The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(35)

I swallow. Winnie has once again read me a little too well. But rather than admit that, showing my full hand, I just listen.

Winnie takes another sip of coffee, then narrows her eyes. “One more thing.”

Why am I certain this is the thing I’m going to want to say no to more than anything else?

“I get to ask you one question a day.” As though she can see the way I’ll work around this, she continues. “And you have to answer honestly.”

“A question about business?”

“Maybe. But not limited to business.”

“Why?”

Winnie tucks her legs up under her, and I try to keep my eyes on her face as the thin strap of her tank top falls off her shoulder again. Absently, she pulls it back into place. It’s a casual move, but its impact on me is closer to catastrophic. I force my eyes to stay on her face as she squints at me.

“Because I’m a curious person. And this whole bank vault persona you wear has me all …” She gestures with the hand holding her mug. It must be nearing empty because none sloshes over the top. “Verklempt.”

“Verklempt?” I don’t know this word. It sounds like a German sneeze.

“Frustrated. Agitated. Irritated.”

Right back at you.

“I’m sorry my tendency not to voice every thought in my head like some people do is annoying.”

“I didn’t say annoying.”

“Is there a difference?”

“Absolutely.”

We sit in a silence that’s neither awkward nor companionable. It feels like a necessary pause, a retreat where we both regroup. I could run Dark Horse alone. That’s always been the plan. My family knew going in they’d have little say in the business unless I asked, though Collin keeps butting in, and Tank did buy the town partially because he thought it would be a great location for the brewery.

I planned to hire contract labor as necessary, much further down the road. I’ll be pulling twelve-hour-plus days once we get the brewing equipment delivered. Installation and brewing will be on me. Once we get closer to opening, I’ll need more help with the serving side of things.

What I don’t need is whatever role Winnie wants to fill. I don’t need a voice in my ear, making me doubt, making me question, overwhelming me when I’m already walking a thin line. I don’t need an assistant or adviser.

But I can still picture Winnie’s site mock-up, the real one, and how intuitive it was, how it exactly aligned with my vision for Dark Horse. There were only minimal tweaks to things like the About page, where it was clear Winnie guessed and filled in some blanks. She also was incredibly helpful when the contractor arrived, pointing out some space issues and giving suggestions for seating and even bathroom setup.

Despite not giving her anything to work with, Winnie seems to have a way of sneaking past my walls and seeing straight into what I want.

She could be an asset.

She could be dangerous.

She could be more.

“Those are your conditions?” I ask, finally able to find my focus. “More money, opinions I’ll listen to and consider, and answering a daily question?”

Winnie bites her lip, her eyes moving around the room like she’s trying to find one more thing to tack on to the list. “Those are my demands,” she says finally, lips quirking at the word demands.

I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms again. “I get a pass.”

Her head tilts, and she squints at me again. “What?”

“On the questions. Some things I may not want to answer, and I can pass, but you can ask another question in its place.”

“Acceptable. One pass per day. I’m not going to ask super uncomfortable questions.”

What she doesn’t realize is ALL questions are uncomfortable to someone like me who has barbed wire fence and KEEP OUT signs posted with guard dogs patrolling the property.

“You can ask me questions too if you’d like,” she says with a shrug.

When I only stare in response, I can see her embarrassment as a flush creeps up her creamy skin. It’s a good look on her, but I feel guilty for causing discomfort. I hate a lot of things, but being embarrassed is right up on top.

“Thank you.”

If she realizes I’m not agreeing to ask her questions, she doesn’t show it. Instead, the flush deepens in her cheeks as she smiles.

“Then it’s settled. I accept your offer if you accept my terms.”

I pause, somehow needing the tension to stretch between us before I answer. “I accept.”

Winnie nods, but then the smile slides from her face, and she taps her mug with one fingernail. “Also,” she says, and the way she won’t meet my eyes makes my nerves fire up. “I wanted to say I’m sorry for messing with you.”

She glances up at me, her eyes so clear, so blue in the morning light. For just a moment, I’m lost in them.

My mom used to keep a wooden puzzle box on her bedside table. When she got sick, I would sit in bed with her, sliding the pieces in just the right way to reveal the hidden compartment. Mom placed a smooth blue stone in the hidden compartment, a prize for solving the puzzle. The stone was the exact color of Winnie’s eyes. A thread of some emotion I can’t name pulses once, then twice, through me.

“You’re sorry for making the fake sites?”