The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(64)

Seriously—sweatpants shouldn’t make a man look hot. They’re a 1980s relic, bringing to mind out-of-fashion dads and the whole giving-up-on-life vibe. On James, though, they only accentuate his narrow hips and his thighs—which look powerful enough to crush cars. I never thought of myself as a thigh woman, but here we are.

GIVE ME ALL THE THIGHS! Or, at least, two very specific thighs attached to one very specific man.

James stretches out on the bed, which is across and a little to the side of my couch bed. I can feel him watching me as I do my best not to meet his gaze. My emotional state is much improved—a foot rub, hot bath, and hotter man taking care of me will do that. But these things also make my emotional state with regards to James more complicated.

And I don’t need complicated.

I tick off the reasons why this is a terrible idea in my mind. First, he’s still my boss. That’s reason enough. But since that doesn’t seem to be enough to stop all my feels, I keep going.

Second, maybe he didn’t regret the kiss, but he also said he didn’t know what to do about it. And he hasn’t tried kissing me again. Which, to be clear, he could. And despite points one and two, I would not stop him.

I’m going to toss out the third point, which is that I just got out of a relationship and shouldn’t be thinking about another so soon. Seeing Dale with Celia—at least before I realized the whole situation—made me realize just how little of my heart he ever held. Even so, I shouldn’t jump into anything. Even if James’s thighs in sweatpants make me consider otherwise.

“What are you watching?” James asks.

Honestly, I’d forgotten I was watching anything. I was busy making lists in my head and trying not to drool over James’s legs. I glance at my phone.

“Just TikTok.” His lip curls, and I can’t help but laugh. “You’re such an old man. Hating TikTok. Wearing sweatpants.”

He glances down at his legs. “What’s wrong with my sweatpants?”

It takes me a moment to swallow, because my throat has closed up. “Nothing.” Absolutely nothing.

James makes a growl that sounds like disagreement, and I keep my eyes glued to my phone. But when he climbs out of bed, I can’t ignore him. He’s wearing a smoldery expression—another thing to expressly forbid on my survival guide—as he crosses the room to me.

He possesses all the languid, powerful grace of some kind of large jungle cat. A large jungle cat in low-riding sweatpants that are going to be the death of me. I stare up at him as he reaches me, unsure if I should run or stretch out my neck in submission. Isn’t that what animals do to show loyalty or submission? It would also give him easy access. You know—if he decides to kiss my neck.

In a move that surprises me so much I gasp, James stretches out on my couch bed with an easy grace. That is, until his butt hits the metal bar.

“Ouch! What is that?” he grumbles, wiggling.

The mattress is thin, with little support. James’s weight—and all the wiggling—sends me rolling almost into his lap. I grab the arm of the couch and manage to right myself, sitting up cross-legged. And if my knee is touching his thigh, it’s because there’s no room in this tiny couch bed, not because I’ll take any contact with his thighs I can get.

I DO find myself wishing the human kneecap possessed more nerve endings.

James is definitely breaking at least several of the survival guide rules. Okay, so maybe I haven’t told James any of the rules, but still. Shouldn’t he know he can’t just climb into my sofa bed with me? It simply isn’t done.

My thoughts are now apparently channeling some proper English Lady abiding by the rules of manners. All I need is a corset, an embroidered handkerchief, and a dance card tied to my wrist.

Annnnnnd now I’m picturing James as Mr. Darcy. Great.

“It feels like you’re on some kind of torture device,” he grumbles, still adjusting. His feet practically hang off the end of the mattress.

“That’s the bar for the fold-out thingy. Just part of the luxurious sofa bed experience.” His blank look has me reeling. “Wait—have you never slept on a pullout couch before?”

James simply stares, blinking and expressionless. What I hear him saying is, I’m too fancy for pullout couches. And I’ve been too tall to fit on something like this since I was fourteen.

That’s what I imagine his expression means, anyway.

I cluck my tongue. “Oh, you poor, privileged boy.”

“I thought you said I was an old man. Pick a lane.” He squirms some more, and his brows knit together. “This is impossible. I told you I’d let you have the bed,” he growls.

I don’t know if it’s the growl or all the talk of beds, but my cheeks feel too warm. I cannot talk about beds with James Graham. Especially not while IN a bed with him. Even a sofa bed. Though the bar is acting as a chaperone, keeping things from being TOO comfortable. My cheeks grow even hotter.

“No. It’s fine. But why are you over here?”

“Because you accused me of being an old man. I’m here to watch TikToks.” He glances at my phone’s screen and frowns. “What is that?”

I laugh. “A contouring tutorial.”

“Is that, like, a makeup thing?”

Oh, sweet, innocent James. He may have a sister but Harper is a fresh-faced beauty. I’d wager she wears little more than lip gloss and maybe mascara here and there. I love makeup, and I don’t even do contouring. I happen to find it fascinating (and also relaxing) to watch the videos.