The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(13)

Fantastic. I don’t even want to know what my brother will say about the crackle and simmer igniting between James and me every time we enter the same room. I could pretend to be innocent and say it’s sheer dislike, a personality clash. Which is at least a little bit true.

But on a level I’d rather not think about, I know at least on my end, the heat between us is not simply dislike.





Forget what I said. I deeply, truly dislike James Graham.

The only thing crackling between us right now is an eighty-proof irritation. The kind that will light you up and leave you with a splitting headache and light sensitivity the next day. A hate hangover, if you will.

“Should we keep this for—” I start to ask, holding up an old window.

But James barely gives it—or me—a passing glance before interrupting. “Trash.”

He didn’t even know what I was going to ask. I know for a fact one of the new shops going in on Main Street sells this kind of thing—designer decor right alongside old doors, windows, and antique oddities. We could spread goodwill by giving her some things we salvage or possibly even sell them.

“But—”

“Trash,” James barks. “And wear these so you don’t get lead poisoning or tetanus in your delicate hands.”

He strips off his worn leather work gloves and tosses them my way. They bounce off the center of my chest. Good thing I’m wearing a practically ironclad sports bra, which in this instance doubles as a nipple shield. I bend to pick the gloves up from where they landed on the floor.

When I straighten, James has his back to me, already moving on like this conversation never happened. He strides away through the dim building, carrying a metal barrel right over his head with his now-bare hands. I don’t want to look at the way his arm muscles flex from the effort, but they’re kind of hard to ignore. Too bad that body is attached to the grouchy attitude.

Just think of him like Donkey Kong—that big, angry gorilla who threw barrels in the old video game.

The mental image makes me snort. A tabby cat darts by, like it had been hiding in the corner, waiting for James to leave the room. The building is FULL of cats, and I’ve taken a sick pleasure in watching James grow more and more irritated with every passing pussycat. He seems personally offended by their presence, which I find delightful.

I pick up his work gloves, tucking them in my waistband rather than putting them on. James is right about safety, of course, and it was thoughtful of him to give me his gloves. And yet … the way he spoke to me makes me want to lead a mini-rebellion. I think honestly he’s just mad I invited his family to help today. Along with Chevy. And maybe half a dozen other Sheeters. I thought it would be good to have more bodies and more hands, but I underestimated how much James dislikes other people meddling. Or maybe just … dislikes other people in general.

I drag the window frame out a side door, blinking in the blinding light. I’m never going to admit it because James would give me a hard time, but I’m exhausted. Leaning against the building, I tilt my head back and stretch my pale, already sore limbs in the sun. Ah, Texas, and its unseasonably warm November temperatures.

I catch sight of Chevy pulling up to the curb. I’m along the side of a building, mostly hidden by some stacked crates, allowing me to watch James greet my brother. Chevy gets a head nod and an almost smile. I saw a flash of teeth, so it counts.

It’s weird how jealous this makes me, right?

This morning, I arrived ten minutes early, bright-eyed and with a cup of coffee, thinking I’d get a redo on my terrible start yesterday. James took a sip of the coffee, muttered a clipped thanks without even looking at me, and told me to start hauling trash to the curb. Not at all what I hoped for, though I shouldn’t have expected more.

Be honest—you also hated how James didn’t seem to notice you. That his eyes didn’t scan over your tattoos. You wanted appreciation, maybe even interest. Approval. And you got nothing.

I hate my stupid, very correct inner voice. A part of me DID want to get a reaction out of James. Good, bad—something. I thought maybe he was the kind of guy who’d be into tattoos. He didn’t even give me a second glance. Guess I should know better than to judge a man based on his motorcycle boots.

Sighing, I watch as Chevy and James walk away, an easy familiarity between them. My brother has that effect on people. He’s like a warm chocolate chip cookie. Who can resist? Meanwhile I’m … not that. Never have been. And I’m not sure why, after years of making peace with myself, I’m feeling itchy in my own skin today.

A skinny orange cat with only one eye emerges from behind the stack of pallets and stretches. It sits a safe distance away, piercing me with its singular gaze. I remember seeing him yesterday morning too. He’s so ugly he’s almost cute.

“I know, I know. I should be working. Not spying on my boss.”

The cat doesn’t move, doesn’t blink, doesn’t make a sound. And yet I feel supremely judged.

I should get back inside so James can’t accuse me of being lazy or not doing my job. But first, I need to save this window. It is not trash. I could see the panes painted with chalkboard paint, the window hanging in a kitchen. Or maybe next to the bar out in the warehouse with what’s on tap for the day.

Ignoring the cat, who’s still watching me, I pull James’s work gloves from my waistband and slide them on. They’re too big, of course, and no longer warm. But I still feel a little, girlish flutter knowing his big hands occupied this same space a few minutes ago.