The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(12)

CHAPTER FOUR





Winnie



Couch surfing is for the birds. Bad birds, like seagulls or pigeons. It’s a way of life for college kids living on the ramen diet. Not the fifteen-dollars-a-bowl ramen I love when I can afford it. (And when I’m not in Sheet Cake, as clearly, we do not have that kind of food here.) I’m talking the multiple packages for a dollar kind of ramen.

Though I’m not technically on a couch, my current lifestyle of crashing with my brother is not for me: a twenty-seven-year-old independent woman. Except I’m flat-broke, and my budget is definitely more on the packaged ramen side of things.

On the plus side: I kind of want to marry the mattress on Chevy’s guest room bed. It is the absolute best.

Still, it’s not my bed. And I’m living out of bags, my poor clothes smushed into hanging bags and duffels. My portable steamer is my new BFF.

“Knock knock.” Chevy’s words come with actual knocking.

That’s the other downside to my living situation. The nosy older brother.

I groan and grab the closest thing to me, which is a romance novel. “Go away! I’m sleeping.” I punctuate this by tossing the book at the door. I hear the gasp of book lovers everywhere, but I picked this one up at the thrift store for ninety-seven cents and it’s already missing the back cover.

Chevy cracks the door open slowly. Upon seeing me still in bed, he opens the door all the way and leans on the frame. “No you’re not. I could hear you thinking from out there. Or—overthinking?”

I fluff the pillows and settle deeper into the bed. “Nah. Life is grand. The living is easy. What’s there to overthink?”

I shouldn’t have asked. Chevy’s lips twitch and he rubs a hand over his jaw. Big mistake—I just opened up a figurative door by asking a question, however sarcastic, about my life. And my brother, who isn’t afraid to be overbearing, is waltzing inside. On his way in the literal door, he bends to pick up the book I threw, his eyebrows shooting up as he examines the cover.

There’s no man-chest on this one or a passionate embrace with invisible winds tossing hair around, but the sexy man in a suit says it all. Capital-R Romance.

“This is what you’re reading?”

I refuse to be embarrassed about reading romance novels. “Yup. Maybe you should try it instead of judging.”

“Calm down. I’m not judging. Just … surprised.”

I get it. I’m not the typical romantic. Flowers—meh. Chocolate—I mean, I won’t turn it down just because CHOCOLATE, but it doesn’t scream love to me. But real boyfriends suck. See: Dale. Whereas fictional ones never let me down. They come complete with a grand gesture and an HEA every dang time.

Chevy shakes his head, setting the book carefully back on my bedside table like he’s afraid touching it for too long might rub off on the self-proclaimed forever-bachelor.

“Heard you broke up with Dead-Eye Dale.” Chevy came up with the nickname the very first time he met Dale, and though I admonished him, it’s honestly pretty apt. I find that I don’t mind it at all this morning.

“How? How did you hear?”

Chevy grins. “Has someone been neglecting the app she built?”

“It’s on Neighborly?!” I let out a frustrated growl and toss the book at Chevy again, hitting him in the belly.

“You’re gonna get booted out of book club for mistreating novels. Maybe I’ll save this conversation for post-coffee.”

“Good idea.”

“I made extra by the way. As in … an extra pot.”

“I don’t drink that much.”

“Right. So, about your breakup…”

“This might be more of a post-beer conversation,” I say through a yawn.

Chevy’s eyes light up. “You wanna have a beer with me, Win? It’s been a while.”

It has. Too long, actually. I haven’t carved out much time lately for Chevy. With both our parents gone, all we have is each other. We used to do a lot more together, and only in this moment, seeing the excitement in his eyes, do I realize our dinners and beers and movie nights have faded away. I make a mental note to be more intentional about planning time together.

“Are you off-duty tonight?”

“That I am. Backwoods Bar at eight? I’m meeting someone for dinner beforehand.”

“Another vapid woman with false eyelashes longer than her attention span?”

Chevy clucks his tongue. “Now, Winnie, what happened to women supporting women?”

He’s right—I shouldn’t be so harsh. I honestly have nothing against false lashes or extensions. I might wear them myself if they didn’t brush against my glasses. It’s just … Chevy dates the kind of women who have no personality, or else an ugly or irritating one. If I’m guilty of going for boring with Dead-Eye Dale, my brother goes out of his way to choose the kind of woman impossible to have a long-term relationship with short of having a lobotomy.

I climb out of bed, and Chevy scampers to the door with a girly squeal, as though my sleep shorts and tank are much more inappropriate than they are. Brothers.

“See you tonight, Chev!”

“Oh, you’ll see me before that,” he calls through the now-closed door. “I’ll be by later to watch you and your new boss go head-to-head this afternoon.”