Her words landed light, teasing, but he felt the hook under them all the same. Falafel. Promises. Rest. Things heâd broken, all while telling himself it was for the better. His jaw tightened, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him, threatening the ghost of a smile.
âIâll square that debt yet,â he muttered, low, rough, his voice pitched for her alone. âCanât have you thinking Iâm a man without honor.â He left it at that. Her gaze flicked to the bruise at his throat, and he adjusted the line of his collar out of instinct, covering what couldnât really be hidden. His fingers lingered there a moment too long, before dropping. âI ate,â he said, but the words felt thin. Bread, whiskey, a cigarette smoked down to the filter â hardly enough to satisfy a woman who kept insisting she was his doctor. âBetter than the hot dogs theyâre peddling here, anyhow.â
The threat of tying him up â meant in jest, he knew â made something sharp and restless twist in his chest. He huffed through his nose, shaking his head. âCareful what you promise, doc. Some of these menâd pay good money for less.â He let the humor stand, even as his body still hummed with tension, every muscle tuned to the possibility of trouble.
She asked if he was up to something. His silence stretched, long enough to say more than any answer would. The truth was, trouble found him even when he wasnât looking. And she knew that. âUp to something?â He shook his head, tipping his hat lower to shade his eyes. âOnly thing Iâm up to is watching the ponies run.â
Still, he shifted his weight, scanning the crowd over her shoulder. Faces blurred together â Gallardo hats, Walker grins, Tanaka glances. A field of predators dressed in their Sunday best. His hand brushed the air just above her elbow, the smallest gesture of shepherding, of keeping her within his reach without making a show of it. âAnd watching my step,â he added quietly, almost to himself.
When her gaze drifted back to the track, he let himself follow. The horses shone like muscle and fire beneath the sun, lean and restless in their gates. He envied them â built to run, not to stay. âAye,â he said, softer now, almost gentle. âBeautiful creatures. Deserve better than the fools holding their reins.â
As for his bet, he let the corner of his mouth twitch again, just enough for her to catch. âCourse I did. Be a crime not to. What kind of Irishmanâd I be if I came to the races empty-handed?â He didnât say who heâd put money on, didnât admit the bet was less about the horses and more about the men whoâd tried fixing the race behind the scenes.
Instead, he let the silence fall, companionable for a change, the roar of the crowd building as the horses edged forward. For the briefest flicker of a moment, he let himself think maybe he could stand there with her, just a man at the track with another at his side â instead of what he really was.
"Do you know how to ride?"