Page 107 of Rebel Hawke

He smirks as he takes a monster bite of the very thing I’m craving from his own plate and chews, then points his fork at the almost-empty pan. “Jenkins would kill you if you ate that.”

My body wouldn’t be too happy about it, either, at this point, after months of eating nothing but carefully crafted, prepared meals. But all that delicious, full-fat cheese and pasta…

Only one month to go, and then I can gorge.

I look over to Nana, who sits at the head of the table, picking at her plate and taking bites when she can, while she chats with Viviana and Charlotte, who have both vacated their seats to stand near her and chatter her ears off.

Though, she doesn’t seem to mind her two oldest great-grandchildren interfering with her dinner.

“Hey, Nana…”

She glances up, as does almost everyone else at the table who had previously been engrossed in their own conversations.

“After my fight, you make me three pans ofthat”—I point to the lasagna—“just for me.”

She smiles. “I always do, don’t I, dear?”

“Just reminding you.”

Dad chuckles, and Mom elbows him before he draws the wrath of the Hawke matriarch.

Nana doesn’t take orders fromanyone.

Never has.

Never will.

We all know it, which is precisely why my “order” was something I knew she would do anyway.

After the fight, I can enjoy food again, like everyone else at the table.

I cut off a piece of my bland, boring chicken and shove it into my mouth, chewing more aggressively than I need to try to get it shredded up and in my stomach faster because the sooner we’re done, the sooner I can get out of here and away from temptation.

At least of the food kind.

My greatest temptation shifts in her seat next to me, that almond and cherry scent wafting with her slightest movement.

I glance over at Wren’s barely touched plate. Only a few bites are missing, practically nothing compared to what she usually eats at Sunday family dinners.

She stares down at it.

“You okay?”

Her eyes dart up to meet mine, and she gives me a tight smile. “Yeah, I’m good. Just not very hungry.”

There’s something underneath the tilt of her lips, something she’s holding back, but I’m not about to pressure her to talk about whatever’s bothering her in the middle of this.

I know better than that.

Too many eavesdroppers.

Too many interested parties.

There is no such thing as privacy at a Hawke dinner—or in the family at all, really.

Uncle Savage sets his fork and knife across his empty plate and nudges it away from him. “You looked good in your sparring session Friday.”

I glance over at him, surprised by the first compliment I’ve received when it comes to my performance in the ring in a long time. Jenkins sure isn’t giving them to me. He does nothing but push. But that’s his job. To push. Not to stroke my ego. “Thanks.”

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