The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(75)

Those dog trainers really are on to something.

But we’re here, my sleep-addled brain realizes. And James has already gotten out of the truck. Did he think I was still sleeping? Or is he just ready to be rid of me?

Frantically, I leap out, tossing his jacket toward the passenger seat. I grab my bag just as James rounds the back of the truck. I can’t meet his eyes and focus on wrestling my unwieldy bag up the sidewalk.

“Thanks for driving and everything!” I say, much too brightly, wanting to avoid the word goodbye.

James says nothing, plucking my bag from me like it’s nothing. He starts up the sidewalk with me like a yappy little dog on his heels.

“You don’t need to carry my bag!”

He only grunts.

“I can get it!” I protest.

“Already got it.”

Just before we reach the door, I trip over literally nothing. James reaches out a hand to steady me, gripping my arm without losing his hold on my bag.

“Need me to carry you too?” he asks, eyes sparkling.

Yes. Yes, I would like that very, VERY much.

I glare. “I’ve got it.”

“Are you sure?”

He’s smirking at me again, and I don’t understand. Where’s the aloofness? Where are the walls I expected him to put up?

Is it possible James hadn’t planned to hit the reset button?

His hand is like a brand, burning my skin, even through my clothes. Hours from now, I’ll still be able to see his handprint.

“Positive.”

I try to snatch my bag from him. But James only moves it out of reach on the other side of his body.

“Stop it, temp. You’ll tire yourself out.” James hoists the bag above his head when I ignore him. Now, I have to jump, and that’s exactly what I’m doing when Chevy throws open the door.

I stop grabbing for the bag, letting my shoulders droop. Chevy leans casually against the house in his uniform, sipping coffee from a travel mug.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” Chevy says. “This is highly entertaining.”

“James, give me my bag.” I stamp my foot a little for emphasis, which only makes me feel like the toddler I’m impersonating.

“No.”

Chevy clucks his tongue. “A trip away and y’all are still going at each other?”

His phrasing has heat flooding my cheeks. “We’re not—he’s just—”

James moves past me, nodding at my brother. “Chevy,” he says as he deposits my bag inside the door.

“James,” Chevy drawls. “Thank you for taking care of my sister.”

Oh, he took care of me, all right.

Are my cheeks as red as I think they are? I really hope not.

James only grunts a response, but as he comes down the steps, his gaze meets mine and holds. This is it, I think. This is the end. It was nice while it lasted. My insides twist, like they’re wringing themselves out.

I almost fall over as James pauses in front of me. With eyes bright and one corner of his mouth kicked up, he cups my cheeks and places a tender, lingering kiss on my lips. When he pulls back, that smirk is firmly in place again.

Meanwhile, I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

James drops his heavy hands to my shoulders and glances over at Chevy. “This is happening,” he says. Firm. No question.

“Of course it is,” Chevy says. “Do we need to have the talk again?”

“No,” James and I say at the same time.

I wait for an argument or a fist fight or maybe for a gigantic sinkhole to open and suck me inside. Instead, James kisses me again, a quick peck this time, and strides back to the truck.

“See you at work tomorrow, temp,” James says, and then he drives away, leaving me stupefied on the sidewalk.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Chevy says with a shake of his head.

I most definitely do NOT.





When I can’t stand the thoughts stampeding through my brain, I do something desperate. I place a long-distance call to Lindy.

“Is it Jo? Is everything okay?” Lindy sounds sleepy but frantic.

I wince, only now remembering I don’t know where she is or what time it might be. We were only supposed to call if there was an emergency. Does whatever’s happening with James count as an emergency?

Yes. Yes, it does.

“Jo is fine. Sorry—did I wake you?”

A yawn comes before the answer, and I can hear Pat murmuring something in the background. “It’s okay. What’s up?”

I pause, not for dramatic effect but because I choke on the words. Which is why what comes out of my mouth is: “I slept with James.”

“What?!” Lindy’s screech is ear-splitting and makes me realize what I’ve said or more how it sounds.

“Like, in a bed.”

“Winnie! I don’t need details!”

I slap a hand to my forehead. “No! I’m not saying this right. What I mean is we slept in the same bed. Just for the sleeping. Not the sexing.”

Hi. I’m Winnie. I’m twenty-eight, and I just referred to sex as The Sexing. I need more sleep or more coffee. Maybe more of both.

Lindy yawns again. “Okay. I know it’s like the middle of the night here so I’m having trouble computing. But can you start over, speaking softly and using small words? Also, please say what you mean. No idioms or euphemisms.”