The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(66)

“Bike as in bicycle or bike as in motorcycle?”

“Motorcycle.” He gives me a look like my question is the most ridiculous thing ever.

“Don’t act like it’s a dumb question.” I toss a pillow at him, and he looks startled as it bounces off his face and onto the floor. I wonder if anyone is ever playful with James, or if they’re too scared of his gruff exterior.

“Can you see me riding a bicycle?”

And now I’m imagining James in bike shorts. Those thighs in Spandex would be lethal. LETHAL.

I know I’m probably blushing. I can feel the creep of heat moving over my skin. “I guess the leather jacket and boots should have clued me in. Your style is much more MC than Tour de France.”

James is quiet for a moment, then says, “You have an interesting style.”

“I can’t tell if that means you like it or hate it.”

“I don’t hate it.”

I roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling. “Thanks. Best compliment I’ve had all day.” James grunts, and before he feels obligated to say something nicer, I add, “I got into the pin-up, rockabilly thing when I was thirteen. I guess you could say I zagged when everyone else zigged into fringed vests, liquid leggings, and babydoll shirts.”

“Any reason?”

I pick at the edge of the sheet, drawing it up a little higher over my lap. “My mom loved the 40s and 50s. She didn’t dress like this, but she loved the style and music and pretty much anything from that era. She collected vintage posters, calendars, that kind of thing.” I pause, drawing in a slow breath and letting it out just as slowly. “Then, she died. This felt like a way to connect with her. It also felt a little bit like my own personal armor.”

I think I’ve gone too deep, bringing up my mom, but after a moment, James says, “It suits you.”

Our eyes meet and hold. As the moment stretches to two … three … four … it’s hard not to let my gaze fall to his lips. I’ve spent way too much time today thinking about James’s mouth. It is lush and luscious and I’d like to pay the first and last months’ deposit and move in.

Complications, I remind myself, dropping my gaze.

I find myself leaning into humor, just like I did with Tank at dinner. I press a hand to my chest dramatically and channel my best Southern belle. “Why, James Graham—I do believe you paid me half a compliment.”

He grunts, and like that, he’s up and out of the bed. The thin mattress can’t handle the sudden change of weight and I faceplant into the space he left with an oof. I manage to dig my face out of the James-shaped dip in the bed just as he stops halfway into the bathroom.

I worried I offended him, but that tiny grin is back, even maybe a few millimeters bigger. Oh, the things that smile does to my heart!

With the kind of half-smile marketing teams use to sell absolutely anything at all, James says, “It was three-fourths of a compliment, temp.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE





James



I wake in the darkness, instantly on alert, but unsure where I am or why. My whole body is tense, my fists clenched in the sheets. It’s the unfamiliar fabric that makes me remember the hotel room and Winnie.

There’s a whimper and another sharp cry from across the room.

Winnie.

I’m out of bed and next to her in an instant, heart thrumming in my chest.

Harper used to have nightmares, right after Mom died. Maybe not so frequently, but in my memory, there were a lot of them. Tank wouldn’t hear her because the master bedroom is across the house, and both Pat and Collin could have slept through a truck driving into the side of our house.

I remember those nights now as I stand over Winnie, who’s thrashing in her sheets. It’s dark, but from the dim light coming through the curtains, I can see her shaking her head, brow furrowed, eyes squeezed closed.

“No,” she moans, twisting her whole body. “Don’t.”

Licking my lips, I hesitate with one hand outstretched, stopping just short of Winnie’s shoulder. With Harper, I had to be gentle with waking her or she’d react violently, getting even more upset. It became like instinct after a while, hearing Harper’s cries, jogging across the hall to her room, curling up beside her and gently stroking her hair until her breathing evened out. Most of the time, she wouldn’t even wake up.

Can I—should I—climb in bed with Winnie like that?

As I stand here, debating whether or not this falls outside the line of consent or if she’d want me to get in bed with her or how bad of an idea it would be for me, a broken sob escapes her throat. Decision made.

I lean forward, cupping my hands around her shoulders, smoothing gently down. “I’ve got you. Shh—Winnie. I’m here.”

The words sound stupid to my own ears. Why should she care that I’m here? Why would my presence offer any comfort when I’ve done so much to confuse her, when I’ve pushed her away?

But Winnie shudders under my hands, leaning toward me, seeking my touch. Her eyes fly open, her breath coming in gasping pants as her gaze skates over my face.

“Scoot over,” I whisper, already climbing into the bed. I can tell she’s trying, but her legs and torso are tangled in the sheet. I’m so caught up in watching her I forget about the metal bar. It was only annoying earlier, but as my bad knee bangs into it, I curse under my breath.