The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(65)

“Just wait.” I angle my body and the phone toward him, still trying to maintain distance. Not an easy feat when James is so big he could take up this whole bed himself. I try not to giggle at his sour expression.

“Why is she putting those dark lines on her face?”

“Sh! Just watch.”

He grumbles but does as I ask. I can practically see his head exploding as the time-lapse tutorial shows a woman going from a paint-by-numbers face to looking flawless and cover-model ready. James watches the video, and I watch James, which is much more entertaining. He looks shocked, horrified, and unreasonably angry.

“No,” he says at the end, shaking his head vehemently, which jostles me toward him. “No.”

I manage to keep myself from falling into his lap, but just barely. “Okay, so no makeuptok. We could do beertok?”

“Beertok?”

A crease forms between his brows, and without thinking about it, I smooth it away with my finger. James goes still at the touch, and when I glance at his eyes, they’re dark, and on my lips. I drop my hand to my lap and clear my throat, feeling my heart thudding like a battering ram in my chest.

“So, um, on Tiktok, you can follow certain hashtags or communities around topics. Makeuptok is all about makeup. Booktok is about books. I haven’t really looked, but beertok is probably a thing.”

“No more beer.”

A thought comes to mind, and I bite back a smile, then type something into the search, navigating until I find a video I’ve watched before.

“Alligators?” James asks.

“Just watch.”

James’s frown returns, but this time I don’t dare reach up to smooth away the crease between his brows. “What’s it doing?”

I didn’t quite think through the awkwardness of explaining this to him. “It’s, um, something the males—bulls—do during mating season. They bellow to attract females, and the sound frequency is so low it vibrates the water above their backs. This reminds me of you. Except you’re growling to scare people off.”

James raises one dark brow, then does his best impression of an alligator bellow … which sounds just like his normal growl. Only a little more playful.

“How’s that?” he asks.

I grin. “You didn’t scare me off.”

“I wasn’t trying to scare you off.”

Whatever maturity I’ve earned in my twenty-eight years flees at his words. I suddenly, desperately need to not think about James, growling NOT to scare me off. James, in thigh-hugging sweatpants, next to me in this horribly uncomfortable couch bed. James, who stepped in between me and Dale, who took off my shoes, massaged my feet, and drew me a bath.

“What should we watch next?” I zero all my attention in on the tiny screen. “Bloopers? Dance videos? True crime? What are you into?”

For a moment, James freezes, and I feel like I’ve unintentionally hit a nerve asking about the most mundane of things. I can see the thoughts flying behind his eyes as he tries to come up with an answer.

I lightly touch his arm. Before my fingertips get any ideas about exploring, I pull them back. “It’s okay if you don’t have one thing you’re into. Or if you’re unsure.”

He crosses his arms, his face taking on the stubborn bent of a two-year-old fighting bedtime. “I like brewing beer. And making furniture.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

It feels like we’re fighting, but I’m not sure about what. But I file this whole conversation away for later. James plucks the phone out of my hand and clicks it off before setting it down on the table out of my reach.

“No more Tiktok.”

“Okay, boss. Can I have my phone back?”

“No.”

I laugh. “I need to make you a T-shirt with your favorite word.”

“What’s my favorite word?”

I blink at him. “Really? You don’t know?” When he only shrugs, I have to laugh. “It’s no. And I swear, it accounts for at least ninety percent of your daily word count. Maybe ninety-five.”

James pauses for a beat, then, with the smallest sliver of a smile, says, “No.”

I totally lose it then, and though James doesn’t laugh, I swear, his small smile grows a tiny fraction before he turns away, hiding it from view.

“So, that’s what you do to unwind—watch mindless videos on TikTok?” he asks when I’ve finally stopped laughing and can breathe again.

“Don’t judge, old man.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re not judging? Or old?”

He glares. “Either.”

“Hm.”

“I’m not,” he insists. His brown eyes look almost golden this close. There are tiny flecks of an olive green I hadn’t noticed before. James at rest has a perpetually hard expression. But right now, his eyes are softer.

I realize I’m staring and pull myself back to the conversation. “If I’m trying to unwind, it’s Tiktok or novels.” I lift my chin. “Romance novels.”

He makes a humming sound in the back of his throat that makes the tiny hairs stand up on my arms.

“What about you? Or do you ever unwind?”

He ignores my dig. “Woodworking. Or I ride my bike.”