As August had said, it was none of their damn business.
Or, as I had said, in a part of the country where they needed signs to make sure people put on shirts and shoes, a Spider-Man costume was nothing.
It’d earned me a giggle from Camden and a mock glare from August.
“What is it with you Southerners and your tailgate parties?” I asked, finishing my smoke. Two families had parked their big trucks next to each other, and the men were working a grill while their wives and kids set up a picnic. “Where I’m from, it’s called loitering.”
August let out a laugh. “Yankees don’t know what the good life is about, that’s clear.”
“I agree, the Yankees are terrible.” I side-eyed him and his damned Yankees tee.
He just shook his head in amusement and brought out his and Camden’s tickets.
After we passed through the gates, I pointed to where he could pick up their goodie bags. I’d left mine in my truck yesterday, and I’d already gone through all the edible products. Best beef jerky I’d ever had, which was why it was on my list of things to get today. I was bringing that shit home with me. Pop loved jerky. There’d been some snack bars and toffee too. And a shitload of coupons.
“All right, first rule of food festivals,” August said. “We sample together—when there’s small, medium, and large to choose from, we go with small.”
Of course. I wasn’t new. It was the only way we’d be able to try as many dishes as possible.
It was also why we hadn’t had any breakfast yet.
Camden tugged on August’s arm, to which he bent down a little to hear what the boy was whispering.
August smirked faintly and straightened. “We’ll get to the stuffies, darlin’. I promise.”
I smiled to myself and pulled out the map from my back pocket. “Nearby, we got Texas Row, South of the Border, and Oktoberfest. Where do you wanna start?”
“Oktoberfest for breakfast sounds good,” August replied. “I love German food.”
I loved all food.
On the way to the aisle reserved for food from Germany—and Austria and Switzerland, I noticed—August slipped his hand into mine and threaded our fingers together. It caused the same reaction I’d felt last night. My stomach became a knotted mess and my chest felt tight, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Not one bit. It would just suck to leave this bubble in a few days.
The droves of people hadn’t arrived yet, so we were first in line to a vendor selling Bavarian delicacies, among other German dishes.
“Breakfast is on me,” August said. “That means I get to decide what we eat too.”
I wasn’t gonna argue with the chef about the last thing he’d said, and I could hand him this one, but all other meals today would be on me.
Mere minutes later, we brought our food to an unsteady bar table nearby, and my stomach growled with hunger. I’d seen the vendor’s menu but couldn’t identify what was what on the paper plates. But I knew August had gotten us a platter of bratwurst, knockwurst, frankfurter, leberkäse, and some sausages I’d forgotten the names of. Then two sides—soft pretzels and bread dumplings—and different types of mustard.
Last but not least, beer.
“Madonn’, I love being on vacation.” I stuck a toothpick into a piece of whateverwurst and dragged it through some mustard before shoveling it into my mouth. “Try this one, ciccio.” I held out the same type of sausage for August.
While he closed his mouth around the toothpick and hummed appreciatively, Camden shifted his mask higher and scrunched his nose as he sniffed the food.
He settled for nibbling on a soft pretzel.
“Goodness—this one, sweetheart.” August picked out another sample of sausage for me and handed it over with a piece of the bread dumpling. “Use the light mustard.”
I did as told and couldn’t stop the groan that escaped my mouth as the flavors exploded on my taste buds.
“It’s good, innit?” August grinned and took a swig of his beer. “I rather like your vacations too.”
“So fucking good.” I used a napkin to wipe my mouth. “If I worked in a restaurant, I’m not sure I could stop eating.”
August chuckled. “Even if you change the menu every season, it gets old after a while.”
Having experienced his cooking, I had doubts.
“Do you still work in any of your restaurants?” I asked.
“Not very often.” He slid me the next thing he wanted to try, a cheese-filled piece of sausage and some mustard-dipped pretzel. “I hit a wall about three years ago, and it’s been a slow recovery ever since. I’m lucky to able to move at whatever pace I’m comfortable with. I’m still only at fifty percent.”
I’d had no idea. I wouldn’t even have guessed it.
Camden reached up and stroked August’s cheek, and he turned and kissed the inside of Camden’s hand. It was a sweet exchange and shot a bout of longing into me, and it made me want to take care of August. I couldn’t help it. I was so goddamn drawn to him.
This explained Camden’s urge to hunt down someone who would complete their dynamic, though. He was very aware of his own limitations for the times he regressed, and he wanted his Daddy to have someone to lean on when Camden wasn’t able to be that person.
“But to be frank, I’m enjoyin’ my schedule now,” August went on. “I do my monthly videos to stay current online—and to keep Clara off my back—I still create all the menus with my head chefs, I agree to these dog and pony shows every now and then, and I keep busy with other side projects.”
“Daddy’s gonna write a book about seafood culture and traditions next year.” Camden chimed in.
“Oh yeah?” I took a swig of my beer and faced August, wanting to hear more.
He smiled a little and broke off a piece of pretzel. “Southern cookin’ may be where I started, but I love seafood. My
