Abram smiled, ridiculously calm for a man who was talking about selling off the company that was his life’s work. Before we could press further, however, Mr. Westwood clapped his hands once, commanding attention with ease.
“That’s enough of the heavy talk before the coffee has even started cooling enough to sip,” he said. “Abram, I heard you actually attended the playoffs last season?”
The pivot was so seamless, it was truly impressive, but the tension in the room didn’t disappear. It just got buried undersports talk and nostalgic stories about stadiums and legendary players. I noticed Nate relax slightly when the conversation shifted.
Sports were clearly his comfort zone. He leaned in, animatedly debating batting averages with Abram and his father like the fate of civilization depended on it. I’d never heard him say so many words in one sitting.
“Do you still go to games, Abram?” Mr. Westwood asked.
“Whenever I can,” Abram replied. “Speaking of which, there’s a Cubs versus Yankees game tonight, isn’t there?”
Nate’s fork paused midair, his nod a lot more careful than his debates had been. “There is.”
“Excellent,” Abram replied. “Let’s go. You and me.”
Nate’s eyebrows rose. His incredibly blue eyes shimmered with something that looked a heck of a lot like confusion. “I, uh, of course.”
“I want the full experience,” Abram said happily. “The atmosphere, the rivalry, the hot dogs, and possibly even some warm, overpriced beer.”
“That can absolutely be arranged,” Nate said like being tasked with taking a man like Abram to a game was part of his regular job description, but his shoulders had gone subtly rigid.
“Kate should come too,” Abram replied casually.
I looked up at him. “Me?”
“Yes,” he said, smiling as he glanced between us. “I’d like to observe the dynamic between the two powerhouses who put this deal together.”
“I wouldn’t call us powerhouses,” I said.
“I would,” he countered easily, then smiled at Nate. “She’s also a Yankees fan.”
Nate’s head snapped toward me, one blond brow arching slowly. I shrugged, popping a blueberry into my mouth. “What? I grew up in New York.”
“Of course,” he muttered.
“Is that a problem?” I asked.
“Only morally,” he said. “It explains so much about you.”
Abram chuckled. “I do enjoy conflict when it’s related to sports.”
“I take baseball very seriously,” Nate said, his gaze drifting to me.
I widened my eyes. “I’ve gathered.”
He sighed. “Then you understand why this is painful.”
“I’m sorry my team is better than yours,” I said with a devilish grin that I knew would piss him off.
He held my gaze, but once again, there was something other than just the usual irritation in it. It looked more like he was working overtime trying to solve a problem, like I could practically see the wheels spinning in his brain, but slipping instead of gaining traction. I turned back to my fruit, unease prickling along my own spine too.
Something was off. About all of this. And I was sure that was what he was pondering.
Mom had barely touched her breakfast. Dad spoke easily with Abram and Douglas, but he’d avoided my gaze more than once. Douglas Westwood watched Abram with a careful kind of attentiveness and even Alex looked wary.
He stood at the buffet table with a cup of coffee in his hand, looking out at the room like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop. When his gaze landed on Nate, something tightened in his expression. Concern, maybe. Or a warning.
Whatever it was, it looked like he was plotting something his brother was unaware of. Nate caught the look too. I saw it in the slight set of his jaw. I glanced between them, then back at Abram, who was laughing at something Mr. Westwood had said, entirely at ease while the rest of the room felt like it was balancing on an invisible tightrope.
