Page 73 of Restless Hawke
Savage watches the conversation unfold, chewing slowly until he finally swallows. “You must be pretty good if you beathim…”
I offer a nonchalant shrug, taking a bite of my food, even though I’ve suddenly lost my appetite, and hoping we’ll move on from the interrogation before it takes a turn down a path I am not willing to explore.
Dani offers a kind smile. “Who taught you how to play?”
My shoulders tense, and I force a return half-smile at Savage and his wife. “Just a family friend. It was fun when I was little, and it turns out I’m pretty good at it.”
Coen snorts next to me. “Pretty good?” He raises a brow and waggles it playfully, some of the humor returning. “She’s a shark.”
Luca leans back in his chair, casually swirling his wine, never taking his eyes off me. “Yet you’re swimming with her.”
Oh, hell…
Coen’s hand tightens on his fork hard enough to whiten his knuckles and glares across the table at him.
His “uncle” seems completely unaffected by the look of sheer ire in Coen’s eyes. Luca just takes a sip of his wine and pointedly raises a dark brow. “Should you be doing that when there’s already blood in the water?”
All that food in my stomach now churns at the tension rippling across the table between the two men. Though it seems likeIshould be the one who is glaring at him, based on the way the accusation was an attack onme.
Coen grits his teeth. “Should you be butting into something that isn’t any of your fucking business?”
“Whoa.” Nana’s eyes shoot between them from her spot at the head of the table. “Language. Play nice…”
Her repetition of Coen’s warning to Kennedy draws chuckles from almost everyone around the table—except the man next to me.
His hand slides down across my knee again and squeezes, giving me as much reassurance as he can.
Though it isn’t much.
Not when I can stillseeand feel the hostility rolling off Luca like a hurricane coming in off the ocean.
I’m used to having people underestimate me and second-guess my motives. In Coen’s case, it’s warranted, but his family doesn’t know that. Theyshouldn’t—unless they’re the most perceptive people on the planet. Which I guess they might be, given the looks I’m receiving from several of them.
The one Coen introduced as Angelina smiles at me, waving a hand dismissively toward Luca. “Don’t worry about him. Sometimes he forgets he’s not the one in charge anymore.”
Jude chokes on whatever he’s chewing and glances her direction, then quickly darts his gaze toward his father. Byron just snickers at the insult tossed at his husband, then takes a drink of his wine, the whole family gawking at Angelina.
She doesn’t even seem to notice, glancing up at me between bites. “So, where are you from?”
I push the food around on my plate a little bit. “All over, kind of.”
Her little sister, Alessandra, raises a brow. “Army brat?”
I shake my head. “No. My mom was just a bit of a free spirit. We lived mostly on the West Coast, though—California, Oregon, Colorado for a bit.”
And that’s more than enough about me…
There are thirty people sitting around this table. Which means theremustbe more to talk about besides me.
“What about you?” I scan the table up and down both sides. “Have you all always lived here?”
There are so many of them.
Each of their gazes filled with so many stories when they meet mine.
Gabe digs into his plate, watching me out of the corner of his eye. “Most of us were born and raised here, except for Landon, Saint, Jack, Vivi, Byron, and Luca.” He motions vaguely toward them. “They are our transplants.”
I nod and take a bite of the lasagna that’s good enough to bring tears. Warm and comforting. It tastes like home. “Thank you again for the invitation. This is all delicious. I haven’t had a good home-cooked meal in a long time.”
