done.
Not even the Thanksgiving holiday—or televised football games—got them out of that particular task.
So even though Justin generally would rather poke sharp sticks into his eyes than load a dishwasher, he did his fair share, carting stacks of plates and glasses from the dining room to the kitchen, following on Erik’s heels.
And while the rest of the women in the family had pitched in to help Hope, the three men were brutally left on their own by their fellows.
“Typical,” Justin muttered, dumping the plates on the counter next to the sink his dad was filling with soap and water. “Couldn’t even get Caleb to help.”
Erik chuckled. He was five years older than Justin and he good-naturedly threw a clean dish towel at him. “You ever help clean up when we have a meal at his folks’ place?” The question was rhetorical. “Be glad that half the crowd today used disposable plates.”
Justin had personally filled a big bag with the trash. He would have been happy to fill a half dozen of them if it meant not having to load a dishwasher.
“Stop grousing and get it done,” their father ordered. “Dessert’s waiting on us, and Squire never likes waiting for his dessert.”
“The old man looks good,” Justin said. He left the dish towel on the counter and pulled open the dishwasher. He began to load it methodically, mechanically transferring the items his dad rinsed into the racks.
“He’s gonna run for city council,” Tristan said, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “There’s a special election coming up in February.”
“Squire?” Justin couldn’t help but laugh at the notion of his ninetysome-year-old grandfather sitting at a council meeting. “That ought to shake things up around Weaver. He’s always hated politicians.”
“Which is the reason why he figures an old rancher ought to try his hand at it.” Erik started filling containers with the leftover food. They heard a cheer from the great room and he groaned a little.
“Shouldn’t have bet against Casey on the game,” Justin said knowingly. Their cousin had an uncanny gift for picking winners. “What’re you gonna lose to him this time?”
“Week out at the fishing cabin. And I haven’t lost yet.”
“When’s the last time you won a bet against him?” Tristan stacked more rinsed plates on the counter. “What’s going on with that promotion of yours, Jus?”
Justin added the dishes to the rack with a little more force than necessary. “Not a damn thing.”
“You crack those plates, son, you’ll be the one to face up to your mother.”
Justin straightened again and met his father’s gaze. “It’s gotten...complicated.”
Erik blew out a soft whistle. “Probably happens when you’re dating the boss’s daughter. Warned you.”
“I didn’t get the job at CNJ Pharmaceuticals nine years ago because of Gillian. I won’t lose it because of her, either.” He was trusting that his relationship with Charles Jennings, her father and the owner of the company, was on firmer ground than that, at least. He swiped his damp hands down his jeans and retrieved a cold bottle of beer from the refrigerator. “And we stopped seeing each other almost half a year ago.”
“Thank God,” Erik muttered. “Woman was a nosebleed.”
Justin grimaced. “I don’t sneer at your choice of women.”
Erik grinned. “How could you? Izzy is the perfect girl.”
Justin couldn’t deny the truth of that, though he liked arguing with his brother merely for the sake of it. And he didn’t really want to think about Gillian, anyway. Because she was a nosebleed, even though his brother shouldn’t rub it in. And even though it had taken Justin several long years to face it.
He toyed with the beer cap but didn’t actually twist it open. “The complication isn’t because of Charles’s daughter. He’s put me on a special project we’ve had some problems with. If I can bring it in on time, the VP position should be mine.” Making him the youngest vice president in the company’s century-long history.
“Give me cows over pharmaceuticals,” Erik said, hanging his arm over Justin’s shoulder. “But I suppose if anyone can do it, it’s my genius little brother, Dr. Justin Clay.”
Justin shrugged off the arm. He had a PhD in microbiology and immunology, and dual master’s degrees in computer science and chemistry. But he rarely used the title that went with the PhD. The fact was, he’d often felt a little out of step among his extended ranching family, even though his computer-geek father had bucked that trend, too.
“I want to work on the project from Weaver,” he announced, and saw the look his brother and dad exchanged. “I’ll be able to concentrate on it better here. I figure Aunt Bec might clear the way for me to work at the hospital, since she runs the place.”
“Rebecca probably can, though that’s—”
“Rebecca probably can what?” Justin’s eldest uncle, Sawyer, entered the kitchen carrying several empty beer bottles.
“Approve space in the new lab they’re building for a project I’m working on for CNJ. The company will cover all the costs, of course.”
“Sell that to my wife,” Sawyer advised wryly. “Every day for the past two years I’ve been hearing about problems with that lab she’s trying to get built. Construction delays. Cost overruns. Losing the lab director didn’t help, and now it’s that fund-raiser event they’re having in a few weeks.” He dumped the bottles in the recycling basket and pulled open the refrigerator to retrieve several more beers. “You gonna be done in here soon? The old man’s getting impatient for dessert. He’s been debating pumpkin pie versus pecan versus chocolate cream for the past half hour.”
“We’d be done sooner if we had some help,” Tristan told his brother in a pointed tone.
Sawyer just laughed, snatched the unopened bottle out of Justin’s hands to add to his collection and left the kitchen again.
When Justin went to the refrigerator, he found the shelf empty of beer.
“Snooze you lose, son,” Tristan said. “Just because you choose to live in Boston doesn’t mean you’re excluded from that basic fact.” He pointed a thumb at the stack of rinsed dishes still waiting to be loaded.
Sawyer’s intrusion was followed almost immediately by the rest of his brothers—first Jefferson, ostensibly to make sure there was still hot coffee on the stove, then Matthew and Daniel together, who made no bones that they were wanting their dessert, too.
“Nothing changes,” Justin repeated when the kitchen eventually cleared.
“Ever consider that there are times that’s a comfort?” Tristan finally turned off the faucet and dried his hands on a towel.
“Never thought so before, particularly.”
His father’s gaze wasn’t unsympathetic. But then, back in his
