“Is there any more of this pork tenderloin?” Emmitt asked. “It’s delicious.”
“Thank you, Myles!” Percy flashed a merry grin and jumped out of his seat like the devious fiancé-stealing bastard he aspired to be. “Yes, there’s a little bit more.”
Emmitt stood, too. “You can sit down, Percy. You’re off duty. I’ll get it.” The return smile he aimed at Percy was a little too friendly for Nash’s liking.
Percy sat down, but looked pleased, nonetheless. Nash’s jaw tightened. No, he wasn’t going to say anything. These feelings were irrational. But, dammit, Emmitt liked eating nice food—who didn’t?—and Percy was capable of cooking it. Meanwhile Nash had been struggling to learn how to make the simplest of meals. He was trying, though. Shouldn’t he get credit for that?
Fuck it. “Grampy and I found
