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"OMG, Uncle Nash, stop." Mya turns to Fate and points to her mom. "My mom's a stylist, and Uncle Nash here thought you'd want to look like the old you. We stopped by soooooo many stores looking for the right pink hair dye, but Mom said Uncle Nash was specific on the color."

As she talks, Pops’s eyes shift to me. "You asked her to come over and dye my hair. Pink."

Grabbing the back of my neck, I squeeze it hard to help ease the rising tension there. "Yeah, I guess I thought... you loved it," I say with a huff and drop my hand. "It held such deep meaning, and I thought you'd want it back."

In two steps she's in front of me, wrapping those too-thin arms around my neck and pressing her face against my chest. Not knowing how to respond based on her earlier revulsion, I keep my arms limp at my sides, fighting the urge to pull her closer.

"Thank you." Her warm breath brushes against my bare chest, sending a bolt straight to my cock. What's coming next, I can't hide in sweatpants, and no way in hell I'll let these women know that just Pops’s warm breath against my skin can give me a hard-on. Wiggling out of her hold, I start toward the door and say over my shoulder, "You guys get started. I've got some stuff to do."

It’s not a lie. A long cold shower is exactly the stuff I need to do.

By the time I come back into the living room over an hour later, Liza and Pops are talking around the small kitchen table while Mya reads on the couch, feet hanging over the leather armrest. Pops has something that looks like a shower cap over her hair, and there's enough chemicals floating around that my nose hairs burn the deeper I walk into the kitchen.

"That's a good look for you there, Pops," I say as I move past the two for the couch. "How long will that take, anyway?"

"Don't rush it," Liza scolds, then goes back to talking to Fate.

I fall to the couch and nudge Mya, but she doesn't look up.

"Tell him about school," Liza chirps from the table. I look over the back of the couch and narrow my eyes. "Rough day yesterday."

Turning back to Mya, I slide the book from her hands and toss it to the table. "What happened?"

"Mom's making a big deal out of it. It was nothing."

"You came home crying," Liza chirps again.

"What happened?" I poke her tiny ribs.

"Ouch, fine! It's just stupid girl stuff, okay."

"Girls suck," Pops chimes in. When I turn to look at her, she just shrugs. "It's true. Some never grow out of it, either."

"Most," Liza says in response.

"Uncle Nash, do you think I'm weird?" Mya asks.

Even after spending most of my life being trained by women to understand what women are saying, I have no damn clue what's going on right now. "Huh?" is all I'm able to get out.

"The girls, one of them said I was weird and smelled like a Goodwill store."

Never have I had the urge to hit a girl. An eleven-year-old at that. "Mya." I yank on her arm until she's at my side so I can wrap an arm around her shoulders and hold her close. "You're not weird. You're you, and that's perfect. I'd rather have one awesome, unique niece than ten of those snobby bitches."

"Nash!" Liza exclaims.

"Sorry," I mumble, sneaking a smile to Mya, who's smiling back. "Don't listen to them. It's okay. Look at Princess Poppy back there. She's unique, don't you think? But she's rocking that unicorn hoodie, not caring what anyone thinks. Wouldn't you rather be that than a normal, boring girl."

The leather squeaks as she rotates on the couch to look back at Pops, who's trying to act like she's not listening to our conversation even though she absolutely is.

"Yeah, she's cool. I can see why you dig her."

My brows shoot up in surprise. Damn. If an eleven-year-old can tell I'm in love with Pops, why can't she? My face falls at the next thought. What if she does see it and doesn't care or feel the same? The pulling away would make sense, then. "I don't want to change it, just... I like being me, but sometimes I don't like being different. That's all. Don't worry about it, Uncle Nash. I'm not."

With that, she takes the book I discarded off the table and flips through the pages until she finds the spot she's looking for.

Taking the hint, I push off the couch and make for the sink where Liza stands over Pops. Pink suds fill the basin as Liza runs her fingers through Pops’s long blonde—no, pink hair.

"Want me to talk to the girl?" I ask, leaning a hip against the counter as I watch. Roughing up a little girl isn't something I'd be proud of, but it's Mya. No one messes with her. Or my sisters. And now Pops. Hell, the list of women I'm obsessively protective over is growing.