The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(63)

I hear him rummaging through his bag and then the water start to run in the bathroom. James returns a moment later, towering over me, his legs touching mine where they hang off the bed. I crack open one eye. James has the tiniest hint of a smile on his lips, and his eyes are fixed on me.

“What?” I ask.

“I’ve just never seen you so … relaxed. I didn’t know you had this setting.”

I speak before I think better of it. “Emotional overwhelm and a good foot massage will do that to me.”

A frown replaces the tiny smile. “He’s a jerk who never deserved you.”

“Agreed.” I cover my eyes with one arm.

There’s a long pause. “I’m sorry he hurt you, temp.”

A little thrill moves through me at the nickname, one I shouldn’t love so much. “He … didn’t. At least, not in the way you might think.”

And that’s all I’m going to say about THAT. No sense dredging up the even older wounds Dale uncovered tonight.

James seems to sense this, because he takes my hands and, with no small effort since I’ve turned into a lumpy sack of potatoes, tugs me to my feet. I groan the whole way but secretly enjoy James fussing over me. He practically carries me into the bathroom, and is it bad that I wish he would sweep me up into his arms, bridal style? Probably. At least I have the self-control not to request it.

The tub is filled, steam rising slowly off the bubbly surface. He’s turned off the main light, so only a single dim light remains. And the room smells like …

“It’s my bodywash,” James supplies. Apparently, my sniffing wasn’t so discreet. He lets go of my hands and backs up, leaning on the doorframe.

“You didn’t have to do that. Mine is right there.” I point to the bottle, sitting on the edge of the tub.

“I know. I used it this morning.”

A flush of shame rises, I’m sure bringing a blush with it. The room suddenly feels too small, too hot, too … something. “You could have just gotten yours out of your bag this morning.”

“But I didn’t.” He crosses his arms, his face unreadable. “And I had to spend the whole day smelling like you.”

“You don’t like the way I smell?” I scuff my bare toe along the tile, making plans to throw my Caramel Perfection body wash in the nearest dumpster. Then, set it on fire.

“That’s not it.”

James leans forward, just enough to touch my chin with a finger. The slightest pressure has me tilting my head up, lifting my gaze to his. Deep brown eyes burn into mine.

“It was torture,” he says. “And now it’s your turn to suffer.”

With that, James gives me the tiniest, most devilish smile.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

He starts to leave, but I tug him to a stop. “Wait—what about tonight? Did you get another room?”

His smile fades, but his eyes blaze. “There are no more rooms.”

And with that, James leaves the bathroom.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR





Winnie



Later, while James is showering, I make a mental survival guide. It would be perfect for one of Lindy’s Buzzfeed articles. Mine would be called: How to Share a Room with James Graham. Or, for better mass appeal: How to Share a Room with a Man You’re Attracted to But Trying Not to Fall Head Over Heels For.

Schedule bathroom times so as not to have awkward run-ins while in a towel (so far, check)

Take clothes into the bathroom with you when showering so you don’t need to leave the bathroom in a towel (check, only because James was kind enough to push my bag into the bathroom while swearing his eyes were closed)

You must wear full coverage pajamas and for the record, boxers do not count as pajama bottoms (so far, check)

Do not use each other’s bodywash because it’s very, very distracting (total fail here as I can smell James on my skin, and he’s right—it’s torture)

Do not, in any circumstances upon penalty of death, share a bed (pullout couch at the ready, so, CHECK!)

If there is only one bed, someone should sleep on the couch (check)

If there is no couch, someone should sleep on the floor (n/a)

Keep air-conditioning at a reasonable level to avoid visible nipplage (check, but is nipplage a word?)



The last one has me grinning in a way that apparently James finds disturbing, because he gives me a look as he exits the bathroom. I’m glad to see he’s following the rules (even if he doesn’t know there ARE rules) and is fully dressed.

Though, as I try not to stare at his fitted T-shirt and sweatpants, I think I need to add another rule.

No sweatpants! (because MUSCULAR THIGHS IN SWEATPANTS ARE TOO MUCH)



“What?” he asks, toweling off his damp hair. This only emphasizes his massive biceps.

“Nothing.” I shift on the pullout couch, trying to avoid the weird bar that seems to come standard with every sleeper sofa ever made.

“Hey—I told you I’d sleep on the couch.” His frown deepens, and it makes me want to laugh.

“And I made the executive decision while you were in the shower that you’re too big for the couch. Sorry—you snooze, you lose, boss.”

James heads back to the bathroom with his towel. When he walks away, I do my very, VERY best not to track the way his butt stretches the fabric of his sweatpants.