The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(67)

How is she even sleeping on this? No wonder she’s having bad dreams. I want to rip the bed apart and toss the metal bar straight through the window. Without meaning to, I’ve tightened my grip on Winnie’s shoulders. Shaking my head, I shift so one hand is under her back and the other cups the backs of her thighs.

“Forget this.” I lift Winnie from the bed, stumbling back a little as I adjust.

Her hands slide up my bare chest and around my neck. I barely contain a shiver at the feel of her fingertips toying with my hair. When she rests her cheek against my chest with a shuddering sigh, something warm moves through my chest. It’s a physical reaction to having her softness pressed so close, but even more, it’s a flare of protectiveness, something far deeper than attraction.

I don’t allow myself to think about it, instead focusing on getting Winnie into the big bed without more touching or limbs tangling than necessary.

Kneeling on the edge of the bed, I deposit her as gently as I can in the center of the mattress. Her hands fall away from my neck, tugging the sheets up over her body. Reluctantly, I start to slide my hand away, backing toward the edge of the bed, still on my knees. But her hand shoots out, grabbing mine, tugging me toward her.

“Please.”

The word sounds like it’s been ripped out of her. I freeze for an instant, too tired to debate with myself, too eager to stay close to argue myself out of it.

She needs you. Winnie needs you.

It’s this thought that has me disregarding any shred of self-preservation as I climb fully into bed, letting her direct me with the one hand still stubbornly holding mine. She turns on her side, and I bite my lip when she positions my hand over the shirt covering her stomach. It’s all I can do not to let my fingertips explore, to lift the edge of her shirt enough to feel her soft skin—

Get yourself under control. She just had a nightmare bad enough to wake you up.

I’m glad for the sobering reminder, and I curl protectively around Winnie, the oversized spoon to her tiny spoon. She sighs with contentment, pulling my hand tighter and wiggling until her back is flush with my chest. For a few long beats, we both still, the only movement our breathing, and the rapid pounding of my chest, which I hope she can’t feel.

“You lost your shirt,” Winnie says.

A chuckle rumbles its way through my chest, and Winnie arches back, as though trying to chase the sensation. “I can’t sleep with a shirt on.” I pause. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

Winnie’s answer takes a few seconds. “Not uncomfortable, no.”

She doesn’t say what it does make her, and I can hear the way she’s holding back, the restraint in her voice. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from pushing. I’m far too desperate for her compliments.

For a few minutes we stay this way, my breathing syncing up with hers until we’re moving in tandem, slow breaths in and out. My heart, however, can’t seem to slow or find a steady pace.

“Is this normal—the nightmare?” I ask.

When she nods, the warm surge of protectiveness rises again. I remember nights spent soothing Harper, the feeling of wanting to be her safe place. This is that, but very much without the brotherly vibe. I’m feeling anything but familiar right now. It’s the same urge that had me stepping in when the guy reached for her lanyard. And when I threw Daniel in the pool. I want to protect Winnie from the things outside this room as much as from her own dreams.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Something about being this close, having Winnie in my arms allows me to sense more of what she’s feeling even without words. Unless I’m imagining the connection, but I don’t think I am. She wants to tell me, but she needs a push.

“Tell me.” My tone is demanding, but Winnie responds almost immediately.

“The dreams don’t matter. Not really. They’re all variations of the same theme.” She draws in a ragged breath.

I tighten my arm around her waist, her shirt bunching a little as her fingers tangle with mine, squeezing.

“You can talk to me, temp.” What I mean is that she can trust me.

Her other hand moves, sliding up my forearm, then back down. She lightly circles my wrist, and I love that her fingertips can’t touch. Her body seems to relax even more against me, tension I didn’t realize she still carried dissipating.

“My dad had an affair.”

Her words are such a stark contrast to the tenderness, the intimacy of the moment that I jerk a little, sucking in a breath. Rage, hot and thick swirls through me as she continues.

“One that lasted years and years. My nightmares always revolve in some way around that, or just around him. They bring up the feelings I had when I found out.”

“How did you find out?” My words are clipped. It’s hard to keep the edge of anger from my voice. She must feel it, because Winnie tenses slightly. I brush my lips over her hair, softening my tone. “I’m here.”

That promise must be enough.

“I didn’t find out until after he died. Chevy handled most of the big details—I was a wreck—but my one task was his phone and email. A woman contacted me, trying to reach him. Only after the money stopped coming.”

“What was the money for?”

“He was helping to support her. She said she didn’t know he was married—it started way before my mom died. He told her he traveled a lot for work, the same thing he told my mom. Which he did, but …” She trails off.