The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(74)

“I heard that!” James yells, just before he and Collin go right in the pool. Stormy jumps in after them.

“Did you ever get the pool heater fixed?” Harper asks, taking a bite of an egg white omelet.

“A week or two ago,” Tank says.

“Too bad.” Harper stands, grabbing her phone. “Better get some photos before they call a truce.”

Tank and I are left at the table, watching as the fight continues in the pool. I steal a piece of bacon from James’s plate, enjoying the show. Chase gets pulled into the fray—because Harper pushes him in—and the goats pick up on the energy, running and leaping on and over and off the lounge chairs.

“Is it always like this?” I ask Tank.

“Always.” He smiles, but then his expression tightens, the smile lines around his eyes disappearing. “Other than the period right after their mom died. I heard you lost your mother young too. I’m so sorry.”

This is an unexpected turn in conversation, a huge contrast to the laughter and shouts coming from outside. “Thank you. I’m sorry for your loss.”

He nods, his eyes still on the melee outside. “They were all too quiet afterward, too well behaved. Like they thought they could somehow keep anything else bad from happening if they were just good enough.”

My heart constricts and then makes a heavy thud. I remember having similar thoughts after Mom died. Not that I could keep the bad things at bay, but more that I needed to be the best daughter I could, to give my dad the least amount of trouble.

“James took the brunt of it on himself. He became more of a caretaker, more of a leader.” He chuckles. “Even if his way of leading is silently shoving people in the direction he thinks they should go. Meanwhile, he’s somehow untouchable, neither wanting nor accepting help. Which is why what you did for him last night, what you’re doing for him means so much.”

“Oh, I …” I swallow down my protests because Tank gives me a look that’s all James. “I like a challenge,” I say instead.

“James is that. You two are good for each other,” Tank says.

“Oh, I don’t know if we’re together,” I say, and the words feel false even before Tank gives me another look.

“Let’s see how long you keep singing that tune. Just so you know, this is the first time he’s brought a woman home.”

Tank rises and begins clearing the table. I scoot my chair back, planning to help, but get waylaid at the sight of James climbing out of the pool, completely drenched. His T-shirt is molded to his torso, plastered there like a second skin. All the muscles I was snuggled up against last night but didn’t get to appreciate, all the ones I felt as we rode here on his motorcycle are on full display.

He was right. There are six abdominal muscles, and they are NOT underachievers. They’re like the Olympians of ab muscles. When he pulls the wet shirt over his head and begins wringing it out, a blush heats my cheeks. His torso is like a giant slab composed of overachieving muscles, from his sculpted shoulders to the broad pecs on down to those abs and the alluring vee where his hips narrow. Droplets of water skim over his tan skin, and I drag my gaze away just in time to catch him full-on smirking at me.

Busted! Before my cheeks can get any redder, I hop up and begin stacking dishes and carrying them to the sink for Tank.

“Are you okay?” Tank asks. “You look flushed.”

“Yep. Totally fine.”

Just, you know, thrown off by your son’s hot bod. Just call me Miss Objectification.

James sticks his head in the back door, grinning, and I almost drop the empty serving platter in my hands at the sight of him so close. His wet hair drips, starting to form a puddle on the floor.

“Hey, temp. Before we go, come see where the magic happens.”

“What?”

“Where I brew my beer,” he says, still smiling that smug smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll put a shirt on first so you can concentrate.”

Shirt or no shirt, I’m pretty sure my concentration is dead.





CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT





Winnie



I plan to enjoy every second of the ride back to Sheet Cake. Soak it up, I tell myself. Soak him up.

Because I can’t shake the feeling that the moment we cross the city lines, James and I will go back to what we were before, which was two people who maybe hated each other. Or pretended to? I can’t begin to untangle my complicated emotions or when exactly I fell hard for the man I told myself was trouble the moment I laid eyes on him.

We’ve been living the past few days in a bubble. Away from home, away from nosy Sheeters and my meddling brother—who is going to lose his mind when he finds out about any of this. The bubble is going to pop. It has to. So the car ride is our farewell tour of sorts, the last moments I can enjoy James being tender and caring—albeit in his gruff caveman sort of way, which is apparently my own personal favorite thing. That and his thighs.

Instead of enjoying every moment, I fall asleep almost immediately.

When I wake up, James is pulling up to the curb in front of Chevy’s house. I have drool on my face and a stiff neck from my awkward position. I feel heavy and realize the strange weight is the leather jacket spread over me. James’s scent fills my nostrils, and my brain goes right to an article I read on dog training. A good way to help ensure bonding, especially when crate training, is to let a puppy sleep with his master’s shirt. I want to snuggle down into James’s jacket and breathe in the smell of him.