“There’s coffee and breakfast on the island,” Nora said. She, Conway and Doug were squeezed beside Chip and Maggie in the booth, leaving little room for anyone else.
Carver looked up, and Scott accidentally made eye contact with him. He felt an apologetic grimace flash on his face. Carver dropped his gaze, a muscle twitching in his jaw. Then he came over with his eyes lowered, like his need for coffee outweighed everything else. Scott stepped out of his way, leaning against an ornate white shelf full of tasteful knickknacks. He tried not to think of Carver’s naked body under his clothes — not his lovely stomach nor the dark hair of his armpits nor his pretty, chiseled legs and pert little ass.
Lillian didn’t come join her husband. She squeezed herself into the breakfast nook next to Conway, forcing everyone to scoot over a little. They all looked extra blonde in the hot morning light.
“Uncle Carver,” Bailey said, “did you know when pirates got scurvy, their old wounds would open up and their bodies would unravel?”
Carver pulled a face. “Bailey, honey,” he muttered as the Nespresso splurted into his mug, “it’s eight-thirty in the morning.”
“So?” Bailey said, like he was being a wuss.
Carver looked really good. Scott wanted him desperately, as crazy as that felt. He wanted to shove him up against the island.
“Unravel?” Maggie called. “That doesn’t sound right. The book uses the word unravel?”
“Yes, Mommy!”
Chip extended his hand. “Bring it here.”
Bailey trotted over to him.
“Did you two go for a run this morning?” Doug asked Lillian.
“Yep,” Lillian said. “Carver was up at like six, pacing. Sometimes he just needs to run.”
Scott looked at Carver and thought as hard as he could: this woman thinks you are her pet dog.
Carver stirred milk into his coffee and continued to avoid eye contact. His dark hair was damp, combed out and parted right down the middle — a classic high school boy look which was inexplicably really doing it for Scott. The front pieces hung straight, grazing the tops of his cheekbones.
“It actuallydoessay unravel,” Chip said, squinting at the page as he held it a forty-year-old distance from his face.
“Gnarly,” Conway deadpanned.
Chip laughed, then slid out of the booth, came into the kitchen and jabbed Carver in the waist to get him to move away from the coffeemaker. Carver stepped back, expressionless, and Chip said, “Hey, Scotty.”
“Hey there,” Scott said.
“I feel like we haven’t talked at all.” Chip set a mug under the Nespresso’s dispenser. Today he had two mild black eyes and a thin bandage across his swollen nose. “How’s the biz?”
“Oh, you know.”
“Yeah? That bad?”
“Nah, just has its ups and downs.”
“Well, you’re living the dream for most guys our age,” Chip said.
Scott vaguely remembered that Chip played guitar in his youth, but was never very good at it. “I do try to remember that,” he said with a grin.
Chip thumped a fist gently against Scott’s shoulder, then walked away.
Scott glanced over at Carver, who was surreptitiously digging around in a pill bottle. Carver felt his gaze, looked up at him and said, “It’s just a beta blocker.”
“None of my business.”
“Alright, then it’s a Xanax.”
Scott laughed, but Carver didn’t seem to get the humor in his own comment. Finally he freed a pill and washed it down with a sip of coffee, then walked over to the breakfast nook where there was no seat for him. Nora, who’d been focused on her phone, glanced up and said, “Doug, why don’t you go grab some extra chairs?”
