“Do you still have a crush on Colby?” Her gaze refocused on him.
“What?” Alec sat up straighter, his body warming.
“You heard me. She might’ve palled around here with Joe most of the time, but you’d watched her every move whenever she came by. She was also the only one you didn’t yell at for sneaking licks of batter when you were experimenting.”
Alec scratched his neck. “We’ve been friends for a long time.”
“You’re avoiding the question, which tells me you still like her.”
“Likes who?” His dad’s voice shocked them both. When had he sneaked into the house? And how the hell did he manage it?
At six feet two inches and with 220 pounds of firm muscle for a man of his age, Alec’s dad wasn’t normally light-footed. His chestnut hair—the only trait they shared—had its fair share of gray highlights. Deep grooves in his forehead and bracketing his mouth always gave his father a grim appearance. Of course, the lack of good humor and affection didn’t help, either.
“No one,” Alec said at the same time his mother said, “Colby.”
His father barely acknowledged Alec as he passed by on his way to the refrigerator. He retrieved a beer and popped the tab. “I can’t believe you can work for Colby, let alone like her. If it weren’t for her and that son of a bitch she married—”
“Frank,” his mom said, “you always liked Colby.”
“That was before. Things changed . . .” Alec’s dad waved her off. “You’ll accept anything that keeps him in town, but don’t expect me to.”
“Dad, how was happy hour?” Alec diverted his father’s attention to prevent his parents from arguing. “Mom said you went out with Craig.”
“He’s thinking of moving to Los Angeles to be near his daughter. She just had a baby, and Craig’s wife wants to be closer to their grandkid.” His dad shook his head, apparently unable to comprehend his old partner on the force embracing family or change or life. He’d given up on all that when Joe died.
“I’m jealous.” His mother then smiled at Alec. “I can’t wait to be a grandmother one day.”
Oh, brother.
His father rolled his eyes. “Well, this one’s not going to meet any women if he’s always in this kitchen with you.”
And there it was. The “mommy’s boy” put-down he’d heard for much of his life. Maybe he should take comfort in the fact that some things never changed. Not even the way his dad grinned after those remarks, as if this kind of teasing was funny.
“It could take a while, Mom.” Alec recovered from the swipe. “My hours make it tough. Working nights, weekends, and holidays. Not exactly a profession for a family-oriented man.”
Then again, Colby would be sharing those hours. It made them uniquely compatible in that one aspect. Too bad his conscience wouldn’t let him pursue her while keeping his secret about Mark. He had no choice if he hoped to do everything he’d come home to do, even if his secret ate away at him bit by bit each day.
“Excuses are like assholes; everybody has one. Work isn’t the problem. The truth is that you’d have to break out of your shell to go after a woman. Not exactly your strong suit, is it?” His dad chugged from his beer can, crushed it, and tossed it in the trash.
Alec could recount all the ways he’d toughened up. Could mention he wasn’t that same shy teen his dad never took the time to know. But his dad wouldn’t believe him, so the argument would only put his mother in the middle. Alec clamped down on his temper, knowing that if he wanted a relationship with a woman, he could have one, no matter what his dad thought.
Plenty of women had found Alec and his success very attractive, a lesson Joe had unfortunately learned the hard way the night before his fatal hike.
Alec mentally recoiled from that memory when, for the first time that evening, his father looked him squarely in the eye. All traces of humor, twisted or otherwise, were gone. “But that’s fine with me, ’cause I don’t want any Cabot babies in this house.”
Time for another change of subject, because he wasn’t about to argue with his dad about his nonexistent relationship with Colby. “Want a croustade?”
“A croustade?” His dad shook his head derisively and laughed. “A croustade.”
Still, he took one before stalking into the family room and turning the TV volume up to full blare.
Alec unclenched his fists, which had been balled up on his thighs.
“Don’t pay attention to him.” His mother patted his shoulder.
How often had Alec heard that advice . . .