“That was mine,” Ryan said.
“Yeah and so?” James said with an arrogant look.
Rolling his eyes, Ryan started making himself another. “You aren’t your dad, you can’t pull it off. You just look like a tool. As always.”
James gave him a half-hearted punch on the chest. Ryan laughed and tugged him into a playful headlock.
“Get of my house, kids,” Zach said, rubbing his temples. “Your cheerfulness is nauseating.”
“You know you love us,” James said with a grin, Ryan’s arm still around his neck.
Zach blinked blearily and did a double take. Why hadn’t he noticed before that James’s eyes were just like Tristan’s?
But then again, he usually didn’t have the habit of noticing men’s eyes. Because of James’s pale complexion and hair, the effect wasn’t as striking, and James’s eyes were unguarded, but they were exactly like Tristan’s: a unique, distinct color and slightly exotic shape. Of course it could be a coincidence, but coupled with Tristan’s mini-breakdown after Ryan and James’s arrival…
His forehead creasing, Zach thought of what little he knew of Tristan’s family. It was common knowledge that Tristan came from a poor background and that his mother died when he was five or six. His father…
Zach frowned as he remembered what Tristan had told him about his father. He was married—and very possibly had kids. He was also an earl.
An earl.
Zach stared at James. The kid’s father was an earl, too, which was usually an endless source of jokes for Ryan. Although it seemed unlikely that James’s top-lofty father could have something in common with Tristan’s mother, stranger things happened, especially if Tristan had inherited his exquisite looks from his mother. There weren’t that many rich, high-handed earls in England anymore.
“Do you look like your dad?” Zach asked. Although he had seen the Earl of Lytton a few times on the TV—he was a pretty prominent politician—Zach certainly hadn’t paid attention to the man’s eyes. All he remembered was confidence bordering on arrogance.
James gave him a startled look. “What? No, not really. Well, my eyes are just like his, but all Grayson men have the Grayson eyes, so it doesn’t really count.” He chuckled. “My dad says it’s because the Grayson bloodline is so superior, the Grayson eyes always breed true.”
Grinning, Ryan said, “Your eyes remind me of the tiling in the swimming pool locker rooms.”
James elbowed him. “At least mine aren’t the color of a toad.”
“You’re just jealous your eyes aren’t half as pretty as mine.”
“Yeah, sure.”
Zach tuned them out, staring at his cup. Tristan knew he was the Earl of Lytton’s son. Judging by his reaction, he knew James was his brother, the son his father hadn’t rejected. The son who had all the privileges and a loving family as he grew up.
Zach shifted his gaze back to James. He watched him grin and laugh with Ryan, so carefree and happy. James had countless friends. He had been an unofficial member of the Hardaway family ever since he and Ryan had become friends as kids. James had loving parents who doted on him every moment and gave him everything he wanted. James was a goddamn viscount.
Zach thought of the boy who never had any of that. Who had been rejected by a parent when he needed him the most. Who didn’t know how to connect to people. Who didn’t have a single person he could truly call a friend. Who pretended to be something he wasn’t just to be liked. Who didn’t know how to express any positive emotion. Who never knew love—and likely didn’t know how to ask for it.
Who would never ask for it.
Shit.
Zach’s lips thinned. So many things made so much sense now. He had sometimes suspected that Tristan actually had low self-esteem, but until now he hadn’t realized the extent of it. Deep down, Tristan would always expect to be rejected in favor of someone else, no matter how confident and arrogant he might seem. Behind all the walls he’d put up, the boy did have very low self-esteem. Tristan would never confess his feelings first—if he did have them.
Now the question was:
Was he willing to break his engagement for such an uncertain thing?
Zach stood and left the kitchen. He fished his phone out of his pocket, found the contact he wanted, and pressed Call.
“We need to talk,” he said.
Chapter 26
Tristan stood at the center of the pitch, waiting for the game to start. He looked around, taking it all in: the noise of the crowd, the familiar look of determination on his teammates’ faces, flashes of cameras everywhere. He tried to build up the excitement he used to feel, but it was futile when he felt like death warmed over. His eyes still felt like sandpaper after the sleepless night, and he could feel the nauseous tide of a rising headache at his temples.