The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(28)

This is the last thing I need. My feelings are already confusing enough when he’s being a jerk. I don’t need him suddenly handing out smiles.

Plus, I would bet anything he’s only doing so because of Collin. It’s simple sibling rivalry, nothing more.

“I think I’ve broken enough bottles for one night,” James says. I’d forgotten about the one he dropped when I arrived. I couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad omen.

“You two seem to have that effect on each other,” Collin says drily.

“Why didn’t you invite your girlfriend tonight, Collin?” James asks, without looking at his brother.

It’s clear what James really means is, why are you flirting with Winnie if you have a girlfriend, Collin?

But when Collin winks at me, I think I get it. Oh, he’s bad. So, so bad. He’s just been trying to get James to act exactly like he is right now—jealous and territorial. Chevy and I have our sibling moments, but the Grahams are like watching the sibling rivalry Olympics.

James doesn’t seem to have figured this out, and is standing much, much too close to me, his hand still covering mine. Collin tips his beer to me as he begins to back away. “Enjoy.”

James’s hand on mine feels far more intimate, probably because it’s so unnecessary. The small gesture seems obscene and feels even more so. Not one time has another man’s touch impacted me this way. And that is a terrifying prospect.

But my physical reactions are just that. I even got a flutter from Collin showing me attention. Except there is no comparison between how I felt when Collin smiled at me and how I feel now with James’s hand curled around mine.

I jerk away from him, thankful I don’t spill a drop of this beer, which might be my new favorite thing.

I focus on breathing and put on a mask of calm. “Cardamom? How’d you get that flavor profile?”

“Reminds me of Christmas. And the richness that comes from a bowl of pho.” James makes a face. “The broth. Not the beef part.”

Huh. I never questioned or even wondered what’s in pho—just that it’s delicious. Christmas and pho … like the idea of milk and beer, it sounds weird, but somehow it totally works. I wonder if James is some kind of genius, or if this is what all craft brewers are like.

If you go to the conference, you can find out.

For reasons I can’t—or don’t want to—fully explain, I desperately want to go to the conference Tank mentioned. I NEED to go. What’s more, I think James needs me to go. Not that he realizes it or would admit it if he did. When the contractor started asking questions, James got this glazed look. Total donut of the face.

But when I jumped in, playing go-between, it seemed to ease James into it. He seems adamant about doing all this himself, when it’s obvious to me his passion is in brewing and flavor profiles. I’d love to help with the things he doesn’t want to do—aside from catching cats—if I could just get him to see how useful I am.

Knowing James doesn’t want me to go to the conference only makes it more appealing. The memory of how he brushed me off earlier activates my snark.

“Did you, like, go to beer university?”

I’m aware there’s no such thing. I might have googled it.

I wish I could bottle up the look James is giving me and package it for commercial sale. It would make a really great replacement for KEEP OUT and NO TRESPASSING signs. Just this look, nothing more, would be enough.

“No,” he says, and it’s like the word has an extra weight to it. “Did you go to liquor university to learn how to make jalapeno margaritas?”

“I’m a certified mixologist.”

That shuts him up. Actually, it looks like it shut him down.

“But I learned the trick with the jalapeno infusion at a bar. They had a great drink, I asked how they made it, and the bartender talked to me about infusing. You can do it with a lot of different things. Fruit, black pepper. I tried garlic vodka once. It was as bad as it sounds.”

“Garlic vodka?” James sounds intrigued rather than disgusted.

“Trust me—don’t do it.” I draw in a breath, realizing this might be the longest conversation outside of texting we’ve had. I wish I could access the text James, who seems slightly looser and more willing to engage. But so far, text James seems to exist only on the phone.

“So, how’d you get into making beer?” I smile. “If not at beer university.”

Before he can answer, Tank calls out, “Five-minute warning!”

In the time I looked at Tank, James drifted away like a ghost. So much for pleasant conversation. We can just pretend I didn’t try to engage James Graham in small talk.

Not that it was small—honestly, getting James to say more than single-syllable words feels huge—but I don’t know him any better than I did before. I know so little about James, even things I feel like I should know. I guess there’s Google, but it probably has more information than I could possibly want to know. And maybe things I don’t want to know, like about past relationships.

I remember how hard it was for Lindy after she and Pat broke up to see photos online of him with other women. James probably has a pretty low profile, since he didn’t get to play pro. But I don’t want to see a photo of James with another woman. Let’s not discuss WHY the idea makes me stabby, because I’m pretending it doesn’t.