“My immediate family was always on the small side,” King said. “Countless cousins, aunts, and uncles, but no one we see often. Camden, on the other hand. He’s the youngest of eight siblings.”

“Damn.”

“Mm.” King busied himself in the kitchen, pulling out bags from the fridge, and bowls and whatnot from cupboards and drawers. “They’re all scattered across the country too, so the reunions are loud affairs. Loud and…full of fightin’.” He was smiling to himself, so it didn’t sound too serious.

“Loud is the default setting in my family,” I admitted. “Gideon, my brother-in-law, thought we fought a lot before Nicky explained to him that we just don’t know how to use our indoor voices.”

King smiled briefly, then tilted his head at me. “Your brother’s also gay?”

“Aye.” I pointed to what he was doing, prepping the vegetables and whatever. “Can I help? Nicky puts me on salad duty when he cooks.”

“Has he no faith in you?”

“None,” I laughed. “You’d be an idiot to trust me with anything of significance.”

Fuck me. The way his eyes changed made it clear that he was up for the challenge.

“Come here, then,” he ordered. “Let me see what I have to work with.”

That wasn’t wise. People were actually going to eat this food in a few hours, and I was more likely to pay attention to his hands and how he sounded when he combined his Southern drawl with that low, commanding voice.

I joined him at his side, and he shifted the cutting board and knife closer to me. He explained that the easiest job came first. A bunch of tomatoes cut in halves that he would throw on the grill later. Even I could manage that.

He found another cutting board for himself and said he’d get started on the onions. They were to be cut in wedges so he could stick them on the skewers with the meat.

I didn’t fuck up with any of the six tomatoes. Go me.

I didn’t screw up with the mushrooms either, because all I had to do was cut off the stem or whatever it was called. The mushrooms would go on the kabobs too.

Next, King placed four big yellow bell peppers and a new beer in front of me.

“The last vegetable for the kabobs,” he said. “You want them cut into bigger chunks. Beer’s for drinkin’.”

I stared at him, waiting for further instructions.

Nothing?

I didn’t fucking know how he defined chunks.

He merely nodded at the board in a silent get to it.

All right. It was his loss.

I did what Nicky had taught me when I made salad at home; I cut around the core and—

“See, that’s a perfect waste of bell pepper,” King noted.

“That’s what you get for not telling me how to do it,” I argued.