The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(62)

“Well, the engagement is old news, but we’ve finally chosen a date and a venue.”

Words link together to help my slow, slow brain understand: finally, old news, date, chosen.

I pin my eyes on silent, Henley-wearing Dale. “How long?” My voice sounds small yet deadly, like one of those tiny species of octopus who live in Australia and could kill you within minutes of their venom hitting your bloodstream.

“Winnie,” Dale says. It’s a placating voice. A coward’s voice. A guilty man’s voice. He looks at me, but his gaze slides right off and back to the floor.

Celia steps in again, looking between us like she’s just starting to get the picture. I hope, for her sake, she does. “We’ve been engaged for six months. Together for … well, it seems like forever. In a good way. Right, babe?”

Zero math is needed for this equation. I barely register the way James presses even closer, his hand banding tighter around my waist until there is no space left between us. He becomes a human splint, the only thing keeping me together.

It’s not the revelation of the cheating, at least not solely that. There’s the reality of being the unwilling other woman in this situation, which makes me want to hurl all over Dale’s shoes. Or hurl my shoes at Dale’s face.

But there is an even deeper betrayal to this, one Dale of all people would understand.

My own pulse creates a deafening whoosh in my ears. “You knew,” I say. “You were the only one who knew, and you still did this?”

Dale looks miserable, but not miserable enough. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” James says, repositioning us so he’s between me and Dale. “You do not get to speak to her.”

Though his protectiveness makes something swoop in my belly, the humiliation of James witnessing this moment is intensely, keenly painful. I remove his hand from my waist, and without looking back, I bolt for the escalator.





CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE





Winnie



I’m so frazzled I can’t get the keycard to work. I know it’s because I’m swiping it too fast, the way James did with his biohazardous room when we first checked in. I know this, yet I keep doing it again and again until the keypad itself is a blur in front of me.

A big, warm hand closes around mine. “A wise woman once told me you need to go slowly.”

I watch our joined hands, fascinated by the simple movement as James swipes the card, pauses the exact right length of time, then turns the handle when the little light blinks green. He doesn’t let go of my hand right away. Sliding the key card out of my palm, he links his fingers with mine and leads me into the room.

When we reach the bed, James takes my shoulders and pushes gently until I’m seated on the edge of the mattress.

“So bossy,” I whisper, watching his boots instead of meeting his gaze.

He huffs a soft breath, almost a laugh. “Yeah. I am.”

I nod. “I like how you are.”

Kneeling before me, James lifts my right foot and begins unlacing my shoe. They’re black Converse high tops. He could easily loosen them just a little and slip them right off. But he takes his time, untying and then unlacing with a gentle, careful precision that feels ridiculously intimate.

I watch his hands and also his bowed head, the dark sweep of hair hanging over his forehead. His focus is intense, his fingers steady. He slides the shoe from my foot and places it next to the bed. Instead of moving to the next, he cups my heel in one hand and begins to massage my foot with the other. I want to watch, suddenly fascinated with his hands, but my eyelids flutter closed as his thumb presses into the arch.

“I don’t know you well enough yet to know how you process.” James’s thumbs move in time with his voice, punctuating different words and dragging a soft groan out of me.

What I hear the loudest is I don’t know you well enough YET. It’s a sneaky promise. Maybe an unintentional one? Either way, the idea makes my stomach flutter, and I tuck it away somewhere secret inside me to revisit.

“If you need to talk it out or you need silence or to go hit baseballs, just tell me what you need.”

His words make me ache. I don’t particularly want to process at all. I’d rather block out the whole exchange from the lobby and block out the other, even uglier memories it stirred to the surface like silt kicked up from the bottom of a stream.

I fall back onto the bed with a sigh as James deepens the massage. “I don’t know what I need.”

“Then let me take care of you,” he says.

Well, I’m not going to argue with THAT.

James continues to massage my foot until I’m drugged into a hazy half-sleep state, then jolts me awake with a touch too light to be anything other than a tickle.

“Hey,” I protest through giggles.

“Wanted to make sure you’re still alive.”

I kick at him, lightly, and he chuckles, giving my foot a final squeeze before moving to the next one, repeating the slow untying of laces and gentle massage.

When James finishes, I’m mush.

“Stay,” he says, like I could move even if I wanted to.

To be clear, I don’t want to move. And not just because my bones are liquid. I wasn’t lying when I said I like James bossy. Sometimes, his stubborn vehemence makes me want to argue even if I agree with him. Right now, I only want to comply with this protective tender bossiness.