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Emily groans. “God, here we go.”

Baryn ignores her and looks directly at Theo. “How can you tell if a lawyer is lying?”

Theo just glares back at him and doesn’t respond.

“Their lips are moving,” Baryn looks far too pleased with himself.

Emily bursts out laughing, definitely having had too much to drink. I don’t want to, but it slips out—a small, involuntary snort.

Theo continues staring at him, unimpressed.

“New rule,” Baryn declares, tapping the table. “If you don’t laugh at one of my jokes, that’s a drink. Disrespecting the President is treason.” He raises his glass. “Drink, Grayson. That’s the law.”

Theo takes a long drink, eyes still on him over the rim of the glass, then says, “If you have to make it a rule for people to laugh at your jokes, that doesn’t make it funny. Maybe a cry for validation.”

“New rule,” Baryn says again, already pouring more of the amber liquid into Theo’s glass. “Theo drinks whenever he challenges a rule.”

Theo downs it without flinching.

It goes downhill fast. Baryn keeps inventing rules, each one designed to make Theo drink, and each one more ridiculous than the last.

I’ve lost track of how many times Baryn’s said, “new rule” and how many times Theo’s taken the bait and downed another glass.

Theo is not a small man. Statistically, he should process alcohol more efficiently than the rest of us mere mortals.

The bourbon seems to be winning, though.

Emily’s crying laughing, barely shuffling the deck between rounds. “At this point, you’re just trying to kill him.”

“Tempting, but not worth the effort,” Baryn says.

By the time we finish another round, I can’t focus on anything but Theo.

He’s somehow still upright, though his tie’s crooked and he’s squinting at his cards like they’re written in another language. He plays one at a time with this intense, over-focused determination.

Baryn leans back, victorious. “Mr. President retains power.”

“For now,” Theo grumbles.

I stand and clap my hands once. “Nope, that’s enough democracy for one night.”

Emily giggles into her wine glass. “You just don’t like losing.”

“I like my liver,” I counter, standing. “And you—” I point at Theo, who’s slumped lower than he probably realizes, collar open, eyes a little unfocused—“have had enough to drink.”

He lifts his head, that crooked smile breaking through the last of his composure. “You worried about me, Jennings?”

“Worried about the carpet,” I say, grabbing his glass and scooting it out of his reach.

Theo grins wider, “You’re beautiful when you boss me around.”

My heart skips a beat, but I keep myself composed enough to say, “Get it together, Grayson.”

He doesn’t. He just gazes up at me, eyes warm and utterly unfocused. “Can’t. You’re too far away.”

His hand catches my sleeve. The tug is clumsy, uncoordinated, and before I can balance myself, I’m pulled backward.

Right 0nto his lap.