The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(41)
His long legs eat up the stretch of ugly carpeting, heading for the two-story escalator at one end of the lobby. I scurry after him, trying to avoid a teenage clown tying balloons. One of them almost hits me in the face, and I duck out of the way. They’re probably supposed to look like swords, but they all look like penises instead. And I’m not usually one to crack jokes about stuff like that. They really, really do NOT look like swords.
When I catch up to James, I’m snickering.
“What?” He raises one dark brow at me, and my laughter dies.
I consider telling James, but the man’s sense of humor is severely underdeveloped. Plus, if he freaked out about me mentioning one bed, his brain might legitimately explode if I mention phallic balloons. “Nothing.”
Glancing back down to the lobby, I watch the teen hand two of the balloons to an elderly couple. Is he just bad at this? Or does he know what they look like? As the elderly couple walks away, the boy gives a high five to another teenage clown.
Oh, yeah. He knows.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you don’t let teenagers make balloon art.
I choke on a laugh. James looks more than a little horrified now. “You like clowns?”
“They’re not my favorite. But I guess they can be funny.”
His gaze flicks down to the lobby and I take the opportunity to admire his clenched jaw, shaven clean just this morning, I’d wager. Is it bad I plan on keeping a mental tally on how fast his scruff fills in? A lock of his dark hair falls over one eye as James turns his attention back to me. Every time his hair falls across his face, I have to curl my fingernails into my palms to keep from brushing it back.
“Clowns are not funny,” he says, looking horrified. “They’re evil nightmare creatures.”
Now I’m really laughing, clutching the rubbery moving rail of the escalator to keep from falling over. We reach the top before I can speak, and James practically has to drag me and my bag off.
“Those are just kids, James!”
“Even worse.” He shakes his head. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep knowing they’re in the hotel.”
He visibly shudders under his leather jacket, and I bite the inside of my cheek, reminding myself how unpleasant this man is. How frustrating. Not funny. Not the kind of man I share smiles or jokes with.
He leads us to a bank of elevators, and my snickers return when just before the doors close on our car, a clown child and his mother rush in, followed by a large group of legging ladies.
James and I are squished into the back of the elevator. He reaches around one of the women to jab the number ten. When one of the ladies brushes against James, definitely on purpose, I do my best not to tell her to back off. The look James gives her does just that, and I have to look down at my boots to hide my grin.
“That’s our floor!” the clown mom says, as though this is the most interesting coincidence ever. She’s wearing a shirt that literally says, Proud Clown Mom. Her daughter, probably around Jo’s age, looks right at James and squeezes her red nose. When it makes a honking sound, James jumps. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
As the legging ladies begin loudly gossiping about their upline, I lean toward James, whispering, “I’ve heard if you make eye contact with a clown while they honk their nose, they can steal your soul.”
His immediate expression is horror, but it slips into an angry mask when he realizes I’m barely holding it together. He gives me a nudge with his shoulder, and I nudge him right back, a little harder.
“Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe, Jamie.”
He glares, a rumbling growl coming out of his chest. I didn’t think growling was a real thing guys did. But it most definitely is something James does. It’s stupidly unfair how much I like it. It totally makes me understand the appeal of all those wolf shifter novels I see selling online. Maybe I need to pick one up…
The clown in front of us bursts into tears, clutching at her proud clown mom, who gives James a dirty look. I can feel the tension vibrating from his body like a motorcycle engine. Tears squeeze out of my eyes, and I know I’m shaking with laughter.
I half expect James to shove the few remaining people out of the way when we get off on the tenth floor, but he manages to control himself. Thankfully, the still-sniffling clown and her mom turn in the opposite direction. James moves like an Olympic speed walker down the hall. I don’t bother chasing him. I’m sure he’ll give me my room key at some point. Probably.
In my original reservation, I requested rooms on different floors. And no, I don’t want to talk about why I thought that separation was a good idea.
Our new rooms are directly across the hall from each other. At least we’re not sharing a wall and won’t have one of those shared doors connecting the rooms. Based on his response in the lobby, James probably would have put a chair under the knob or dragged the dresser in front of it to keep me out.
I wave the card in front of my keypad and it flashes green. I wrangle the door open and shove my bags inside before turning back to James. “Should we meet up and go down together, or …”
He isn’t listening, because he’s fighting with the door and the key card. Based on the rising tension in his shoulders, the man is about to lose it. The angrier he gets, the faster he swipes his card and yanks on the door handle, always too soon, which resets the locking mechanism. The handle is about to break off in his hand.