The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(68)

“I’m so sorry.”

I’m sorry, but I’m also furious. Cheating is … an unacceptable thing. And though my dad still has my utmost respect, I have seen him at his lowest. I still remember the way it felt to lose some sense of trust in him, realizing he was human and could make mistakes.

He didn’t make any like this. Not even close. And anyway, an affair spanning years—it’s enough to make me flush with rage. I can only imagine the complexity of finding this out after his death.

“The thing is, she wanted money. And there was barely any. Even for us. I mean, we’d been financially struggling for years, and here he was helping put some other woman’s kid through college.”

She scoffs, and I vaguely remember Lindy and Pat mentioning student loans when they were begging me to hire Winnie.

“What did you do?”

“I had to pay her off. I didn’t want Chevy to ever know, and I was afraid she might keep contacting me and somehow end up reaching him. So, I gave her the little I inherited and told her not to contact either of us again.”

My brothers sometimes tease me about being unfeeling. And it’s true, at times I’m more stoic than emotional. But when it comes to other people’s suffering, other people’s pain, my own emotions are honed to a sharp point. I shift, sliding my other arm underneath Winnie, circling around her waist so I’m holding her even more tightly to me. Her arms band around mine, grasping my forearms.

It takes a few minutes and a lot of intentionally slow breaths for me to find my voice. “I am so sorry, Winnie. There aren’t enough words for how horrible that is.”

“The worst part is feeling like I lost my father twice. First, when he died, and second, when I realized he was never the man I thought he was.” Her voice starts to wobble, and I swallow around the tightness in my throat. “I can’t confront him. I can’t work through my anger and hurt and betrayal. He’s gone. I’m angry and hurt, and then I feel guilty about feeling that way. There is nowhere for my feelings to go. It’s just so unresolved. I hate it.”

“And you didn’t tell Chevy because you didn’t want him to go through the same thing.”

One thing Winnie has shown me in the brief time I’ve known her is how she picks up on what other people need, how she watches for ways to be kind. Like what she did for me tonight—getting my family here, making shirts, celebrating my win. I keep insisting to everyone I don’t need help. I don’t need anyone but myself.

It’s a lie. Probably everyone knows it, but Winnie most of all.

“You’re only the second person I’ve told.”

She doesn’t need to tell me who the first is. I thought I felt rage before, directed toward her father. But it burns stronger and hotter now, thinking about Dale. Earlier, I’d seen him at the same time Winnie did, and watched as she made her way over, a determined and cheerful expression on her face. It made me relieved, honestly, to see that she seemed over him.

But things shifted when it became clear Dale had been with that woman while with Winnie. You knew, she said to him. I squeeze my eyes closed, feeling my nostrils flare. Winnie told her boyfriend about her father, while Dale was essentially doing the exact same thing.

I’m not a violent man, though I seem to have more of these urges around—or because of—Winnie. Throwing that guy in the pool last night, wanting to track down Dale and throw him off the roof of the building … this isn’t like me.

I focus on breathing, on the feel of Winnie’s hair tickling my chest. Sliding my hands to cover hers, I let my thumbs smooth tiny circles over Winnie’s skin, the repetitive movement calming me. I press a kiss to the side of her head without stopping to think about whether or not it’s a good idea.

I’ve moved firmly into the land of Who Cares If It’s a Good Idea. Maybe it’s the darkness or Winnie’s vulnerability activating my protective side, but whatever hesitations and objections I’ve had are gone.

Winnie is mine.

Mine to protect. Mine to care for. Mine to …

I swallow hard again, my mind dizzy in reaction to the word I wanted to use there. Love. Mine to love.

It’s way too early to know something like that. It’s probably the late hour and the depth of Winnie’s raw emotions. I’ll wake tomorrow knowing this isn’t—and can’t be—love. I can worry about whatever emotion it IS then, too.

“You take good care of people, temp. I admire that.” I lower my voice to the gentlest whisper. “But who takes care of you?”

Winnie trembles a little in my arms, and when I lift my head, I can see tears leaking from her eyes. A tight sensation pinches in my chest and I nuzzle closer.

“Don’t cry, beautiful.”

I shift my hold on her, lifting my arms until my thumbs slide over her cheeks. Emboldened by the way she closes her eyes, sighing with contentment, I replace my thumbs with my lips, leaning over her to kiss the wetness on her cheeks.

“James,” she whispers, and I cannot take my eyes off her lips.

“I've got you,” I say, and then I tilt my head, lean in, and brush my mouth over hers.

I am instantly vibrating with electric heat. The somber, emotional mood gives way to something completely different. I understand why people talk about making love during a time of intense grief, why physical connection can become a need, a healing balm.