The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(37)

Winnie: gif of Magic 8-Ball James: I like your updates on the site. I have a few tweaks we can go over on the way to Austin tomorrow.

Winnie: Yay! Also, you need to tell me about the conference. What should I be doing? Are we going to the same sessions? Divide and conquer? Any vendors we need to talk about? I looked at the list online the other day and made some notes.

James: Stop texting. Go pack

Winnie: You’re no fun, Mr. Steak Ice Cream.

Winnie: I bet that’s a thing somewhere. I’m going to find it. Now I know what to get you for your next birthday.

James: Please don’t

James: Pack

Winnie: Should I make a road trip playlist?

James: It’s a forty-minute drive Winnie: A short playlist?

James: NO

Winnie: Ugh. Has anyone told you today that you’re the worst?

James: Several people. GO PACK





CHAPTER TWELVE





James



I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses in the morning so Winnie doesn’t see the way my eyes practically bug out of my head as she comes skipping down the sidewalk with a massive rolling bag, followed by a much less enthusiastic Chevy.

Winnie is wearing jeans. The sight hits me like a punch to the gut. All the air leaves my lungs in a sudden whoosh.

A woman in jeans shouldn’t be any man’s Kryptonite. It’s just denim. A boring, basic fabric. But there is something so sexy about a woman in jeans. And because of her penchant for wearing clothes time-warped from the 1950s, this is the first time I’ve seen Winnie in them.

Her look is still very much her, only a little more casual, a little edgier. Her jeans hug her legs, ending at a cuff below her knee, right at the top of her clunky black boots. The boots are not unlike mine, the biggest departure from Winnie’s usual heels, but they somehow really work.

Her top is a crisp white button-down, knotted at her waist with the sleeves rolled almost to her elbows. A bright turquoise tank top peeks through underneath. Her glasses are in place and her hair is in her signature high ponytail, a turquoise bandana knotted around it.

I never notice details like this about clothes. And yet here I am, still cataloging Winnie’s outfit when she throws open the passenger door.

“Hi, boss. Where should I put my bags?”

My tongue seems unable to detach from the roof of my mouth, so I hitch a thumb over my shoulder, indicating the back seat.

What was I thinking, inviting her to the conference?

Part of it felt like a goodwill offering after firing her. I could tell Winnie wanted to go to the conference, and it seemed like a good way to get her some information on the industry without me having to hold her hand. Those are the main reasons I allowed myself to think about.

But there’s more to it, more than I want to admit, even to myself.

As she disappears to throw her bags in the back, Chevy leans into the cab, eyeing me like every thought of his sister is on display. “Do we need to have another talk?”

Winnie bodily yanks him away from the truck. Not for the first time, I’m impressed with how much force she can command for her petite frame.

“You,” she says, jabbing a finger into her brother’s chest, “should never have had any kind of talk with him.”

She points my way when she says him, and it’s like she’s talking about a disease. I choose not to be offended.

“There is nothing the two of you need to discuss when it comes to me. Do you understand? Nothing.”

She swings her head to look at me. “James, are you interested in me?”

What a question for this early in the morning. Answering it feels like jumping rope through a minefield, but there’s only one right thing to say, given the context. Mutely, I shake my head no.

Winnie turns back to Chevy. “See? And I’m not interested in him. Got it? No talks. Go arrest someone or something.”

Hearing Winnie say she isn’t interested leaves me feeling scraped out and hollow instead of relieved. I remind myself that I’m not interested in Winnie. There is attraction, yes. A grudging admiration. But she burrows under my skin like a tick, and that’s not the quality I’m looking for in a woman.

You’re also not looking for a woman, remember?

Chevy crosses his arms. “I wanted to do it. Dad would have.”

Winnie freezes up at this, her whole body snapping tight. I know in our family, throwing Mom into any conversation is bringing in the big guns. Apparently, it’s the same for Winnie and Chevy.

When the silence becomes too heavy, too painful, I locate my tongue and force it to work.

“We should go. Austin traffic is always horrible.”

Winnie practically tosses herself at Chevy in a full-contact embrace. He stumbles back a step, barely able to extricate his arms from between them so he can hug her back. When he does, her feet lift off the ground so they’re just standing there, holding each other. The toes of Winnie’s boots drag in the dirt.

“I’d rather it be you than him,” she says, and the distaste she uses referencing her dad has me confused.

What’s that about? Did she and her dad have a bad relationship?

I file my questions away under Do Not Ask, Because You Do Not Care.

“Why would you—” Chevy starts, but Winnie shakes her head and wiggles out of his arms.