Micah's neck was still flushed with a faint pink, the afterglow of his impulsive compliment stubbornly refusing to fade. He hated that the heat wouldn't go away, hated even more the smirk he could feel from behind him, that damn amused look on Clyde's face. He didn't have to see it to know it was there. He could already picture it: that slight quirk at the corner of Clyde's lips, the knowing glint in his eyes. Micah turned his back on him and tried to pretend the picturesque landscapes in front of them were suddenly the most fascinating thing on earth.
He cleared his throat, trying to reclaim some of the dignity he had clearly dropped somewhere between praising Clyde's face and losing control of his mouth.
"Anyway," Micah began, lifting his chin as if he wasn't the embarrassed one. "You didn't answer me. Dean is your nephew, too?"
