I cracked up and threw an arm around his shoulder. “I’m beyond proud.” I wasn’t lying either, despite the joke toward the end. No need to sell my nephews, regardless of how stressful those terrors were. “Was the pizza good? Enough protein on there?”
He rumbled a laugh. “Oh yeah, all the pepperoni.” He elbowed me lightly. “On that note, I rarely see you pushing protein on people.”
I shrugged and withdrew my arm again. “I wouldn’t last a day as a vegan, but if you look at the longest-living populations on earth, their protein intake ain’t excessive. We’re talking below ten percent. Do with that what you will.”
I wasn’t one of those nutritionists who lived and died by one diet. People were different. DNA mattered. Culture mattered. Where we’d grown up mattered. Some people responded better to certain ingredients—lactose, for instance—than others, depending on what foods had been a staple in their culture for generations. Same went for protein. We had different needs and different levels of tolerance. But sure, I did believe the fitness industry pushed protein too much. My goal had always been moderation and balance.
“You know me, brother—I grew up strong and sexy on Ma’s food,” Ryan said. “As long as I get my steak and baked potatoesevery now and then, I’ll listen to your fitness preaching on social.”
How reassuring.
“First of all, if I said what you just said, the whole family would call me conceited,” I replied. “Second of all, we have good genes. Don’t thank Ma’s cooking. It may be delicious, but it’s also the reason Pop needs to manage his blood pressure.”
He furrowed his brow. “In my defense, when I call myself sexy and a perfect ten, I’m just adorable. When you do it, you sound smarmy.”
What the fuck?Smarmy?
“But the flannel and the scruff work for you.” He patted my cheek, and I scowled and wrenched away. “You’re remindin’ me of the kid I grew up with who got all the girls without even trying.”
Nice. Punch me in the face and then put on a sparkly Band-Aid.
For the record, adorable wasn’t the word I’d use to describe a six-foot-three Marine slash bartender with one too many scars from close combat.
“Smarmy,” I muttered to myself as we reached Subcakes. “That’s some insult.”
“Not anymore,” he stressed. “You’re cute as a button now.”
Great, thanks. I was surecute as a buttonwould land Natalie Nolan.
“Hi, gentlemen! Welcome to Subcakes! What’re we in the mood for today?”
Right. Time for lunch. I wanted the grilled chicken on sourdough bread—with extra dressing, believe it or not—and I was sure my brother wanted a side salad with his triple cheese and steak on white bread.
I was graced by Ryan’s presence the following Friday too, shortly after Natalie and I had wrapped up. She was sticking around to power down from the weightlifting she’d done today, so she was on the treadmill taking a slow walk when Ryan walked in with one of his twin boys.
“Unca Ethan!” the boy yelled, tugging on Ryan’s hand.
Loud was the only volume he knew. They, I should say. Like father, like sons.
“Ryder or JJ!” I hollered back from behind the counter. It wasn’t like I could tell them apart.
The kid cracked up. “I’m Wydah! He can’t see, Daddy.”
“He’s so weird, in’he,” Ryan chuckled. “The whole world can clearly see you’re my Ryder.”
“Yeah!” Ryder was in agreement.
I smirked and rounded the counter to greet them properly. Well, the kid. Not Ryan. Fuck Ryan.
Smarmy, my fine ass.
Ryder took off down the aisle, and I got ready to catch him and his cocky grin. When he jumped, I scooped him up and positioned him on my hip.
“How are you, kiddo?” I flicked the brim of his Mariners ball cap. “Is Nana spoiling you all day while Daddy’s working out?”
Ryder snickered. “Wha’s’at?”
Never mind.
