Texas daddy to get behind the gay real estate lawyer.

No matter what Pop might think, he’d never once made Rory feel like he was ashamed. Not even when the shit had hit the proverbial fan.

Pop clapped a hand against his shoulder. “You got something going on with one of them LeBlanc boys?”

“Not yet. Give me time.”

“Lord, son. You be careful.”

The smell of bacon reached them, and they grinned at each other.

“Don’t worry, Pop. I’m fine.”

“I worry about you all the time. I’m a dad.” His pop chuckled. “Come on, before she makes refried beans and biscuits and quiche or some shit.”

“This is bad?” Well, quiche was bad, but he liked eggs.

“Well, I suppose that all depends on what you got in your fridge.”

Oh. Right. Mom got creative.

“Bacon, beer, and there’s possibly a leftover Cadbury Creme Egg.”

“I wonder how that is fried.”

They stared at each other and cracked up, just roaring with laughter, which made him think how good Luke had been the night before, laughing like a kid.

He sure hoped that Luke decided to take the chance and call today.

“Lord, look at you all grinning.” His dad sobered. “I do mean it. Be careful. With Harris, too.”

“I will. I intend to win this war, though.”

“I’m right behind you with a bazooka and a bucket of salt for the earth, Rory. I just want you in one piece.” Pop steered him back out to the kitchen.

“That’s the goal, Pop. I don’t have a death wish.” Just a finely tuned sense of vengeance.

“Good. Now, be apologetic to your mom so she doesn’t kill you, either.” Pop grinned hugely.

“Right on. Also, I need coffee.”

“God, me too. Your mother had me up at the ass-crack of dawn.”

“His mother is here,” Mom said, waving a spatula.

“And she’s gorgeous.”

“Nice, Pop.”

“Thanks.” Pop winked and began pulling out plates and putting mounds of food on the table.

“How do you do that? That’s magic, Mom.”

“It’s my job.” She handed him a cup. “Coffee for me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Coffee he could totally do. Back to the espresso machine. He made them all a coffee before sinking down at the table, his hand and head throbbing, his stitches on fire.

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