The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(24)

“Are you sure you won’t teach me to play poker?” Jo sticks out her lower lip, and Tank laughs.

“You’d wipe the table with us. Maybe when you’re sixteen,” I tell her, kneeling to pick up the pieces.

“Thirteen,” she counters.

“Eighteen,” Tank says firmly, raising a brow. I’m glad one of us has backbone. Even if I know he’ll cave. He taught us all the year after Mom died. We played for candy, not money, but still.

One rogue knight is halfway across the living room, but I manage to find them all and put the pieces back on the board while Jo grabs her bags. I glance at the folding table Tank set up for the game, then frown.

“Did you invite extra people?”

Dad shrugs. “With Pat gone, we had space. You know our table is always open.”

Maybe our table has always been open, technically speaking, but the last new player we added was Chase, Harper’s husband, almost seven years ago. He was my sister’s best friend for years before they finally admitted they were in love—something we could have told them long ago. Just because that turned out well doesn’t mean I want to welcome a bunch of new people.

I walk to the kitchen and grab a glass of water. It does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest, the swirling in my gut, and the heat spreading over my skin.

Who else has Tank invited? The only person I can think of is Chevy, but I counted three extra stacks of chips at the table. I set down my empty glass before it cracks in my fist. Because what if he invited Winnie?

You can handle change. You’re thirty now. A whole new decade. Time to chill, man. If Winnie’s here, just be your normal brooding self. It will be fine.

My mental pep talks suck. I need to look into training my inner monologue to be better.

But I’m hanging by a thread here, frayed and thin. I can trace it back to my first day as Winnie’s boss. Or maybe it was the workday, trying to keep my eyes from straying to her tattoos and lean muscles. It could have been dinner with Chevy, where he told me Winnie is single AND put the idea of dating her in my head.

My fingers go down to my pocket, where I’m still carrying the seed she gave me. The thing is probably going to sprout if I don’t figure out what to do with it.

I have just as little idea what to do with Winnie.

I smile, remembering the high point of my day—no, my WEEK—when I walked in on Winnie facing off with a gray striped cat. With a cat carrier in hand, she crouched in front of the thing, which was bigger than her head, tail swishing and ready to attack.

“Be careful,” I told her, keeping a smart distance.

“It’s okay,” Winnie said. “We’ve come to an understanding. He’s going to go into the carrier like a good kitty. Aren’t you, good kitty?”

The cat hissed. Winnie jumped forward, swinging the carrier like a baseball bat. And the cat used Winnie’s shoulder as a springboard, leaping away into the shadows while Winnie fell back on her butt.

“It’s not funny,” she told me, glaring. I hadn’t even realized I was laughing and did my best to stop immediately. Especially when she said, “Two words, boss: workman’s comp.”

Barely holding it together, I left the room, calling, “Four words: employee of the month.”

Yes. I laughed, and then I made a joke. At this rate, I’m going to be smiling openly and hugging strangers by the end of the week. I definitely need to minimize my exposure to Winnie.

I’m still worrying about the guest list when Mari arrives to pick up Jo, followed by Big Mo, carrying a six-pack of sodas. Collin, Harper, and Chase show up moments later with their dogs in tow. The noise in the loft increases tenfold, making the pressure in my head increase too. Stormy makes a beeline straight for Jo, covering her face in slobbery kisses. Brutus, the older boxer, joins me in the kitchen. He gives me a sniff, an understanding look, and then sits right next to me like he’s my emotional support dog, picking up on my stress levels.

“I know, right? It’s a lot.” I give him a good scratch behind the ears, observing all the hugs and greetings from a nice, safe distance. I swear, I can hear how much quieter it is without Pat.

Harper joins me in the kitchen, giving my shoulder a nudge. “Hey, biggest brother. How’s life?”

“Life is life. Are you playing tonight?” I ask Harper, already knowing her answer.

She makes a face. “I brought a book. Poker doesn’t interest me.” She pauses. “It’s weird being here rather than home.”

“Thank you! It’s totally weird.”

“It’s probably a good thing,” Harper says, and this is where we’ll disagree.

I’m carrying a few bottles of my beer to hand out around the table when there’s a knock at the door. Despite a host of voices shouting to come in, no one opens the door. Balancing the beer precariously, I swing open the door, then immediately drop a bottle, which shatters on the hardwoods.

Because standing with Chevy is the last person I want to see, wearing a short dress with anchors all over it. Anchors.

“Hey, boss,” Winnie says, holding up a bottle of tequila. “Looks like you could use a drink.”





I do not let Winnie make me a drink. It’s a stupid stand to take, especially since everyone raves about her jalapeno margaritas. Apparently, Winnie makes her own jalapeno-infused tequila. Good for her. I stick with one of my beers, telling myself I’m not interested in her tequila. But I can’t stop thinking about testing a batch of jalapeno beer.