Page 74 of Ironwood Ranch Cowboys

He closes one spreadsheet, opens another. He seems to think the performance of productivity alone might send me back to the kitchen.

“I have work.”

“Mm. And yet you still found time at breakfast to stare at Annie every time she picked up a fork.”

He goes still. “I wasn’t staring at her.”

“Sure.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You were,” I say. “And before you start pretending I imagined it, she was doing the same weird little avoidance dance right back, which means either you two had the world’s least successful conversation sometime after I went to bed or I’m suddenly psychic.”

He takes off his glasses, which is never a good sign. “Duke.”

“Did something happen?”

“No.”

“That was fast.”

“Because it’s true.”

“You’re lying.”

He gives me a look that on most people would qualify as murderous and on Cody qualifies as mildly inconvenienced. “I’m not discussing Annie with you.”

Interesting wording.

“Why not?”

“Because I’m busy.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s enough of one.”

I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “Cody.”

He doesn’t respond.

Just stares back at me with that locked-down expression that means he’s put six extra doors between himself and whatever’s actually going on.

I know that face. I’ve known it since we were kids.

It’s the one he gets when something’s gotten under his skin far enough to matter, and he’d rather bite through his own tongue than admit it aloud.

Which means I’m not getting anything useful out of him unless I want to start a real fight.

Part of me does.

Not because I’m mad at him exactly. Because I’m mad at the feeling in my chest that keeps insisting I missed something important.

I’m mad at Annie for being careful with me this morning. I’m mad at myself for noticing the difference. Because none of this is clean anymore, and clean is a luxury we haven’t had in this house for years.

Instead, I say, “You know Silas warned me off.”

His expression doesn’t change, but one muscle in his jaw jumps.