"Shadow, pass the beans?" Rogue's voice pulls me back to reality.
The treasurer is next to me, plate already loaded, that perpetual half-smile on his face like he knows something everyone else doesn't.
I hand over the bowl without looking, eyes still locked on Grace.
She's the one who breaks eye contact first, turning to answer a question from Spur about treating his horse's hoof abscess.
Her professional voice kicks in—confident, knowledgeable, explaining something about thrush and antibiotics and the importance of keeping hooves dry.
Spur's hanging on every word, nodding along, asking follow-up questions about his mare.
So is Ford, who somehow ended up seated next to her.
The prospect is leaning in too close, asking questions about her work, telling some story about his family's ranch back in Oklahoma.
Grace is being polite, nodding, engaging the way she does with everyone.
Making people feel heard. Making them feel important.
It's one of the things I love about her.
It's also driving me fucking insane right now.
"Easy, brother." Banshee's voice is quiet beside me. The road captain doesn't miss much. "You're gonna break that."
I look down. I'm gripping my fork hard enough to bend the metal, knuckles white with pressure.
I set it down carefully, reach for my beer instead, and take a long pull to give my hands something to do other than reach across the table and drag Ford outside by his collar.
"Just tired," I mutter.
"Uh-huh." Banshee's tone says he doesn't believe me for a second. "That why you've been staring at the Prez's daughter like you're planning her kidnapping?"
"Drop it."
"Your funeral." He goes back to his brisket, but I catch the smirk he's hiding.
Bastard knows. They all probably know.
I've never been subtle about Grace.
Never been able to hide the way I watch her, the way I make sure I'm wherever she is, the way I've scared off every man who's looked at her twice in the past few years.
They think it's big brother protectiveness.
The enforcer watching out for the Prez's daughter.
They have no idea it's an obsession.
Possession.
"So, Grace." Jolene's voice cuts through the dinner conversation, loud enough that half the table goes quiet. "Any handsome vets at that conference you went to last month?"
Grace's cheeks flush pink. "Mom, come on."
"What? You're twenty-six. I want grandkids before I'm dead."
"You have Dakota," Grace points out, gesturing to her sister.
