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What was he talking about? She scrunched her brow. Oh yes, the other day, in his room, when he wore his robe. She hadn’t actually seen anything. At the time she hadn’t cared, hadn’t noticed. But now, after the kisses, the darned, wonderful, foolish kisses—her face burned.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” She managed to speak the words, but Jay’s self-satisfied expression indicated she had understood him perfectly.
He dealt. Ace high, a pair of fives, a six, and a three. She tapped her fingers, competing with the rain. Did she keep the ace? Ursula caught Jay’s eye. He wasn’t pleased. So many tells. How was she supposed to do this right if her head was stuck on the kisses and her mother’s ghost and what her father had said and what Isaac had heard and Jay’s other secret—the one that authored the sallow circles beneath his eyes? The one she’d give anything not to be true. He should be pleased only her tells were slipping and the lump in her throat hadn’t strangled her.
She shoved her cards into the center of the table. “I’ll take three.”
Jay raised an eyebrow but acquiesced. Two tens and a nine. Not bad, not bad at all. An improvement for once. Ursula licked her lips as she studied him. He exchanged two cards and tossed a coin in the pot. She raised.
“Must have been a nice draw.” Why was the smugness in his tone so endearing, and worse, why was he right? How was what she’d done a tell? Oh, wait, the raise—fidgeting and a raise.
Blast.
If she couldn’t focus, she might as well ruin the game for both of them. Some mysteries needed to be solved.
“Why do you have so many rules and take so many precautions with women?” she asked.
Jay froze and placed his hand on the table. “I beg your pardon?” Something akin to anger flashed in his eye.
Ursula shuddered but pressed onward. He was suspicious, and she was being too obvious, but she had to confirm or would go mad.
“I already told you. I like your rules. They’re sensible but how did you know to craft them? Have they changed over time? Have there been adjustments?” she pressed.
Jay knit his fingers, stretched, reaching his arms straight up, before clasping his hands behind his head.
“Why do you want to know?” There was no humor in his voice.
Why indeed? How could she ask him without offending him, without hurting him, without examining why the truth was so important? She gripped the edge of the table.
What had he said about thinking what the other person wants in the conversation? She closed her eyes for a moment. What did Jay want?
He certainly didn’t want her to act like she believed he did a great deal of horrible things. Ursula swallowed. He was sensitive, far more sensitive than she, far more sensitive than anyone realized.
“What is it, Urs?”
She laid her hand down as well. How could she say this correctly? He wanted an answer and nothing good came.
She studied the painting behind his head—a ship sinking by someone named Cooke. A rather depressing piece, with no animals at all. And the frame was too heavy. She blinked, over and over. She had to say something.
Think, Ursula, think.
/> “People whisper about things you’ve done in the past, and based on what my father heard, the recent past, and I know they aren’t true, but how did you come to be so careful?” She bit her lip. “I’m not saying this right.”
Jay’s eyebrows rose, and his nostrils flared. He sighed and ran his hand through his hair.
“You’re saying it perfectly fine, Urs, and I thank you for how you said it.”
Something prickled behind her eyes. Why did he have to look so forlorn?
“You’re usually such a good liar—well, flatterer. You don’t lie, at least not really, and not to me.” She pursed her lips.
A fine try, but he probably could’ve done better had their roles been reversed.
Jay smiled at her, not a flirtatious or cocky smile, but a real smile, one that lit his entire face. His eyes sparked a warm copper. He leaned back further in his chair and ran his fingers over his cards with the lightest of touches.
Her stomach fluttered, and she shivered, despite the heat in the room.
Jay’s eyes narrowed for a moment and darkened. He scooted forward again, resting his elbows on the table, his shirt gapping even farther.
