"Dakota's married to her horse," Jolene shoots back, making the table laugh. Dakota throws a napkin at her mother, grinning. "I need at least one of my daughters to give me grandbabies. I doubt your brother’s starting any time soon."
"I'll get right on that," Grace says dryly. "Just need to find a man who doesn't run screaming when he meets Dad."
The table erupts in laughter. Even Phantom cracks a smile, raising his beer in acknowledgment.
"Ain't that the truth," someone calls out.
"Remember that lawyer she brought around?" another voice adds. "Poor bastard looked like he was gonna shit himself when Phantom asked about his intentions."
More laughter. Grace is shaking her head, smiling despite her embarrassment.
But I'm not laughing.
Because Ford—stupid, eager Ford—leans over and says, loud enough for half the table to hear: "Can't be that hard. You're gorgeous and smart. Any guy would be lucky."
The table goes quiet.
Not completely silent.
People are still eating, still talking.
But the energy shifts.
Everyone who matters—every patched member, every ol’ lady who knows how this club works—goes still.
Because prospects don't flirt with the Prez's daughter.
Not unless they have a death wish.
Grace's flush deepens, spreading down her throat. "That's sweet, Ford. Thank you."
Sweet.
She called him sweet.
My vision tunnels.
Everything goes quiet except the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears, a steady war drum that drowns out everything else.
Phantom clears his throat. The sound cuts through the tension like a blade. "Ford. Kitchen. Dishes. Now."
The prospect scrambles up, nearly knocking over his beer, mumbling apologies. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I didn't mean?—"
"Now."
Ford disappears into the kitchen so fast he nearly trips over a kid's toy truck.
Crisis averted.
Except it's not averted at all.
Because Grace is looking at me again, and this time there's something different in her expression.
Something that looks almost like… curiosity.
Like she's trying to figure out why my jaw is clenched so tight I might crack a molar.
Why my hands are fists on the table.
