The food had arrived twenty minutes ago. 

Beautiful plates of grilled chicken, buttery mashed potatoes, spiced rice, and a platter of roasted vegetables. Everything smelled delicious. But none of us had touched a single bite. 

Because Ace had somehow convinced both himself and Scott that a flow of shots was essential to the father–son bonding experience. 

The empty shot glasses were starting to form an embarrassing little army in the middle of the table. The waiter looked mildly ...