Page 36 of Restless Hawke

He doesn’t acknowledge me at all during the minutes leading up to play, merely watches our game host and dealer as they talk, as if they’re discussing the most interesting topics in the world.

The cold shoulder doesn’t bother me.

Not when I know what fire blazes inside him right now, what he is struggling to contain. I’ve seen and felt flickers of it, and even though he’s giving off the icy vibes that match the current state of his eyes, he can’t undo what’s already been done.

He revealed himself to me, parts of himself thatanyopponent would relish having access to because they make the biggest weaknesses, the easiest to exploit during play. And Coen Hawke makes me want to play with him as much as I do the cards being shuffled by the dealer directly in front of me.

Even as the cards are dealt around the table, Coen doesn’t glance at me, doesn’t acknowledge me. He scans the other players as they check their cards, assessing each of them for a moment or two before moving to the next.

Like me, he’s done his homework. He knows how each and every one of them plays, understands any tells they might have, recognizes any weaknesses, but he forgets that I know his now.

And I am not afraid to use it against him.

When the betting gets to me, I finally check my cards and toss in my chips, calling. Coen barely glances at his before calling, too, leaving only five of us in this round.

Many players prefer to be conservative in early hands, wanting to get a better sense of the table and the cards, waiting for an opportunity to strike against an unsuspecting opponent.

Coen usually plays this way. Conservative.Smart. His game is intelligent, built on years of honing his skills. He’s won far more than he’s lost since he started playing competitively, but he’s going to have to get used to things changing in that regard.

Because I’ve never been one to hang back and watch, waiting for opportunities.

Imakemy own.

The dealer pulls the flop cards, giving us the first real feel for what our hands might be.

Coen doesn’t move.

He doesn’t breathe.

He is fully in the moment, completely unaffected by the fact that I’m sitting beside him—or at least, he wants me to believe he is.

I may not have spent a great deal of time with Coen, but it was enough to understand how this man lives—with a kind of burning passion that he focuses on the things he loves.

Some assume that’s this game.

And Coen certainly does love poker.

But that crack I managed to break in his armor in Monaco taught me something very important—that passion can be redirected, and when it is, he loses some of that cool. The way he followed me out of that casino and to the limo, the way he almostbeggedme to stay, was enough to prove to me that he is far more fragile than even I knew.

Far more vulnerable.

I place my bet, then wait for him to make his move. As he reaches forward to move his chips, I shift slightly closer to him until my leg brushes against his.

Coen freezes, his entire body going taut beside me, and I have to fight the grin threatening to pull at my lips.

There we go.

It doesn’t take much.

A heated glance.

A tilt of the lips.

A simple touch.

Men unravel so easily, and Coen is no exception to that rule.

After the heated kisses we shared in Monaco and the hopes he held for what would have happened if I had stayed, it will be particularly easy with him.