Page 85 of Fit for Love

“You could say she was also a client of mine,” Dad says with a grin.

Ashton arches an eyebrow while my brother and I exchange a “is this happening again?”look.

“My husband is a proctologist,” Mom says gleefully.

Dad nods.“It’s true.I had to study a long time to deal with assholes for a living.”

Yep.Just like every other time this comes up.

“In fact,” Mom continues, “it’s safe to say we met after he saved my ass—literally.”

Of course, she’d say that again.And he will say?—

“And what an ass it was,” Dad replies as expected.“A m-ass-terpiece.”

I sigh.I know what’s coming next, and how futile it would be to try and stop them.

“Have you guys ever heard proctologist jokes?”Mom asks.

A grinning Ashton shakes his head, as does his sister.

“Well then,” my dad says.“I’llrectifythat situation right now.”

I groan, and Cameron rolls his eyes.

“Did you know that mine was the first profession to go digital?”Dad asks.

Ashton and his sister chuckle politely.

“Tell them what you’d say to a pirate, if you met one,” Mom urges.

“Show me your booty,” Dad says.

That one is new, but that doesn’t make it good.

“Now tell them the difference between an accountant and a proctologist,” Mom suggests.

Dad grins devilishly.“An accountant stares at spreadsheets while I stare at spread cheeks.”

Cameron slowly shakes his head, and I don’t get why he doesn’t play the birthday card to put an end to this.

“You know what they call a sarcastic proctologist?”Mom asks.

“A smart-ass doctor,” Dad replies.

Looking uncomfortable, Jordan and Ashton chuckle again.I bet they’re wondering how many more of these there are—and the answer is: an infinite amount.

“How is a chiropractor different from a proctologist?”Mom asks.

“You go to the first to crack your finger,” Dad says with a snort.“And the other if you need your crack fingered.”

I blow out a breath.

Unperturbed, Mom tells them what Dad says when he walks into a bar: “Is this stool taken?”She then asks what his favorite medicine and food are, but to my huge relief, that is when our orders arrive and interrupt the answer, which happens to be ass-pirin and poo-nut butt-er, respectively.

When the waiters leave, I glance at Cameron’s plate, which seems to be where the odd smell is coming from.

“Yeah, I know,” my brother says.“The one problem with this dish is the ammonia smell.”He puts a piece of fermented shark into his mouth and chews with clear relish.“The taste is worth it, I promise you.”

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