The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(79)

“I was thinking maybe we could revisit this cat-catching assignment.”

Cupping her face in my hands, I skim my thumbs over her cheeks and push her glasses back up into place from where they slid down. “Sorry. That part of your job is nonnegotiable.”

“James,” she pleads, and I’m tempted, I really am. But what I want more than to say yes is to enjoy watching Winnie continue her epic battle with the one-eyed cat.

“It’s character-building.”

“You don’t like my character?”

“I love your character. But I’m pretty sure all those self-help gurus say we should always keep developing.”

Winnie closes one eye, studying me like I’m a blueprint. “You listen to self-help gurus.”

“Oprah is my BFF.”

“Right,” Winnie says, drawing out the word.

“How about this,” I say, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll put in a good word with your boss. But from what I’ve heard, he’s not a very understanding guy. Best of luck, temp.”

With a final quick kiss, I force myself to back away before I change my mind and say yes to whatever she asks.





CHAPTER THIRTY





Winnie



The rest of the week leading up to Feastivus goes something like this: try to catch a stupid cat, make out with James, work on my secret project for Dark Horse, make out with James some more, try to catch a stupid (okay, fine, he’s smarter than me) cat.

In addition, I’ve become very familiar with every area of the building—mostly because James and I have made out in all of them. With my eyes closed, I could create a blueprint, plus report on the sturdiness of the walls and flat surfaces like countertops and tables.

For example, the outer wall in the back room feels like it needs reinforcing and creaks loudly when someone—or someones—are pressed up against it. And the small wooden table in the storage closet was NOT meant to hold a human’s weight. It has been relocated to the large dumpster outside. In pieces.

What we have NOT done is discuss the particulars of our relationship. Honestly, though, I’m fine letting things be nebulous for now. DTR talks are so early 2000s. Do adults even still have these talks? I’m so out of the loop I’m not sure what typical is anymore. And so long as we’re just kissing, I’m okay putting off some official talk about what we are and what we want … for now.

Aside from all the kissing, James and I really are pretty consumed with work. The contractor has had his crew in, prepping the plumbing for the brew tanks and starting to frame out the bathrooms. There’s some issue or headache every hour, it seems, and if James isn’t talking to the contractor, he’s on the phone with suppliers. It’s a lot of people and paperwork for him, and I wish he’d let me help. Especially if it would get me out of trying to catch the Orange Cyclops.

I’m choosing not to be hurt when James refuses my offers for help. I feel like this will change when I can show him I’m serious, show him I don’t want to just be a temp, show him my ideas for Dark Horse. I’ve spent a lot of time on the phone with Kyoko, pestering her with questions and getting more ideas. What started as a small document has turned into a large document with an accompanying slideshow presentation.

Yeah. I’m not obsessing AT ALL.

Every day, I arrive to find new answers scrawled on the chalkboard in James’s so-very-James handwriting. Just like him, it’s hard to read. This is a twist on my daily question requirement, but I love it, mostly because it was James’s idea. Also, if I guess correctly, I get rewarded, and I really, really like the rewards.

If I miss? I’m punished by being tickled until I’m breathless. Which … I don’t mind either.

James doesn’t make this easy. On Tuesday, his answer was seventeen. I guessed how many women he’s kissed—though the idea of his lips on anyone else makes me feel more unhinged than an old screen door. Thankfully, it was how many stitches he’s gotten in his lifetime. Some were from surgery, but the rest he said I’ll have to find myself. I can’t wait for more exploration.

Today, Wednesday, he simply wrote a pilot, and I correctly guessed this was what he wanted to be when he grew up. The mental image of James in a pilot uniform behind the controls of a jet is pretty hot.

“Thayden said he’d give me lessons in his private plane sometime,” James says, brushing his lips against my jaw in a spot I’ve discovered I really, really like. We’re in a storage closet, the sound of hammers hammering and country music crackling over a speaker offering a soundtrack to our private moment.

“Who’s Thayden again?” I shiver as James drags his mouth up, up, up. I care less about the answer and more about extending what was supposed to be a five-minute break.

“He’s our family lawyer … and sort of friend.” His lips close around my earlobe, and I squeeze my eyes closed, gripping his shirt in my fists. When he kisses the apple of my cheek and backs up, resting his forehead against mine, lips just out of reach, I want to groan.

I try to locate a coherent thought. “I think I met him the day y’all got arrested for disrupting the peace at Backwoods Bar. Expensive suit, smug grin?”

James snorts. “That would be Thayden.”

He kisses me, slow and soft and sweet. I’m seated on a stack of pallets with James standing between my knees. The heat of his body is delicious against the chill bite in the air. I draw him closer, kissing a zigzag line up his throat—payback for making me dizzy minutes ago. I feel him swallow against my lips, and there’s something so powerful in knowing how I affect him.