Page 23 of Song Bird Hearts
“It’s a garden walk lined with trees. Look it up,” he says gruffly, but that sparkle is still there in his eyes and goddammit if I don’t want to make him full on smile.
“You’re cheatin’ somehow,” I grumble. “You really expect me to believe ‘oxters’ is a word?”
Knox looks at me, deadpan. “Means armpits. I told you. Want me to use it in a sentence?”
“Please don’t,” Gilden says from the side as he slowly plops down the word “boobs.”
These two men are from vastly different walks of life, because holy shit. They couldn’t be more different from each other.
Knox eyes Gilden’s word, lips twitching just slightly, like he’s fighting a war behind his eyes and almost losing.
“Real mature,” he mutters, but there’s a dry edge of amusement in it.
Gilden leans back in his chair like he just played a master move. “Boobs always score,couillon.”
I snort, shaking my head. “Y’all are ridiculous.”
Knox finally glances my way again. Just for a second. Just long enough for the corner of his mouth to lift—barely there, more ghost than grin—but it’s real. It’s quiet.
And it hits me like a kick to the ribs.
That tiny, rare smile is a glimpse of something warm under all that stone.
And just like that, I forget what score I’m losing by.
Something catches in my throat. I don’t know if it’s surprise or that low, slow heat blooming in my chest like I just looked too long at something I shouldn’t. Like catching a flash of skin I wasn’t meant to.
I look down at my tiles because it’s my turn now. My hands are trembling, just a little. How ridiculous of me.
“It’s still your turn,” Knox says, voice low, smooth as bourbon, but a little rough on the edges.
“I know that,” I snap, a little too fast, a little too loud. My face heats up immediately. “I’m just thinkin’.”
“Sure, you are,” Gilden drawls. “Just don’t stroke out tryin’ to spell ‘tractor’ again.”
I glare at him, grateful for the lifeline, even if it comes wrapped in nonsense. “At least I ain’t out here spelling ‘boobs’ like a thirteen-year-old.”
“Boobs is timeless,” Gilden says solemnly, holding up his hands. “Boobs is universal.”
But Knox hasn’t looked away from me.
Not even once.
And when I glance back up, he’s still watching me with that same quiet intensity. His smile’s gone, but something in his eyes is softer now, curious even. Like he’s not just watching what I’ll play, but each inner working of my brain.
I drop a tile and miss my slot completely, the wooden square slipping into the wrong spot.
“Shit,” I mutter.
“Take your time,” he says, still watching.
And I swear to god, I might combust right here on this chair.
I scramble to gather my tiles before my fingers betray me again. Knox doesn’t say anything else, but I feel the heat of him across the table, steady, grounded, impossible to ignore.
My heart’s still tripping over itself when Gilden whistles low.
“Well, damn,” he says, breaking the silence like a rock through a glass. “This is somethin’. I ain’t seen a woman flustered like this since Miss Dottie caught her preacher husband in the communion wine with his pants down.”
