The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(33)

The part that really gets me though is the logo. A black horse, muscled and yet somehow delicate with fiery silver eyes atop the perfect font—strong and bold and unique.

I close the laptop and squeeze my eyes shut.

Looks like I have some groveling to do.





CHAPTER ELEVEN





James



In the end, I decide I don’t need Pat’s help. Apologizing is something I can do on my own. Because, despite the popular opinion about me, I am not an unfeeling, grouchy caveman. (At least, that’s not all I am.) I am definitely guilty, however, of being an idiot with a short fuse and a lot of pressure stacked on my shoulders.

And maybe some slightly personal qualms with my employee. Ex-employee.

Look, I’m not dumb enough to think these qualms have to do with Winnie. Nope. This is a ME issue.

See? See how capable I am of taking responsibility when I need to? I’ve got this.

At least, that’s what I tell myself all the way up until I knock on the front door.

Chevy opens it, takes one look at me, and steps outside, closing the door behind him. I hear Winnie calling, “Who dares knock before coffee?”

Is it that early? I’ve been up for hours, but I guess it is barely seven.

Is Winnie not a morning person?

Who cares? I don’t. I’m here for business. To hire her back, not to learn her sleeping schedule.

Chevy crosses his arms, leaning against the door in a pose that would look casual if not for the tension in his neck. “To what do I owe the honor?” His voice is laced with sarcasm.

“I screwed up. Massively. I’m here to apologize to you and to Winnie.”

Good start. No hesitation, no minimizing. My tone of voice could use a little work, but since I basically have two tones—angry and not angry but still sounding slightly angry—I’d give this an eight-point-five out of ten.

Based on Chevy’s unchanging expression, his ratings are much lower. “And?”

I clear my throat, sifting through my thoughts and possible additions to my concise yet arguably on point apology. Oh, wait. I said I was here to apologize. I didn’t actually make an apology.

“I’m sorry.”

Chevy stares at me for a long moment and then bursts out laughing. “Man,” he says finally, through tears, “you’re really bad at this. Like, terrible.”

“I said sorry.”

“Like a robot. Or a slab of granite. You know what? Forget it. I accept.” Chevy is still chuckling.

“O-kay?” There is clearly a trick I am missing here.

Throwing open the door, Chevy steps aside, waving me through. “Have at it. And good luck.”

He’s still laughing as he walks down the front steps. I pause on the porch for another minute before I enter his house. The place is neat as a pin, and considering I've been bouncing back and forth between Pat’s barely lived in loft and Tank’s rarely there place, that’s saying something.

The messiest thing in the whole place is Winnie, and I stop just inside the door when I see her curled up on the couch with a blanket over her feet. Her knees are pulled to her chest, and she’s clutching a mug of coffee to her face like she’s Gollum and it’s the ring of power.

I barely slept last night, but when I did, I apparently dreamed, because that dream suddenly floods my brain. I’m watching Winnie shuffle an endless deck of cards. The image is gauzy and soft, just her hands, her deep blue eyes, and red lips, curved up in a sardonic smile. Those hands. The movement of her fingers over the cards is the hottest thing I’ve ever dreamed.

It’s as strong as a sense of deja vu, a total contrast to the ruffled, glasses-free version of Winnie in front of me. Yet somehow, they combine into a vision that has my fists clenching and my throat swallowing reflexively.

I focus, narrowing my gaze on this Winnie in front of me. She’s sleep rumpled, hair mussed, no glasses. One strap of her tank top slides off her shoulder as I watch. Her eyes glitter with anger, even as she yawns so huge I can see her tonsils. It’s hard to tell if she’s glaring at me or squinting to see. I think a little of both.

“What?” she snaps when the yawn subsides. “Do whatever you came to do so I can tell you I don’t forgive you and kick you out.”

Winnie takes a sip of coffee, glaring over the mug at me. She’s clearly not very awake. Her eyes are ringed with dark circles. I wonder if she slept as poorly as I did last night.

She yawns again, coffee spilling down the side of her mug. When she notices, she licks right up the side of the white ceramic. My blood goes molten.

So far, this is not going according to plan.

“Stop staring,” Winnie says. “You’ll make a woman self-conscious.”

She should feel anything but self-conscious. If she could only see inside my brain right now…

If she could see inside your brain, she’d probably slap you.

That sobering thought has me slumping in a chair across from the couch and looking at the floor, where not even a hint of a dust bunny lives.

“I saw your website mock-up,” I say finally. “The real one.”

“And?”

The feisty side of Winnie, or maybe the morning Winnie or barely-had-coffee Winnie, makes me want to smile. Which would be the very wrong thing to do at this moment.