All the Becketts stared bug-eyed at him as they sat around the long table in one of the private dining rooms at Le Hibou, which, despite its name, didn’t serve owls (thank fucking God) or French food (again, thank fucking God). It was, however, one of the best (and only) vegan burger joints in Harbor City, which he’d insisted they eat at frequently so his sister, who was the only vegan in the group, didn’t always have to be the one scouring the menu for vegan dishes. And honestly, with a restaurant named The Owl, Nash was glad there was no meat being served.

He absently rubbed at his stomach as he glanced around at the decor.

There was a whole owl motif going on, and the chef had named all the burgers after different owls. Now, Nash wouldn’t say that the look of the owls fit the look of the people who ordered that type of burger, but he wasn’t not saying it, either.

For example, when Nash made his announcement about his wedding, his bearded, tatted-up cousin Griff had been digging into a double-patty Impossible melt called the Whiskered Screech Owl. The man looked like someone you’d cross the street to avoid, and he was prickly enough to be more than happy that people made that assumption, since it usually saved him from having to make small talk. So it was absolutely no shocker Griff was the first Beckett to go back to eating his food at the exact moment when everyone else at the table finished processing Nash’s words.

There was a heartbeat more of blessed silence before all the talking started—translation, hollering—about a million questions at once. In other words, it was a gathering of Becketts.

Finally, one voice broke through the noise.

“You are so full of shit,” his cousin Dixon said and then lifted Fiona’s left hand up and kissed it, nearly blinding the room with the light reflecting off the huge diamond engagement ring on her finger.

“Well, actually,” Nash said as he squirted ketchup onto his Great Horned Owl, aka a cheeseburger with onion straws. “I’m not. The ceremony is at her apartment. Ten in the morning. The dress code is business casual. There will be a reception afterward. Gifts are not necessary. Now, go back to eating.”

Nash knew there was no way they wouldn’t show up tomorrow. This bunch was far too curious—fine, too nosy as hell—to skip it.

News delivered and orders given, he went back to eating his burger. Damn, it was fucking delicious.