Watching her thank him, that small smile still on her lips.
Watching him say something else, watching her laugh again, lighter this time.
Watching him look at her the way I've been looking at her for years.
Like the bastard has any right.
He doesn't.
She's mine.
She just doesn't know it yet.
Dinner is torture.
Twenty-three people crammed around the table and the extra folding tables Phantom set up on the porch.
Full patches, prospects, ol’ ladies, and kids running around underfoot.
Someone's baby is crying in the kitchen.
A couple of the younger kids are sword-fighting with breadsticks near the stairs.
Jolene is directing people to seats like she's orchestrating a symphony.
I'm seated at the main table—an enforcer's privilege—three seats down from Phantom, who sits at the head like the king he is.
Grace is directly across from me, which means I have an unobstructed view of her face for the entire meal.
Also means she has an unobstructed view of me watching her.
The table is loaded with food.
Brisket and ribs, potato salad and coleslaw, cornbread and beans, everything you'd expect from a Texas barbecue.
Phantom's pride and joy, this meal.
He spends hours on that smoker every Sunday, perfecting his craft the way some men perfect motorcycles or gunsmithing.
Grace is wearing a clean shirt now—must've changed when she got here.
A soft cotton thing the color of cream, sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
Her hair is down, falling in waves over her shoulders.
She's talking to Dakota about something, animated and smiling, and I can't look away.
I never can.
She notices. Of course she does. Grace isn't stupid.
Her eyes meet mine over the brisket platter, and something flickers in those blue depths.
Awareness. Curiosity.
Maybe a hint of the same tension that's been building between us for months, simmering under the surface of every interaction.
Or maybe I'm seeing what I want to see.
