Page 45 of The Sweet Spot

“Thanks, Dad.”

When he puts her down, he comes over to me and holds out his hand. “JB! Thanks for making sure my daughter won.”

I reach forward, only inches away from shaking his hand, when my brain stops me.

My right hand... hasn’t been washed.

Whit’s on there.

I whip my hand back and hold up my left one instead.

Larry blinks a couple of times before he brings his hand up to meet mine.

But then the same realization comes through a second before contact.

I used that one too.

I pull it back.

Larry is standing in front of me with both arms slightly raised and furrowed brows. Not surprising after two aborted handshakes in under ten seconds.

“JB, are you—”

She cuts herself off, and I see the moment the realization settles in for her too.

There is exactly one move available to me.

I step forward and pull Larry into a hug. My arms around his back, and both hands pointed safely away from him.

“Thought a hug would be better since we're practically family now,” I say, hoping that explains my peculiar behavior.

Larry laughs, warm and full, clapping me on the back. “I love the enthusiasm.”

I step back and stuff my hands in my pockets, hiding them away from anyone.

“Family?” Whit snorts. “We played golf for two days,” she adds with her usual sass—I assume to get Larry off the scent.

Unfortunately for you, babe, there’s no getting your scent off me now.

“You need to work a lot harder to become family.”

She doubles down. So I do too.

“Is that your way of telling me I’m not invited to Thanksgiving?” I look at Larry. “Your loss, for the record—I do a dry brine. I work on it for two days minimum. Put a little herb butter under the skin, let it marinate in a secret sauce, and that bird comes out perfect every time.”

Larry points at me. “You're always invited to Thanksgiving, JB.”

“Dad—”

Larry rubs his belly. “He feeds me, Whit. He's been feeding me for two seasons. The man gets a standing invitation.”

She shakes her head, muttering something under her breath, but doesn’t argue with her dad.

Larry elbows me and winks.

That’s right. Winks.

I go very still, studying the facial expressions of a man whom I’ve eaten at least two hundred hot dogs with over the years. When the faintest hint of a smile shows, I know he knows.