Page 72 of Restless Hawke

As I start to look away, a set of matching blue eyes meets mine from just beyond Coen’s side of the table.

Isaac…

The spitting image of the man beside me.

Even if I didn’t know they were brothers, it would be obvious. The same strong, chiseled jaw. The same broad shoulders and muscles that make their dress shirts pull with each movement. The same mouth that seems to whisper things even when they aren’t saying anything.

He takes a sip of his wine, watching me, and motions between Coen and me. “So, how did you two meet?”

Coen almost chokes on the bite of food in his mouth and pounds against his chest, then grabs his water and drinks, clearing his throat as he glances toward me.

And so, the questions start…

I load up my fork with another bite of baked ziti that might be the best I’ve ever tasted, anxious to eat rather than spend the evening responding to the inquisitive Hawkes. “I’m a poker player.”

A hush settles over the table, all the other conversations dying with my words as if I just confessed to murder rather than being a card player.

Shit.

Was I not supposed to say that?

I whip my head toward Coen, trying to figure out why they reacted that way.

Crap.

His clenched jaw tics.

He isnothappy, and he tenses, almost as if he’s waiting for something to explode around us.

Jack leans forward slightly, bracing her forearms on the table so she can see me better around him. “Did you two meet playing?”

Coen continues to hold my gaze, waiting for my response, but he doesn’t do or say anything to stop me or give me any indication I should lie about it. He remains tense, but either he can’t or won’t intervene in this line of questioning.

I nod. “Yep.”

Before anyone can respond, I shovel my food into my mouth. If I’m eating, I can’t answer questions and get myself into more trouble, which I very well might have, given how uneasy Coen looks as he returns to eating.

Kennedy grins, her shrewd gaze narrowing on both of us, seeingfartoo much for a woman at the other end of the table from us. “Did youbeathim?”

Damn.

She is observant.

Or she’s just a really good guesser.

I can’t fight the pull of the corner of my lips, even though something tells me that I shouldn’t be gloating around these people. “I’m batting 500.”

Coen’s head whips back toward me, his eyes flashing at the use of the analogy he taught me—which seems completely appropriate, given the circumstances.

We’ve faced each other twice on the felt, and we’ve each come away victorious once.

But seeing the darkness drifting across his eyes and his quick glance toward his parents and then Isaac, the food I just ate starts to feel more like a rock sitting in my stomach.

It never occurred to menotto say that.

That it would be a reminder of what he told me about his family.

I’ve definitely said the wrong thing.