casual familiarity that never quite reached genuine. It was all so staged, everyone playing their expected role. The same one they’d been practicing most their lives.
A shiver raced down Henrik’s spine, the suddenness startling. He’d always had a sense of being out of place in his natural habitat, but it had never felt so foreign. Had Jacqui and her unassuming, welcoming family really changed him that much?
“Here,” Soren said, holding a drink out to Henrik. “This always helps.”
Henrik accepted the glass, sniffed before he took a sip of the amber liquid. Of course Soren would choose the same drink their father favored. The scotch burned a path down his throat to land like a lead ball before it spread its fake warmth through his system.
“I see nothing’s changed,” he said, eyeing his brother. Standing at almost the same height as their father, Soren was a younger version of the man. His blond hair, angled chin and blue eyes held the clear Scandinavian influence their father loved to brag about.
“What did you think would change?” Soren emptied his own glass and motioned at an unobtrusive server for another. The thought of Britta Hedberg Grenick’s guest digging through a cooler for a beer was absolutely laughable.
Henrik chuckled beneath his breath, smiling for the first time since he’d awoken that morning. God, he needed to find a water before he slammed the drink in his hand. “Nothing,” he answered Soren, apathy tainting his voice. “Absolutely nothing.”
Soren grabbed his new drink, a swift glare hitting Henrik before his false smile was back. “You might be a little more grateful for all you have.”
Henrik cocked a brow. “And what’s that exactly?”
His brother motioned to the room. “All of this. The name. Legacy. Prestige. Money. You’ve never appreciated any of it.”
“And you assume that why?” It wasn’t like he was the bad boy, wild black sheep of the family, pissing away Daddy’s money and breaking the law without worry of real punishment.
Soren managed a haughty shrug, nodding to a passing guest. “Your attitude says it all.”
Henrik didn’t care if his bark of laughter caused a few heads to turn their way. “Is it my lack of arrogance or my career that you’re objecting to? Oh, that’s right. It’s both those things. Has something else been added since I last checked?”
Two steps, and Soren was standing in front of Henrik, his glare seen by Henrik alone. “Are you really that clueless?” He took another drink, emptying half the glass, scowl deepening. “What am I asking? Of course you are. You chose to play hockey as a career, for God’s sake.”
The almost constant knot that took up space in Henrik’s stomach whenever he was home tightened another notch. He studied his brother. “Maybe you should slow down a bit.” He nodded at Soren’s glass and glanced at the people behind them. When had his brother’s drinking gotten so bad?
Soren rolled his eyes, an exaggerated act better suited on his wife than him. “I’m fine.” The sharp response snapped Henrik back a step, one Soren followed. “I can’t believe you’ve never figured it out.”
“What out?”
The predatory gleam in his brother’s eyes had the hairs on the back of Henrik’s neck rising in warning. He resisted the urge to scratch at his nape, instead opting to scan over Soren’s head for an escape.
His brother finished the contents of his glass without flinching at the burn that had to be searing the lining of his esophagus. “You’ve never wondered why you don’t look like anyone in our family?”
Henrik forced a casual shrug he didn’t feel. “I take after the Hedberg side.”
“No. You don’t.”
His unease increased, each word out of his brother’s mouth making him wish he’d blown off this family event.
“Come on, Henrik.” Soren patted his arm in a brotherly-but-not way. “You’re too old to still be in denial.”
“About what?” He really didn’t want to ask, but it was impossible not to. Despite the distance that’d always existed between him and his brother, Henrik still respected him.
Soren’s stare drilled into Henrik until all those tiny hairs on his nape started waving frantic SOS flags. “You’re not a Grenick.”
The flat, almost toneless statement had Henrik backing up a step as the words unwound in his mind. You’re not a Grenick.
“I’m not a...” Grenick? Was he saying...
“Father has always known,” Soren filled in. “But divorce was too low-brow back then, and Mother swore to never say a word.”
“Then how would you know?” Henrik wasn’t so stunned he couldn’t put that logic together.