The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(45)

I consider various responses and decide not thanking James is the best option. Eyeballing his black button-down shirt, worn jeans, and motorcycle boots, I say, “I’m surprised they allowed you in here without the proper uniform. No flannel, no beard, no service.”

James makes a sound that I almost think might be a chuckle. I try not to show my delight in getting any kind of reaction out of him.

“You’re not in flannel either,” he points out.

“Yeah. And I’m missing that darn Y chromosome. Still. It’s been a productive morning already.”

I watch as James’s dark eyes sweep over the room, taking in the tables and the clusters of people with plastic beer cups in hand. His eyes are wary, and I don’t miss the way his body shrinks away from the crowds.

He says nothing else, so I go on. “Though I’ve realized how much I don’t know about Dark Horse’s operations.”

When James offers up nothing, I pull out the conference schedule. “You’re hitting up the session about hops, right? Or are you going to stay here and network?”

He still says nothing. I don’t know why I expected a little more from him after he stepped in with Carl. Guess we’re back to him playing our respective roles of boss ignoring his sole employee and sole employee seething with resentment while trying to prove her usefulness.

It only makes his determination to shut me out more frustrating. I remember when I first met James months ago, I told Val and Lindy he would be trouble. I stand by that assessment.

“I’m going to Brand Awareness and Building a Social Media Presence,” I tell him.

Still nothing. My anger mounts.

“Then I’m probably headed to the one on successful customer service and atmosphere. I think that will be helpful for when we open.”

I said we on purpose, expecting James to bristle. One thing I’ve noticed for sure—James is not about the we. Dark Horse is an I kind of business. But even this doesn’t elicit a response. I guess James only cares when the Carls of the world are encroaching.

As if to prove my point, James starts to back away. “See you.”

I watch him duck out of the room just as Kyoko appears with two coffees. “Who was that hunk of man?”

“My boss.”

Recognition passes over her face. “That’s James Graham. James Graham is your boss?”

“Unfortunately.”

“I hate to tell you, but you’re not looking at him like you think it’s unfortunate.”

“Ugh. Can we talk beer and not bosses?”

Kyoko sighs. “If you insist. But I’m putting a pin in this conversation. What session are you going to now?”

“The brand and social media one.”

“Me too! Fancy that. Let’s go.”

Kyoko hands me my coffee and we head for the doors. I spot James standing by the wall outside the exhibition area, looking at his phone. He glances up and I swear he sees me, but his gaze slides right by like I’m nothing.

And this is the same guy who just practically tore some guy’s hand off for getting near me? As I follow Kyoko toward the conference room, I tell myself I really need to stop caring.





CHAPTER FIFTEEN





James



I really need to stop caring. No, that’s not accurate. I never started caring. This isn’t care. It’s … concern. If I saw a guy trying to put unwanted hands on Harper—or any woman, for that matter—I’d step in if needed.

Okay, and maybe the guy was going for Winnie’s lanyard, not grabbing her. But Winnie didn’t look happy about him getting handsy.

Most guys would do something—wouldn’t they? It means nothing.

Yet I can’t stop replaying the moment over and over during my morning sessions. Some guy from some company is talking about supply chains, which apparently, I should be paying attention to. If I thought I knew all the things that could go wrong with Dark Horse, I was wrong. Shipping and sourcing on a bigger scale is a challenge.

My head gives a mild pulse of pain, right up top behind my hairline. The dull headache has only worsened through the day, despite buying ibuprofen at the tiny, overpriced store in the lobby. I swallowed them down with a warm beer sample, which was less than pleasant. So far, the pounding just keeps growing, matching the worries I have about expanding my business and the other worries about the woman who seems to have taken up residence inside my brain.

What session is she in now? Has that guy left her alone? If he has, is someone else bothering her?

Or maybe is someone else not bothering her? My ribs feel like they’re constricting at the thought of seeing Winnie enjoying another man’s company.

I’m startled by clapping and the sound of shuffling bodies. The session is over, and there’s a mass exodus toward the double doors at the back of the room for lunch. People are mostly clustered in groups of three to five, many sporting T-shirts (under their flannel, of course) with their brewery logo. As I follow the herd alone, I feel an odd pang of … something I can’t identify or maybe just don’t want to.

The smell of Tex-Mex has my stomach rumbling. But I can already see the line snaking out the door of one of the larger conference rooms. The noise out here becomes like a living thing, and the crush of bodies bumping into each other, bumping into me, is too much. I move away from the big room hosting the lunch included with our conference ticket. I’m too hungry, too surly, and too over-peopled.