The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(71)

All morning, James has been sweet. In the grumpiest way possible, of course, but shockingly thoughtful and attentive. From waking me up by running gentle fingers through my hair to supplying me with coffee as soon as my eyes blinked open, he’s been taking care of me. All this after rescuing me from my nightmare, holding me close, and listening to me spill my dark secrets. And let’s not forget the spooning and the kissing. There was also that.

Now he’s trying to get me on a motorcycle, all pressed up close with my arms wrapped around him? I don’t think so. Not happening. I don’t care what the books say. That’s the way babies are made.

“Why not?” James finally asks, each syllable punctuated slowly, carefully, as though I’m trying his patience.

“You only have one helmet. That’s why not.” A valid reason, even if it’s not the real or only one.

James holds out the shiny black motorcycle helmet to me. “You can wear it.”

“And then you won’t have a helmet.”

“There’s no helmet law in Texas. It’s fine.”

“And that’s one stupid decision on Texas’s part. Your skull is not getting cracked open like an egg on my watch.”

“It’s only a few miles. I’m safe.”

Maybe he is a safe driver. Rider? Biker? Motorcyclist? I don’t even know the correct term here. But James Graham is anything but safe.

He already owns the majority shares of my heart’s stock and is angling for a hostile takeover. Maybe not THAT hostile. But I’m doing my best not to completely fall for this man who fired me once, ignored me at the conference, and then ran off after we kissed. He’s made me all unsteady, and I don’t like unsteady.

I cross my arms. “I don’t trust the other drivers.”

A true statement. But I also don’t trust myself. I don’t know why, but climbing on the back of this motorcycle with James feels like a point of no return. Like once I’ve wrapped myself around him during daylight hours and let this sexy man steer us through Austin traffic, it’s all over. I’ll be his forever, no take-backs.

“Let me worry about the other drivers,” he says.

“How about you ride home, get your truck, and then come back to pick me up later in that. I’ll just wait in the lobby. You have to come back with the truck anyway for our bags. No problem.”

“Fine.” James sighs and turns away. I immediately regret saying no.

He climbs on the bike in a move that deserves at least a PG-13 rating. I can barely drag my eyes away from his thighs and his butt in those dark jeans. He secures the helmet on the back of the bike.

“You forgot your helmet.”

“No, I didn’t.”

Stupid, stubborn, infuriating man!

He fires up the bike, and the motor’s deep purr is a sexy, sexy sound to match the sexy, sexy sight. He looks like the quintessential bad boy from the pages of one of my romance novels come to life. Only better. Because he’s here, not a fictional man.

And, unlike a fictional man, you aren’t promised a happily ever after.

But I CAN kiss him. Let’s see a fictional man do that!

James begins maneuvering out of the parking spot, backing up slowly and using his feet to balance the bike. He pauses when we’re eye to eye. I can’t read his expression, but it’s dark with a spark of something. A dare? A challenge?

I’m about ten seconds from caving in and hopping up there with him.

“Tank will be disappointed,” James says, speaking louder to be heard over the bike. “He’s making you crepes.”

I am only as strong as my weakest part, and my weakest part is most definitely crepes.

“Crepes?” My question comes out like a wheeze. I don’t usually get all fangirly about James’s family. But the famous Think Tank, whose face has graced Billboards, magazine covers, and Sports Center, is making ME crepes???

Pardon me while my head explodes.

James shrugs. “I told him you liked crepes, so he’s making them. Just for you.”

My brow furrows. “How do you even know I like crepes?”

James doesn’t answer, just blinks. It makes me want to yank out his dark eyelashes one by one. The thing is, he’d probably look just as good with bald eyelids.

“Jo told me,” he says finally. “She said you took her all the way to Austin once for crepes at some food truck.”

I blow out a breath. “What else did Jo tell you?”

James raises one brow. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Come on. Get on the bike, Winchester.”

Winchester. Why does it make me shiver when he says my full name? I’d always been secretly proud of my daddy naming me after his favorite gun, just like he named Chevy after his favorite truck. That is, until I found out the truth about my dad. I’ve hated my full name ever since. But when James says it … the name changes and feels different coming from his lips, from that low, gravelly voice.

“You could bring some crepes back when you pick me up,” I suggest.

“I could.”

But he won’t. The implication is clear.

“He even bought Nutella. And heavy whipping cream for your coffee, though I can’t promise he won’t judge you for it.”

The price of my self-preservation is not Nutella crepes! It is NOT. I am all too aware that whether he means to or not, James Graham is going to hurt me. Bad. I’m already way too invested in him, and he’s shown me he doesn’t know what he wants.