The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(34)

“How did you do it?” I ask.

Winnie blinks, takes a sip of coffee, blinks again. “How’d I design the site? It’s a simple Wordpress theme, pretty much just—”

I shake my head, and the motion alone stops her words. “No. How did you know what I wanted?”

Winnie tries to take another swallow, but I can tell that the mug is empty by how far she tilts it back and by the way she whimpers a little, staring down into the mug wistfully.

I’m on my feet, snatching the mug from her hand before I can think about it. “How do you take it?”

“Black.”

She pauses as I step inside the connected kitchen and pour. This is the last of the pot, so I turn the machine off and set the glass carafe on the stove to cool.

Winnie shifts on the couch. “Um, black with a little splash of heavy whipping cream.”

I manage to hold back a laugh. The carton of whipping cream is in the door of the fridge and I pour a little of it into the mug, raising an eyebrow and meeting her gaze, the carton still poised in my hand.

“A little bit bigger splash.”

I pour until she nods, her coffee now the color of golden sand.

“One black coffee.” I hand her the mug and somehow manage to keep a straight face.

Her hands circle around it, and she smiles before remembering she’s mad at me. I sink back down in the chair.

“Are we at the part where you grovel and beg me to come back to work for you?” she asks.

“Not yet. You were going to tell me how you knew what I wanted for the site.”

“Ah.” She takes another sip of coffee. “It was close to what you were looking for? You didn’t give me a lot to work with, so I was guessing.”

“You guessed well.”

“I’m observant.”

“You’re very good.”

She smiles wide at the compliment. “Thank you. Some might even say I’m an asset to a business.”

“Some would.”

“They might find me indispensable.”

“They might.”

“I believe there would even be negotiations made in order to secure my loyalty. To the company, of course,” she says.

“Of course.”

Winnie waits. I also wait. Because to be honest, I’m not sure what she’ll say next, but letting her steer the conversation has worked better so far than what I planned to say.

“So?” She raises her eyebrows, but the look is less intimidating because then she squints to read my expression. “James. Come on. What are you prepared to offer to woo me back to work?”

There will absolutely be no wooing involved. But I am prepared to negotiate terms.

“Do you want to come back?”

She thinks about this. “I am perhaps … willing. But willing and wanting are two different things.”

That’s a good distinction. But her nonanswer also frustrates me. A strange feeling swirls in my chest, dipping into my gut. I wish she were both willing and wanting. And maybe not just for business purposes.

Bad idea, James. Pick one: professional or personal.

Not a hard choice. There is only one answer. Personal is off the table. I’m floundering with Dark Horse, struggling to get everything done. Even without the tight timeline, trying to open for the Sheet Cake Festival, it’s almost an impossible task. Having a romantic relationship with my one employee—assuming she’ll come back—is unacceptable.

And that’s if I wanted a romantic relationship. Which, to be clear, I don’t. I had a front row seat to real love with my parents and the pain of its loss. The idiots saying it’s better to have loved and lost didn’t watch their mom die of cancer and their dad fall completely and utterly apart from the grief of it.

Definitely keep things professional.

“I’m prepared to negotiate,” I say. “Give me your terms.”

“I want to be brought on in a more permanent capacity. Not just contract labor and hourly wages.”

“So, not a temp?”

Winnie hesitates, staring down into her mug like she’ll find the answer there. “A less temporary temp?” she says, finally, a question in her voice.

Pat told me her main gig is app development, and that she’s poised to sell Neighborly. I assume after that, she won’t have a need for this job anymore. So, still temporary.

“And a raise.”

“Okay.”

She eyes me carefully, like she’s wondering why this is so easy. “I don’t just want money. I’d like more … say.”

I shift in the chair, which suddenly feels too small. “You want a say in how I run my business?”

My words practically send icicles shooting through the room. Now it’s Winnie’s turn to wiggle in her spot. But she doesn’t back down, and the seed of admiration I have for her grows, despite the bad soil and my resistance to watering it.

“I’m not talking like a partner or some official title. More like … if I have suggestions or ideas or feedback, you’ll listen.”

“I listen.”

She rolls her eyes. “Let me clarify. I want you not just to audibly hear me, but to consider what I’m suggesting.”

I grunt, which is my version of a response.

“If you hadn’t noticed, I actually feel like I can contribute—and not just with the website. I’m good with details, planning, and vision. If you let me, I could be an asset. Then you’re freed up to focus on brewing, which seems to be your passion.”