Dove is luminescent. She belongs in this room, with the laughter and the games. She doesn’t belong with a man who thinks about violence every time another male looks at her too long.
“Shane?”
I blink, snapping back to reality. Dove is holding out another egg to me.
“Final round,” she says, smiling up at me. “Winner takes all.”
I take the egg, our fingers brushing. A spark jumps between us, undeniable and hot. She feels it, too; I see the flush rise on her cheeks.
I shouldn’t play. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t want her this much.
“Let’s finish this,” I say, gripping the egg tight enough to crack the shell.
I’ll let her win. I’ll always let her win. Because if I actually played for keeps, I’d take her right here on this dining room table, and I’d never let her go. However, I care about her too much to inflict myself on her.
Chapter Five
Dove
After playing Peep Wars, it’s finally time for dinner.
I won and took great pleasure in knocking Shane’s final chick off the ledge. The adrenaline of the game still hums in my veins, making me feel bolder than usual. I take my seat with a little less hesitation than last year.
The Archer patriarch sits at the head, with Melanie to his right. The rest of the seats are a free for all, though the arrangement feels strategic. Shane is to my right. Cordia to my left. Theo and Marabella sit across from me, while Emily has claimed the spot to Shane’s right, effectively boxing him in.
I’ve always been close to all the Archers, but with Emily here, the dynamic is off-balance. She sits like a queen holding court, while I feel like the court jester who just got lucky with a hard-boiled egg.
“Try a tart, Dove,” Melanie says, offering me a warm smile. “They’re passionfruit. I remembered you liked them last year.”
“Thank you, Melanie.” I reach for one, but the movement draws Emily’s eye.
I stare at the pastries—jeweled fruits on beds of cream—but my stomach gives a tight, cold warning. Beside me, I feel a radiating heat.
Shane.
He is sitting close. Too close. His knee brushes mine under the table—a fleeting, accidental contact that sends a jolt straight up my spine. He doesn’t pull away immediately.
“Water?” he asks, his voice low, vibrating right next to my ear.
I look up. He isn’t looking at the table; he’s looking at me, pitcher in hand. “Please.”
He pours for me, his movements deliberate, creating a small, private bubble of domesticity that ignores the woman sitting on his other side.
“So,” Theo says, leaning forward and breaking the silence, ignoring the water pitcher entirely. “Are we going to talk about the hustle? Because I feel hustled. I didn’t know second-grade teachers were trained in tactical warfare.”
I relax into the banter, the familiarity of it settling my nerves. “It’s not warfare, Theo. It’s classroom management. If I can stop a glue-stick riot before recess, I can handle a hard-boiled egg.”
“She has you there, son,” Henry chuckles from the head of the table, offering me an approving nod. “Dove has always had a steady hand. I still remember when she helped you paint that model airplane without getting a drop on the carpet.”
“And a killer instinct,” Shane adds softly.
He isn’t looking at his brother. He’s looking at my hands, which are currently resting on the white tablecloth. He picks up the bread basket—the one Emily was reaching for—and offers it to me instead.
“Sourdough,” he murmurs, bypassing the rolls on top. “Not the multigrain. I know you hate the seeds getting stuck in your teeth.”
He places a piece on my bread plate, his arm brushing mine, effectively blocking Emily’s access to the butter. It’s a small, petty, wonderful gesture. He knows my preferences better than I know them myself sometimes.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling a flush rise that has nothing to do with the room temperature.
