The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(46)

Winnie’s probably in there, cozying up to strangers, making friends and taking notes in her little notebook like some sexy nerd librarian. Nerdbrarian—can that be a thing?

Absolutely not.

Forcibly shoving thoughts of Winnie out of my head, I make my way downstairs to find more chaos, more people. You know what? Flannel isn’t so bad compared to eye-blinding leggings and child clowns. This whole trip so far—from the way I hurt Winnie’s feelings on the drive to the smell of my room (not to mention the whole one-room issue) to the guy hitting on her—it’s all adding to the pain in my head. Whatever help I thought it might be to have Winnie here, the real estate she takes up in my head cancels it out.

I push through the lobby doors, taking in deep lungfuls of cold air. Better. Much better. The weight of worry eases a little now that I’m not in the midst of crowds. Hopefully, I can find a place within walking distance to eat. Almost directly across the street is what looks like a small pub. Even though it’s lunchtime in the center of Austin, this side of the hotel is on a less busy street, one of many under construction, and I don’t see a single person heading in or out. Perfect.

This illusion shatters the moment I walk inside to see Winnie. She’s seated at a long table with three guys and one other woman, all wearing the same black shirts with Straight Shooter emblazoned on them. I pause, midstride, wondering if I can get back out the door before it swings shut behind me, before she sees me.

Too late.

Winnie’s eyes have already found me, as though I’ve got some kind of homing beacon. After a sliver of hesitation, she lifts a hand to me. “James,” she calls. “Join us?”

Maybe it’s the tiny waver in her voice, the one I’m sure no one but me hears, which has me nodding. She sounds like she expects me to say no or simply walk away. There’s that dagger in my chest again, the one telling me I’m a first-rate jerk.

I order a beer and a sandwich, all the while feeling the table watching me. I can hear them speaking in lowered voices. Winnie’s probably telling them I’m … what? How exactly will Winnie describe me to them?

Probably something like her grumpy boss who brought her to a conference only to abandon her while everyone else has a team.

I don’t need a team, I remind myself. And if I did, Winnie wouldn’t be part of it. She’s temporary.

I don’t need togetherness and matching shirts.

So, why do I feel so uncomfortable on the outside looking in?

As I reach the long table with my beer, Winnie scoots over on the bench seat, leaving me no choice but to sit next to her. I hang my jacket on a hook next to the table and sit down. A guy with a long ponytail is on Winnie’s other side, and I feel a stupid surge of pleasure that she scoots a little away from him as I sit down. Of course, that means our thighs are touching. Our shoulders brush when either of us takes a breath. This will not be distracting at all.

Because I don’t care.

“I see you also had the urge to duck and cover,” Winnie says. When she turns to smile at me, our faces are much too close together.

“Yup.”

“Great minds,” she says, clinking her beer glass against mine. I don’t clink back.

“James Graham.” My name rolls a little too easily off the tongue of the woman across from me. It’s practically a purr, and it makes my spine straighten.

I don’t like it, because I immediately recognize it for what it is. I may not have ever had the fame or notoriety my dad and brothers did, but I’m known. And too many people, this woman apparently included, seem more than happy to grab what they can get.

“Everyone, this is James.” Winnie jumps in with introductions, leaning forward on the table, forming a shield between me and the rest of the table.

I immediately forget all the names. Hopefully I can count on Winnie to carry the conversation. She does not disappoint.

“James,” Winnie says, giving me a small smile that makes something shift in my chest, “is the owner and mastermind of Dark Horse Brewery.”

The minute Winnie sits back, the woman across the table leans closer to me. She’s punk-rock pretty with dark eyeliner, an eyebrow ring, and long platinum hair. Her name was something aggressively strange. Pleather, maybe? That can’t be right, but that’s the name stuck in my mind. She sends a flirty smile my way, which I do not return.

“I’ve heard good things about you. Where’s your brewery, James?”

I tense. How did I not think of this moment? The one where I’d have to admit my brewery will be opening in a town with a name as ridiculous as Sheet Cake?

Winnie jumps in before I can speak, leaning forward again like a tiny little lineman protecting her quarterback. “He’s based right here in Austin.”

Not completely true, but not a lie either since my setup is still here in town. Winnie shifts closer to me, giving my arm a squeeze. She leaves her hand curled against my biceps. I’m not sure if it’s because she senses my discomfort or because she’s staking some kind of claim. Both seem unlikely, but I can't think of another explanation for her touch.

Either way, I don’t hate it. Even though I want to. I feel strangely grounded by her hand on me, warm even through my shirt.

“Nice,” Pleather says. “We’re in San Antonio. Not too far. Just a few minutes up the road. An easy drive.”