The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(39)

“What are your goals for this weekend? What do you want to walk away with? Are there any particular vendors you want to check out at the exhibition hall? Other breweries or people you want to connect with? Are you going to any of the networking events?”

She continues with the questions, but I don’t hear the individual words anymore. My head fills with white noise, Winnie’s voice like a high-pitched whine cutting through it. My thoughts are racing by with a bright neon buzz, like those marquees in the stock exchange.

“James?”

I shake my head, trying to clear it. Cars have stopped at a red light in front of us, and I have to tap my brakes a little harder than necessary to stop in time. Winnie grabs the handle above the window to steady herself.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

She chews on the end of her pen for a moment before asking. “Too much?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry. I can be a bit … enthusiastic.”

That’s one word for it. Her barrage of questions, at least, before they became too much for me to track, sent me into a mental spiral of all the things I have left to do for Dark Horse, things way outside my wheelhouse. All the things it will take to turn my very small single-person-brewing operation into a full-fledged ten-thousand-plus barrel business.

I’d hoped to walk away from the conference feeling more secure, but I’m going to walk into it overwhelmed. Someone honks, and I realize the light turned green with me still sitting here. I pull forward, lifting a hand to wave an apology. The driver behind me waves back, but then passes me, zooming by. I realize I’m clenching my teeth and try to relax.

“Let me dial it back,” Winnie says.

“I’d appreciate that.” My voice sounds sharper than I mean to, but my skin feels tight and hot.

Winnie reaches into her bag and pulls out a few sheets of printed paper. I can feel sweat starting to bead on my forehead. I roll my window down a bit more and a gust of wind fills the car, blowing Winnie’s papers around. She grabs for them, and I roll the window back up a little and turn up the air conditioning, directing the vents toward my face.

“Let’s start with the schedule and go from there,” Winnie says, straightening the papers. “Today there’s a welcome reception in the exhibition hall after check-in. Then the welcome keynote from the head of the Craft Brewers Association, followed by …”

It was a mistake to bring Winnie here. Maybe to re-hire her. And not just because she’s tempting in ways I don’t want to consider. It’s this—the go-getter attitude and the overachieving. I know she’s trying to be helpful, but it’s too much. Way too much. None of this is in her job description. I don’t need someone planning out my conference schedule, telling me what I should or should not attend, which is what she’s doing now.

“You may want to talk to someone about insurance if you haven’t already. And the session on expanding production is probably—”

“Winnie.”

“Yes?”

“Stop.”

I don’t look, but I can sense her frustration without seeing it in her face. “You don’t want to talk about the different sessions so we can figure out which ones we should attend?”

“No.”

“So, which ones should I go to?” she asks.

“Whatever you want.”

“And you’re going to go to—”

“Whatever I want.”

“I see.” She pauses, shuffling the papers into a neat stack before putting them back in her bag. Then, she seems to change her mind and pulls one of them back out. I can see it’s been highlighted in different colors with notes scrawled in the margins. “As far as vendors to talk with, do you think—”

“Winnie.” My head is pounding now, and I try to remember if I packed any ibuprofen. “Enough.”

“I’m just trying to help.” Her voice is soft, and the vulnerability there should soften me toward her.

Instead, it makes me snap. Because she’s not just helping, she’s micromanaging. She’s sticking her fingers in all the areas of my business, making me question myself, question what I need to do. I’m already stressed about all of those things. It’s too much talking. Too many ideas. Stepping too far over the bounds of her job parameters.

“Your help isn’t helping.”

Winnie doesn’t respond but closes her notebook and folds her hands in her lap.

“Just do what you want,” I say.

There’s that tone-of-voice problem, rearing its head again. I meant this as my way of freeing her up to enjoy the conference, to attend the sessions that interest her—while also not worrying about me. Instead, it sounds dismissive and rude.

I could say something. I probably should say something. At the same time, I don’t want to give Winnie any illusion that I’m really going to let her into the inner workings of my business. I did agree to listen and consider her suggestions, but she doesn’t need to know that consideration isn’t really going to happen.

She’s still a temp. Until she gets a new job or sells her app or whatever. It wouldn’t be right to make her feel like she’s actually a part of things, or that I need her help. I don’t want or need her fluttering around with her notebook and her highlighted papers and her questions and her sexy jeans.