His swallow is so loud, it's practically in surround sound.
"Because my family owns a business, so I came out of high school with a job lined up. That's the whole point of college, right? To line up a good job. But I had one, so I figured I was way ahead of all those over-educated jerks paying out the ass for a piece of paper most of 'em would never use."
I pat my hair and practice my best round-eyed, admiring look on him. "Oh. So, what kind of work do you do?"
He doesn't even twitch. It's like watching a rabbit hop into a snare.
"My family owns a few businesses. I make runs for them. Settle accounts. Practice diplomacy when it's needed."
He inches closer, and I hop off the balcony ledge and move into my room, toward my desk, bending over to pick up imaginary scraps of paper so I can keep his attention and get him to talk more.
I don't even take a second to truly process what he's telling me or unjumble exactly what I think about it. I need to shake the information out of the tree like so much ripe fruit and grab every piece up before it goes rotten. I'll be able to paw through it all with my full attention later. He follows me in and leans against the frame of the French doors.
Winchester's eyes are very firmly planted on my backside, so I ease out the next question, trickier than the last two.
"And what about Remington? What happened the other night?"
I have a nice, round backside, plenty of cushion, but shapely and proportionate. More than one guy has declared my backside the finest he's ever seen, but it's not enough to keep Winch on track.
Like a spell he's snapping out of, he gives a groggy shake of his head and runs a hand over his hair.
"Nothing. It's nothing. I told you, my brother's in a little bit of a bad spot now, but he's coming through fine. Just fine."
I stop shaking my rump for his hormonal benefit and look at him.
I really look.
His eyes are shifty. His mouth is drawn tight to one side. He cracks every knuckle on his hand. Because he's worried. He's upset. And he can't trust me enough to tell me why.
I stop all the stupid crap, all the pouting and panting and breast and booty shows and just chill out and sit by his side. I reach one hand over and knit his fingers with mine, then take an extra deep breath.
For a few quiet beats, neither one of us moves or talks or does a single thing except settle into the art of being together the way we are, brand new in this turned-the-corner instant.
"My daddy is a stupid, stupid man," I start, embarrassed that my voice is only a whisper, but secure in the knowledge that that's the loudest I can manage. "He bets on things--" I shake my head so hard my own ponytail whips my face. "He bets on things that lose. Always. It's like reverse luck. You can always count on my daddy to pick the loser."
I try to pull my hand away, and I tell myself it's just to wave a stray piece of hair out of my eyes, but I know, deep in the marrow of my backbone, that it would make me relieved to not have to be physically connected to Winch while I tell this. His eyes snap at me, like your loyal dog trying to warn you there's danger ahead, willing to bite to make you listen. He squeezes my hand, and I hold tight because he gives me no choice, and the words keep bobbing out.
"I can always pick the winners, though." I eye him to see if this lucky tidbit interests him in the 'let's go bet on the horses' sense, but he just watches my eyes and leans forward, anticipating my next words. "Seriously always. Like magic. I could be rich, picking horses. I'm that good, no joke. Daddy figured it out when I was tiny, of course. And, at first, I helped him."
"Hamburger days?" Winch finally breaks in, remembering the story I told him earlier.
"Yes. Well, they came later." I squirm, but there's no turning back. "For a while we were swimming in money. There was no losing. We had it all, and it seemed so damn easy. Then...we lost everything eventually. The house I grew up in. My school tuition. My mama. She left because Daddy was such an embarrassment, losing all the time. Losing can make you really...distant. And mean. And weak. And he just kept losing."
I can't bring myself to tie it all together. I look sideways, begging Winch with every worry line and desperate pull of my lips to figure this whole damn story out and not ask me to say the obvious.
The rabbit and the snare? It was never Winch walking into the trap. He hopped close and wiggled his nose in disdain.
I'm the idiot with one furry foot in the noose, about to be slit and skinned for dinner stew with my unlucky foot on someone's keychain, an ironic good fortune trinket.
He brings my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles with a ticklish brush. "You don't have to tell me."
I take my furry foot back out of the trap and get ready to hop into some clover.
But the relief in his eyes stops me in my tracks.
So this is where we are?
I say nothing, he says nothing, we lose nothing, we gain nothing.
It's cowardice.
I put my foot right back in that noose, stew be damned. I need to get caught by Winch. I need to trust that he wants me for more than my lucky foot.
"I could have stopped it." My voice is firm and heavy with leaden shackles of shame.
He shakes his head, and pulls me closer.
"Listen to me. You couldn't, okay? What your old man wanted to do, that
