Okay, so he had a habit of overexplaining things—even when no one asked for additional information (Bristol and the contractors weren’t the only time that had happened). And yes, he had gotten in the habit of anticipating other’s moods and reactions, which came in really handy in developing marketing and advertising campaigns at Beckett Cosmetics. He had to know women, the largest percentage of their customer base—although the number of men and nonbinary folks in the makeup and skincare sector was growing—and what would appeal to them. Add to that the fact that he’d grown up as the de facto responsible one who remembered for his parents when the utility bill was due, or to pick up Bristol after her Girl Scouts meeting, or where Macon’s baseball team was playing…it was just his wheelhouse.

“You’re not even dating anyone,” Morgan said. “That’s the whole point of this stupid Last Man Standing bet of yours.”

“It’s not stupid,” Nash, Griff, and Dixon said at the same time—and not for the first time. Griff and Dixon were both happily in love and didn’t mind not winning the present. Nash, on the other hand, had every intention of being the satisfied recipient of Grandma’s gift.

“You can’t win by default,” Dixon said. “Just being the last man in the running isn’t enough.”

Nash grinned at his cousin, who hated losing just slightly less than he loved his fiancée. “I wasn’t planning on it. The rules we agreed to only state that I have to go out on six dates with a woman who responds to my Bramble dating profile, and I have to make it to Christmas morning without falling in love. There’s nothing that says the woman who responds to my ad can’t be my wife.”

Griff rolled his eyes but took another bite of his double patty melt instead of saying anything—no shocker there.

“So you’re what?” Dixon asked, leaning forward and putting his forearms on the table. “Planning on a loveless marriage?”

“The odds are in my favor,” Nash said. “Half of all marriages end in divorce.”

“Aren’t you just a little ray of sunshine,” Griff’s fiancée, Kinsey, said, her Southern drawl making it sound like it might be a compliment but might also be an insult.

Nash was smart enough to bet on insult.

“Well, actually, I’m just being factual,” he said, dragging a french fry through a pool of ketchup before eating it. “Most successful marriages are less about love and more about each person’s needs for security and companionship being met. Love doesn’t guarantee anything. If you think about how love and lust mess with people’s heads, then it probably hurts the chances of a successful marriage.”