Finn turns his glare on me. "You're in on it."
"I barely know you people."
"Conspiracy starts fast."
Rhys draws a card, sets it down, then draws another. He sets that down too, then lays his entire hand on the table in neat, organized rows.
We all stare at him.
"That's—" Finn counts. "That's everything. You laid down everything."
Rhys looks at him.
"On your first turn," Finn says.
Rhys picks up his milk and takes a drink.
"How," Finn says flatly.
"Matched them."
"I can see that. How did you match them all on your first turn?"
Rhys looks at him again. The expression that lives on his face most of the time—the one that sits somewhere between watchful and completely unreadable—doesn't change.
"I sorted them," he says.
"You sorted them."
"While you were arguing."
The table goes quiet for a second.
Then Malcolm laughs. Full and genuine, his head tipping back. Alex's mouth curves into something that takes effort to contain.
"He sorted them while you were arguing," Malcolm repeats.
"I hate this game," Finn announces. "I hate everyone at this table."
"You love us," I say.
"I'm reconsidering."
I look at Rhys. He's not smiling exactly, but the corner of his mouth has that tension that I've learned means he's pleased with something and doing a moderate job of not showing it.
I catch his eye.
He looks away first.
The corner of his mouth stays.
Malcolm is definitely not wearing a shirt as usual. Just jeans low on his hips. Every time he moves I catch the flex of muscle across his shoulders, down his arms, the defined lines of his abs.
I'm trying very hard not to stare.
And failing miserably.
He catches me looking and smirks but doesn't say anything. Just lets me look.
