“Do you want grandchildren?” I ask, moving the conversation because I sense he needs it.
A smile touches his lips. “Yes, of course. I always imagined watching my grandchildren become men.”
“Won’t you?” I ask, nearly begging with my eyes.
His mouth opens, like he’s going to say something, but he hesitates.
“I certainly hope so,” he says finally, but his voice is lighter than I expected.
“Hope is passive.” I pick up my sandwich.
He raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“Hope is like wishing. Without action, what does it do?” I say, taking a tiny bite from the corner.
The room goes quiet. He’s watching me differently now, like I’ve shifted into focus.
“That’s an interestingthought,” he says.
I brush crumbs from my fingers. “Hope doesn’t finish my paintings and help me make my deadlines.”
He laughs, but it’s more thoughtful.
“No,” he says. “I don’t suppose it does.”
He’s thinking about something, and I don’t want to interrupt it.
“You’re direct,” he finally says.
“Some believe it’s a flaw.”
“Who?”
“People who prefer I stay quiet and agreeable.” I meet his eyes. “It doesn’t suit me very often.”
He smiles. “I think the queen has underestimated you.”
“Most people do.” I shrug. “I prefer it that way. Because they’re surprised when I win.”
He studies me, like he’s reassessing everything he thought he knew about me.
“Don’t give up, Miss Cross,” he says. “On anything you want. The things worth having rarely come easy.”
I hold his gaze. “I always find that if I’m willing to fight and lose it all, just for a chance, then it’s worth it, right?”
Something passes between us. An understanding.
He nods slowly and rises from his chair, signaling our time is done.
“This was a pleasure,” he says, walking me to the door. “I hope we’ll do it again.”
“I’d like that.”
“And, Miss Cross?” He pauses, hand on the doorframe. “See the game to the end.”
“What game?” I ask.
All he does is grin. Then I’m in the hallway with my heart pounding.
