Page 163 of Crash Course
All three wore the same blue conference lanyard as the group of loudmouths.
Now Zeke understood why Ash had picked this swanky hotel restaurant over a billion others in the city. He was attending an FBI conference.
Which meant Zeke sat in the epicenter of his enemy.
Intellectually,Zeke understood his dislike of the FBI was irrational. After all, they didn’t seek out Ash and rip him from the family business, leaving Zeke reeling at the loss and scrambling to take his brother’s place at the helm.
No, Asher Cameron Blackwell had done that mindfuck all on his own. To follow his passion, his dream. Something he had failed to share with Zeke, until three years ago, when he’d called it quits and left Steele Ridge.
He’d even left his fucking name behind. Wanted the family to call him Cameron now. A clean split.
To hell with that shit.
Tonight was going to be the first step in fixing things with his brother.
Or so he’d thought.
Instead, the FBI crammed the knife deeper into his heart.
“Let me guess,” he glanced at the other two agents, “duty calls.”
Ash’s jaw worked, as if he wanted to say something, but not in front of an audience. Instead, he stuck with the tried-and-true. “I’m sorry, Zeke. I’ll make it up to you.”
He felt the woman’s eyes on him, but he refused to look at her. Had no wish to stare empathy in the eye.
Zeke sank back in his chair and lifted his drink to the trio. “Have fun at the office.”
Ash slipped five twenties from his wallet and placed them on the table. “Happy birthday, bro.”
He stared at the money. The sight of the fanned-out bills caused the whiskey in his gut to heave.
“Here you are,” server Keith said, sliding a plate in front of him. “Can I get y’all anything else?”
“No, thanks.” Zeke placed the pristine white napkin in his lap and used his fork and knife to cut a thick slice of tenderloin. By the time he lifted his head, he was alone.
The beef all but disintegrated in his mouth. Any other time, he would sigh in carnivorous satisfaction. Not tonight. Tonight, he swallowed the meat with all the excitement of changing a newborn’s hundredth shitty diaper.
But he kept cutting and chewing and swallowing with mechanical efficiency.
He took a sip from his third bourbon.
He drummed his fingers against the table.
His gaze strayed to the woman at the bar, then to Intense Dude. The guy’s seat was empty and a server was clearing away his empty drink.
Back to the woman. He couldn’t figure out why a red ponytail and an uninspired pantsuit would compel his attention, but here he was staring. Again.
This time, he searched the back of her neck and around her jacket collar. No blue lanyard. Normally, once people put those things on, they didn’t remove them until they were rolling their suitcase out of the hotel. Which meant she wasn’t part of the G-con. Relief tumbled through him.
Sensible Shoes took a drink of her fruity cocktail before dropping her reading material into an oversized purse at her feet. After paying her bill, she slid off the stool and turned toward the dining area.
Thick, perfectly arched eyebrows accented wide, catlike eyes. Her full lips were without lipstick and, somehow, the absence captured his interest even more. When his gaze roamed lower, he cursed, unable to assess the rest of her assets in that damn formless business suit.
She scanned the room, as if looking for someone. Her eyes met his, and something shifted inside his chest. Something warm and familiar, though he’d never met her before. He didn’t understand the sensation, but he liked it. A lot.
He nodded, and she smiled in return.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you.”
