Page 194 of End Game

We talk about nothing particularly important.

Resolutions come up briefly. Cami says she refuses to make them because she doesn’t need a calendar to tell her when to improve herself. Griffin says that sounds suspiciously like an excuse not to set goals. Ronan points out that technically campaign planning already gives us quarterly objectives.

I listen more than I talk.

Mostly because I’m comfortable.

Partly because every few minutes my attention pulls toward Ronan.

His foot is less than a foot from mine.

His sleeves are pushed to his forearms.

He has one hand resting loosely around his glass.

I know those hands.

I’ve watched them build campaign maps, turn pages, bind and steady Cami, guide Dex, and settle at the back of my neck like he knew exactly how much pressure I needed before I did.

I have spent months waiting.

Longer than months, if I’m honest.

The attraction itself has been around far longer than any of us had language for what we were becoming.

But lately it has become impossible to file away as background tension.

Ronan looks at me differently now.

Touches me differently.

And maybe the most dangerous part is that he lets me see him wanting to.

At eleven fifty-five, Cami gets up abruptly. “Champagne.”

Griffin catches her hand before she makes it two steps. “Slow down.”

“My blood sugar is fine.” Her tone is colored with annoyance.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

“You made the medic face.”

“I made the don’t-trip-over-the-coffee-table face.”

She looks down.

Her shin is approximately one inch from the corner.

“Oh.”

Griffin’s eyebrows rise.

“Fine.” She disappears into the kitchen.

Ronan looks at Griffin. “That was impressive restraint from you.”

“I’ve learned.”