The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(42)

I flip the deadbolt lock on my door to keep it from shutting all the way and stride over, snatching the card from James’s hand, giving him a nudge out of the way with my hips.

“You’re too impatient,” I tell him, waving the card over the sensor. I wait until the little light flashes green and then turn the handle. “Ta-da! You just have to wait until—what is that smell?”

I drop the keycard to cover my mouth and nose, jumping back and away from the wave of putrescence wafting from his room. The door slams closed again.

“That’s disgusting.” James covers his mouth too, looking about ready to throw up.

I move away. If he barfs, I’m going to barf. My stomach is as weak as a baby kitten. The smell alone has me halfway gagging. I keep my hand over my mouth until the feeling—and the smell—dissipates.

“This kid in my elementary school used to keep rabbits. That’s what it smells like. A rabbit hutch. With one hundred rabbits making baby rabbits and some of them dying and no one cleaning it, ever.” My own words make my stomach roll again.

“Did you see anything?” James asks.

I shake my head. “No. Should we go back down to the front desk?”

James clenches his jaw, then seems to decide something. “I’m going in.”

“I don’t think you should. What if someone died in there?”

“It didn’t smell like death.”

“It smelled worse than death. Don’t go in there,” I say, as James swipes the card over the door, this time doing it perfectly. “James!”

He glances back at me once like he’s saying goodbye before he charges into the room. I step way back as the smell again permeates the hallway. What if the smell is death? What if someone was murdered in there? What if James never comes back out?

I barely have time to worry, because James comes barreling back into the hallway, his shirt pulled up over his mouth and nose. It’s a shame the smell is so terribly awful, because I barely get to examine the abs on display. James bends over, definitely dry heaving now. My own stomach clenches and rolls. I turn my back on James, giving myself a very strong pep talk.

Stay strong, tummy. Everything is fine. Think of flowers and the smell of the ocean and James’s cologne.

Okay, maybe not that last one.

“It’s so bad,” James says, clearly done with gagging. “So. Bad.”

“But what is it?”

He only shakes his head. “I can’t even—no. Just, you don’t want to know.” His gaze darts back to the door, and he rubs his eyes, like he’s trying to scrub whatever image is now in his brain.

I’m dying to know. But then I look at his face again. Maybe I DON’T want to know.

While James is down in the lobby, I check the closet for murderers (duh) and unpack my clothes and portable steamer, wishing I’d brought a hanging bag to keep things from getting wrinkled. But I didn’t want to appear too high maintenance. Even if I kind of am.

I’m lying on the king-size bed, checking email, when James knocks. The moment I open the door and see his face, I know what he’s going to say. I let him in and he paces for a minute before turning back to me.

“There are no more available rooms,” he says. “They’re going to clean it but …” He makes a face, then shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans, staring down at the carpet.

Guess I’ll be getting that one-bed trope after all.

Gulp.





CHAPTER FOURTEEN





Winnie



“And what production level are you looking at?”

I don’t even know what measurement a brewery uses for production? Bottles? Fluid ounces? Barrels? Mississippis?

The man with the strong Minnesota—Minnesotan?—accent waits patiently as I fumble for an answer, silently cursing James for not supplying me with the most basic of information about his business.

After destroying any fears—or hopes—of the whole one-bed thing by insisting he’d leave later and stay with Tank tonight, James told me to head down to the conference while he made a few phone calls from the room. It’s now been over an hour with no sign of the man. He missed the welcome reception and the opening keynote. Or—he’s here somewhere, hiding from me.

Then again, it might be that the man hates crowds so much he’s hiding from everyone.

I’ve been killing time in the exhibition hall before the morning breakout sessions, trying to make connections with some of the vendors.

“I’m not actually sure about production levels or even what equipment we’ll be using,” I answer. “I just started working here.”

“Want me to talk through the equipment we have for various levels?” His voice is kind, even though it’s totally and completely idiotic for him to be spending time talking to someone who doesn’t know the most basic thing like how much beer James plans to brew.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d love to hear about the different options.”

With a nod, the rep begins talking me through brewhouse systems, which are more complicated than I’d imagine. All the stainless steel tanks look alike to me, but I furiously scribble notes in my notebook, asking questions when I have them, all the while wishing my boss had at least let me know basic stuff. Just little things like how much he plans to brew per year and what specific kinds of tanks we’ll need. Because it would be too simple for them all to be alike. No, if James makes lagers, there are horizontal tanks to speed up the process. There’s even a fruit crusher if he brews fruit or sour beers. I don’t even have a list of all the beer James brews.