The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(72)

He revs the engine. “And Harper wanted you to meet Sergeant Pepper.”

“Who’s Sergeant Pepper?”

“A baby goat Chase rescued.”

“A baby goat?” My resolve is like a bowl of Jell-O in direct sunlight. I’m watery, and any solid part I had left is melting into goo.

“He’s not much of a baby anymore. Still likes to cuddle, though. Harper said she might bring some other babies. The woman who adopted Sergeant Pepper raises them.”

I fist my hands on my hips, glaring. “You don’t play fair, James Graham.”

“Who said I’m playing?”

But he is playing. And he’s doing so down and dirty, because talking about crepes and baby goats and cuddling goats is wholly unfair. The mental image of James Graham cuddling a baby goat has me feeling heat flush from the bottoms of my feet all the way up to the tips of my ears and my forehead.

One side of his mouth gives the tiniest fraction of a twitch as he studies me. “You okay? You look a little—”

“Shut up.”

I unclip the helmet and attempt to swing myself on the back of the bike. I’m not as graceful as I intended and almost fall off the other side, but James reaches back, his broad hand spanning my thigh and holding me in place. He gives my leg a squeeze before letting go, and I’m practically panting from his touch.

“This is for the goats,” I tell him.

“Sure,” he says. “The goats.”

“And the crepes.”

“Understandable.”

I get the helmet on but fumble with the strap. “And because I like your family.”

James swivels, brushing my hands away. With masterful hands, he fastens the buckle under my chin, taking extra care to adjust until it’s snug. His fingertips lazily trail down my neck when he’s done, leaving a flush in their wake. Our gazes lock, and I'm met with a dark pool of desire.

“Just my family?” he asks in a low voice, eyes still fixed on mine.

Again—the man plays so, so dirty. But who’s to say I can’t do the same?

I let my lips part, dropping my gaze to James’s mouth, then back up to his eyes, where his pupils almost eclipse the golden-brown irises. Leaning about as close as I can with the helmet on, I keep my voice low. He sucks in a breath.

“Just your family.”

I pat his shoulder twice and lean back, feeling proud of myself when James chuckles and shakes his head. He revs the engine and pulls forward. My sense of smug satisfaction is lost when I squeal.

“Hold on to me,” he orders, speaking loud over the engine as he starts to drive.

He doesn’t need to ask twice. And I’m not just holding on for safety. I’m holding on because I’m a sucker for punishment. It’s also why I slide my hands under his jacket, keeping them over his T-shirt, which is thin enough to reveal a lot of what’s underneath.

I try not to count the abs. I really do. But I’m not made of self-control, so I settle for just making a mental note of the ones directly under my palms. I didn’t get the chance last night during the shirtless cuddle-fest, so this feels like my due.

I barely catch the curve of a smile on his face as he tilts his head to speak over the roar of the engine. “I’ve got six.”

“What?” I’m blushing furiously under the helmet.

“My abs. Trying to save you the trouble of counting.”

I don’t deny it, since it’s obvious I was doing it. “Six, not eight?” I tease. “What are you—an underachiever?”

“It’s genetic,” he calls back. “How many abdominals a person has is related to their genetics and how many bands of connective tissue they have. Six is my max. And there is nothing underachieving about them.”

And now I have a new category of grumpy: cocky grumpy. When he stops for a car backing out, I grab his sides seeking ticklish spots with a vengeance. He doesn’t even flinch, though he does swat at my hands.

“I’m not ticklish,” he says.

“Everyone is ticklish.”

“Not me. Now, hold on.”

Of course a man like James would have no weaknesses, not even a ticklish spot. Though I shouldn’t, I issue myself a private challenge to find one. Because everyone is ticklish somewhere. No matter what James says. And if I have to do a full-body search to find it, well, that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.

For science!

I’m able to get acclimated to the bike’s movement on the slow turns out of the parking deck. It’s simple, really—I just let my body move with James as he leans. Even when not on the bike, my body is attuned to follow him. He exits the garage, pausing to pay at the ticket booth, and a flutter of nerves moves through me as he pulls into traffic. It’s Sunday morning, so fewer people are out and about, but I still feel so exposed.

In more ways than one.

Riding behind James, my body molded to his back, reminds me of how we slept. Only now, I’m the big spoon instead of the little spoon. I can’t decide which one I prefer. Big spoons, little spoons, serving spoons, slotted spoons, plastic spoons—I think I’d like them all, so long as they involve James pressed against me.

He turns his head just before the light turns green. “You’re safe with me.”

I nod, knowing that he believes the words to be true. But I still feel certain that trusting James will mean the eventual evisceration of my heart. I squeeze him even tighter as the engine throttles and he pulls away.