The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(44)

“Sure. Thank you.” Kyoko smiles and takes the label. “That company is great to work with for labels. My bosses, on the other hand, are horrible. They don’t listen to anything I say, yet sent me here alone.”

“Sounds familiar. Bosses suck.”

“One more thing we agree on.” Kyoko tosses the label in the nearest trash can. “I want to grab some coffee before the breakout. Any more beer and I’ll fall asleep. Can I snag you some?”

“Please.” I pause by a high-top table. “I’m going to be right here, taking notes.”

Kyoko pats my head. “A little nerdling. Love it. Be right back.”

She disappears behind a wall of mustachioed flannel, and I pull out my notebook. I’m grateful to have a buddy. Already, the tension in my chest has eased somewhat. Who needs James? I’ve got Kyoko. Which means I’ve got a person who may not mind answering my millions of questions.

“Are you a reporter?”

I glance up from my notebook, adjusting my glasses with my free hand. The guy grins, leaning on the table a little closer to me than I’d like. He has golden-brown eyes, olive skin, and dirty blond waves. I guess he’d technically be classified as attractive.

But he’s wearing the kind of amused, patronizing look I truly hate. It’s the Aw—Isn’t that cute, a woman trying to figure out man stuff! look. It’s the same look I get when I take my car to a mechanic that isn’t someone I personally know. I also got it during college when I decided to play guitar. Any time I went to the guitar store, I had to deal with this kind of look.

“Nope.” I close my notebook and shove it back into my bag, looking for Kyoko. “Not a reporter.”

He snaps his fingers like he’s having an aha moment. “An influencer?”

“Also incorrect.”

“You sure?”

“I think I know who I am.”

Though I have zero idea what my title is. I guess I can always say I work for Dark Horse. That about covers it. I don’t even have a job title. But I don’t need to tell this guy anything. He smells like beer and drugstore cologne and keeps giving me that I-want-to-be-punched look.

“Okay, then. I’m Carl. And you are …?” He tries to peer at my lanyard, but it’s turned backward. He reaches for it, which means he’s essentially reaching for my chest.

I react instinctively and am about to smack his hand when a much larger hand grasps Carl’s wrist, yanking it away. I recognize the rumbling growl before I recognize the hand.

James. I shouldn’t feel so giddy at his sudden and unexpected protective side. It’s not like I need a rescue. I’m used to handling myself. But after getting the complete cold shoulder today, I’m not going to complain about James swooping in. Especially not if it means Carl goes away.

James drops Carl’s hand. “No.”

Just no, like the guy now rubbing his wrist is a dog who tried to steal a hamburger off the counter. It takes no small effort not to beam at James. I’m pretty sure he’d disappear in a puff of smoke if I did.

“We were just talking,” Carl says. “She doesn’t need a guard dog.”

James assesses me with a brief glance, and I cannot for the life of me read the expression in his dark eyes.

“I’m sure she could handle you on her own. But that doesn’t mean she should have to. Leave.”

If I liked the way James stepped in to physically protect me, I love his verbal defense even more. I have a theory. It’s that every woman has two fantasies—one where she’s rescued by a dashing hero, and one where she doesn’t need a hero at all and rescues herself.

James just delivered both these fantasies to me on a silver platter.

The impact this has on my heart is devastating. All the anger and frustration I’ve built up dissipates and turns to dust.

James crosses his arms and looms over Carl. I try not to look wildly enamored, but I feel like I’m turning into a real-life heart-eye emoji.

Holding up both hands, Carl backs away, shooting us both narrow looks. His attention dips to James’s name tag and recognition crosses his features.

“James Graham,” he scoffs. “The failed football player who thinks he can brew beer.”

“Hey!” I lunge toward Carl, not even sure what my plan is, only that I never stand by when someone goes after one of my friends.

James gets a fistful of my shirt and yanks me back against his hard chest. As much as I’d still like to chase down Carl and make him regret his words and bad taste in cologne, I really do NOT mind being hauled up against James.

James says nothing, and I close my eyes for half a second, feeling his breath on my hair. I could stay here all day. Who needs a hotel room? I’ve got James Graham’s broad chest. It’s better than a penthouse suite.

Almost immediately, he takes a big step back. I pretend I’m not internally weeping. Instead, I watch as Carl is absorbed into a crowd of guys who all have handlebar mustaches. Every single one. I’d like to make them line up according to length, but they probably wouldn't appreciate it.

James and I are now left standing together in the crowded room, just outside the rows of vendor tables. Though there is a dull roar in the room, our little bubble of silence feels loud. And maybe a little awkward after the whole full-body contact incident.