“You want a beer?”

“You, or me, gettin’ me a beer requires you, or me, gettin’ up and walkin’ across the room. It’s fuckin’ cold outside, my truck’s heat went out on the way home, and you’re warm so the answer to that question is… no.”

“All right,” I mumbled at the same time I leaned forward, put my tea mug on a coaster by his boot, and then went back and curled closer. Sliding my arm around his middle, I found that he was cold so I gave him a squeeze.

I looked to Cob to see he’d watched me do this. His face was thoughtful and then it turned guarded.

“Slim,” Cob started hesitantly, “I know you won’t thank me to point out the obvious but you got a little lady who bakes heavenly cakes and fries a mean beef cutlet. I’m not sure payback for that is makin’ her freeze her ass off anytime she’s in your truck.”

I felt Brock’s body get tight and it was at that moment I knew why Cob was hesitant and guarded and why he asked about where his son stood. Because his body getting tight told me Brock wanted his sons to know their granddad, he wanted peace in his family, he didn’t like the idea of his father being sick or alone, but he had by no means let him in.

“Dad—” he started in a warning tone.

Cob cut him off to say softly, “Get a new truck, Slim.”

Crackling electricity started invading the room and I got tense.

Cob felt it, but he thought he was dying so his next words showed he felt he had nothing to lose.

“You need to deal with that woman,” he announced.

Brock’s body went solid. “We are not—” he started.

“No,” Cob interrupted again. “That bitch is… a… bitch. I heard her shoutin’ all the way ’round the parkin’ lot. Tellin’ my boy to go fuck himself in front of my grandsons?” He shook his head, clipped out, “No.” Then he sucked back beer.

“I’ll deal with it,” Brock growled.

“When, in a decade?” Cob shot back.

Uh-oh.

The voltage of the room ratcheted up to the red zone and Brock took his feet off the coffee table, leaning slightly forward, taking me with him, saying low, “Careful, Dad.”