Page 67 of Beautiful When He Breaks

“The knee thing,” he says. “And the phone thing. And the staring-off-like-you’re-about-to-start-a-fight-with-the-wall thing.”

I almost smile despite myself. “That one feels unfair. The wall started it.”

He doesn’t laugh. He just keeps looking at me with that direct, worried stare that gets under my skin worse than almost anything else. “What’s going on?”

There it is. The question should make me panic. Instead, it mostly makes me tired.

“Nothing,” I say, because some habits die slowly.

His mouth flattens. “Bullshit.”

I lean back harder into the chair, crossing one ankle over my knee in a performance of relaxation that fools absolutely nobody in this house anymore. “I’m fine.”

“Julian.”

The way he says my name should be illegal. Not because it’s sexy. Jesus Christ, no, that’s a bad direction for my brain to take right now. It should be illegal because it sounds too soft and too sure at the same time, and somehow that always makes me want to either tell him everything or run in the opposite direction.

“I’m just tired,” I say.

“You’re fidgety.”

“Maybe I’ve finally developed a personality.”

He folds the sock with irritating precision and sets it on the little pile of clothes beside him. “I know when you’re joking to dodge.”

I look away first, which is probably enough of an answer.

The room goes quiet for a second. I can hear the dryer running somewhere down the hall. A floorboard pops upstairs. Mila gives one tiny, outraged squeak from the kitchen and then settles again. The whole house feels close and warm and almost safe enough that I hate myself for still feeling like I’m waiting for something bad to get through the door.

Eli stands abruptly, dropping the last little sleeper onto the laundry pile. “Come on.”

I blink at him. “What?”

“Get up.”

“For what?”

He gives me a look that is somehow both exhausted and stubborn. “Because if I ask what’s wrong again, you’re going to lie to me, and if you keep vibrating in that chair, I’m going to lose my mind. So, I’m distracting you.”

The words hit me harder than they should. I cover it with a snort. “That sounds ominous.”

He grabs the pool cue from the wall rack by the den bar and tosses it lightly in one hand. “It’s pool, not ritual sacrifice.”

“That depends on how badly you play.”

That gets me the look I wanted; the tiny, offended narrowing of his eyes that means I succeeded in tugging him half an inch off concern and into banter.

“You’re talking a lot for somebody who’s about to get humbled,” he says and points the cue at me.

I should say no and go upstairs. I should keep my distance tonight because my nerves are shredded enough already without adding dim lighting, Eli in a black T-shirt that fits too well, and a game that involves leaning over green felt while standing too close to each other. Instead, I get up because Eli asked me to and because I’m weak where he’s concerned.

The den is one of those ridiculous rooms Killian’s family probably added because rich people fear empty corners. Dark wood paneling, low leather couches, too much expensive whiskey on the built-in shelves, and a full-size pool table under a hanging lamp that throws everything beneath it into intimate light. I’ve played in here plenty of times with the guys. It has never felt like this.

Eli racks the balls while I chalk my cue, and I try very hard not to notice stupid shit: the bend of his wrists, the concentration on his face, the way the light catches in his hair when he leans over the table.

I fail immediately.

“Winner gets whatever he wants for the night,” he says, straightening.