The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(27)

“Nice,” Collin says, slapping a hand on the table. “Now things are getting interesting.”

He flashes a smile at Winnie, and when she smiles back, jealousy snakes its way up my throat. She winks at Collin, and I’m ready to knock out his teeth.

Chevy’s eyes are still huge, and he sputters. “Were you trying to hustle us?”

Chase, ever the peacemaker, looks about ready to separate these two, but Winnie only rolls her eyes and pats Chevy on the back. She gestures to her small pile of chips.

“I’m doing a terrible job of hustling if that were the case. Which, to be clear, it isn’t. I’ve had crap cards all night, but I think my luck’s about to change. Can we play now?”

With a heavy sigh, Chevy hangs his head. “On behalf of every man who has ever made an incorrect assumption about a woman, I apologize.”

“A little grandiose, but I’ll take it,” Winnie says. “Tank, bet’s to you.”

With a grin, my dad tosses a few chips to the center. “I call. Not going to miss out on this hand.”

Big Mo calls, and when it comes to me, I don’t hesitate.

“Raise.” I’ve got nothing but a Jack and a great poker face.

Chase folds, and Collin and Chevy call. It’s back to Winnie, and she tilts her head for a moment, appraising me. I keep my face impassive, daring her to figure me out.

With the tiniest of smiles, Winnie narrows her eyes, then tosses in a few more chips. “James Graham, I’m calling your bluff.”

I swallow but otherwise do not move. It has to be a good guess, it HAS to, because if Winnie has learned to read me, I’m totally sunk—and I don’t mean in the game.





CHAPTER NINE





Winnie



When Tank invited me to poker night, he warned me the guys could be pretty intense. He undersold it about as much as I downplayed my knowledge of the game. James by himself has the intensity of a front-row seat to the sun.

I totally love his intensity, for the record.

I especially loved the moment they all realized I already knew how to play poker. Considering what Chevy pulled with James this week, it was especially satisfying to shock my irritatingly overstepping brother.

We’re taking a quick bathroom and drink break, and I wander into the kitchen. I open the fridge to find rows of unmarked bottles. I’d bet anything this is James’s special stash. I still have yet to taste his beer, and I’m feeling a little surly about it.

“Do you prefer hoppy IPAs? Or more of a stout?” Collin is suddenly beside me, peering into the fridge with his face so close to mine it makes my stomach do a quick twist.

I glance at Collin, then quickly away. There’s nowhere for me to go because I’m trapped between the refrigerator door and Collin’s body. He’s not as big as James, but the Graham men are all supersized. They definitely won the gene pool lottery. All of them are attractive, more than anyone has the right to be. Other than James, they’re all very nice. Definitely down-to-earth for being a fairly famous family. I’m secretly hoping Harper might want to be my friend, but she is exceptionally intimidating.

“I don’t know beer as well as I should,” I admit. “I’m more a fan of the hard stuff.”

Again, downplaying. No need to tell him I’m a certified mixologist. It’s not like I’m going to do anything with it, other than play around with recipes and make drinks for my friends.

“I loved your spicy margaritas,” Collin says. “My lips are still burning.”

“Then I’ve done my job.”

Collin plucks two beers from the shelf, and we both stand. I move back a bit now that the fridge is shut. He pops them open and hands me one. The smile he flashes me is disarming, and if I weren't already struggling to tame my love/hate thing with one Graham brother, Collin would have me in a puddle on the floor. The heat of his smile practically blows back my hair like opening a hot oven door.

I smooth down my dress. It’s my lucky poker dress, a flouncy black one with a sweetheart neckline and anchors. In front of Collin, it suddenly feels too short.

“This is Last Draft Pick.” Collin rolls his eyes. “James has the worst names, but he won’t listen to any of us about it.”

I file that tidbit away for later. I don’t know what’s normal for naming beers and need to do some research to see what other craft breweries are using for names. One more thing to research. I have an ever-growing list.

“It’s a milk stout,” Collin says.

Beer and milk sounds like a disgusting combo, though from what I’ve learned so far from YouTube, milk stout is popular.

From the first sip, I totally get it. “Wow.” It’s rich, and though it has the slightly bitter beer taste I’ve never quite acclimated to, it’s creamy with layered flavors. I’m trying to pick them out, but it’s not easy. “Do I taste … cinnamon?”

“Cardamom.” James’s voice is so close I feel his breath ghosting over my neck. What is it with these brothers being giants but having the ability to sneak up like ninjas? They all need collars with bells.

I jump—who wouldn’t?—and his hand closes around mine, keeping me from dropping my beer.

“Sorry,” James says, his apology sounding less apologetic than any apology I’ve ever heard. Then he smiles, and if I thought Collin’s smile was a lot, this is like the difference between firing a water gun and dropping an atomic bomb. It annihilates every single cell in my body, an explosive flash leaving only rubble behind.