The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(70)

Sure, she has Chevy, who sometimes oversteps in his protection. She’s got Val and Lindy, and probably half the town of Sheet Cake in her corner. But I’m realizing how much Winnie is like me—so busy taking care of other people that no one sees what she needs.

Until now. Until me.





The plan was to get coffee and return to Winnie. But that was before I spotted Dale in the lobby.

Plan A—take care of Winnie—has been temporarily set aside for Plan B—avenge Winnie by making Dale pay. Which, arguably, is part of taking care of Winnie.

Would she have asked me to do so? Probably not.

Would she stop me? I’d like to think no.

Either way, she’s upstairs in bed, and Dale is down here handing his ticket to the valet. Anger rises hot in my throat, a flush I feel spreading through my limbs. Dale was the only one Winnie trusted to tell about her father. And it sounds like the whole time, he was with his fiancée. The thought makes my fingers curl into my palm and my throat tighten with anger. But I’m not getting physical. That’s not my style—at least, other than with my brothers, and that’s different. We know we love each other, even when we’re driving each other nuts. Dale isn’t going to get beaten up. He needs something else.

Something more creative.

I never thought I’d be glad to see clowns under any circumstance at all, but a small group of them selling balloons outside the coffee shop is exactly what I need. Especially because these aren’t the little kid clowns. These are teenage clowns, which means they’re without supervision. More importantly, they’re more than happy to accept money for what I want them to do.

I hold out a crisp bill. “I’ll give you twenty bucks to fill that guy’s car up with your balloon”—I glance down at a netted bag filled with the things—“swords.”

Right after we checked in, I pretended not to notice these guys making balloons into “swords” so phallic they deserve a ticket for public indecency.

“Make it fifty.”

I pull two more twenties from my wallet. “Keep the change. It’s that guy over there. The valet is bringing his car around.”

“Dude, we won’t have time,” one of the clowns says, and I realize he’s right. Dale and his fiancée are already moving toward the front doors as a silver SUV pulls up out front.

“If one of you can stall them for two minutes, I’ll handle them. Just … give me two minutes.” The clowns scatter. One of them pulls out bowling pins, jumping in front of Dale and starting to juggle. Perfect.

Also perfect—a large group of the legging ladies, as Winnie calls them, emerging from the coffee shop, looking fresh and full of energy and, most importantly, like they’re sniffing the air for the scent of desperation. I intercept them as quickly as I can without startling them.

“Good morning,” I say. I’m met with giggles and hair tosses, even from the ones I see wearing wedding rings. I don’t have much time, so I dive right in, pointing toward Dale and his fiancée. “My friends over there have been asking all weekend about what you do.”

When I see six sets of hungry eyes turn that way, I go in for the kill, using terms I’ve heard snatches of while in elevators and hallways this week. “She said something about needing a purpose, wanting to invest in something to bring in extra income. I think she was too shy to approach anyone, but if someone were to ask before she leaves …”

And they’re off. Practically at a sprint, and just barely intercepting Dale and his fiancée before they make it to the front doors. Which is a good thing, because just outside the glass, a group of teenage clowns is now filling Dale’s SUV with balloon “swords.”

Dale deserves worse. Much, much worse. But I’ll hope his actions naturally catch up to him one day. For now, this will do. I’m whistling as I make my way back upstairs to find Winnie.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN





Winnie



I glare at James and, when that doesn’t seem to have any effect, I cross my arms and glare. I use all the strength my eyeball muscles can muster to show him just how serious I am. “I’m not getting on that thing.”

The thing in question being James’s motorcycle, which he apparently swapped for his car the other night after the elevator kiss. I was all for going to have brunch with his family this morning … until I learned how we’d be getting there.

James pinches the bridge of his nose, and I want to grin. I’m really serious about not wanting to ride on a motorcycle, but is it bad I also enjoy frustrating him? Especially when I know he’s not JUST frustrated.

I’ve started to categorize James’s levels of grump. There’s the true grump, when he’s legitimately mad or unhappy or stressed. He has an amused grumpy, where he finds something funny, but doesn’t want to show it. Medium grumpy is kind of his comfortable resting state. A close cousin to amused grumpy, is the acting-grumpy-so-he-won’t-appear-happy, which is exactly what it sounds like. I’m not sure why he can’t just BE happy, but whatever.

Right now, he’s the irritated-masking-slight-amusement grumpy.

“Get on the bike, temp.”

“No.”

It’s a matter of safety. More accurately, it’s about my self-preservation.