The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(81)

The tightness in my chest eases, and as Tank mouths, You okay? I give him a nod and step into the bathroom. I need a moment of quiet. The green bean casserole can wait. I pass Pat and Lindy, who are engaged in a noisy discussion about the history of Thanksgiving with Jo while the TV plays some movie with an animated turkey.

Winnie is going on about Judge Judie’s house and something about the size and heat and double ovens. I’m listening but don’t need all the details. I need the favor I can tell she’s winding up to ask.

“What do you need from me?” I can’t help but admit a little relief that maybe this means we won’t be celebrating the holiday with the entire town.

“Do you trust me?” Winnie asks, and my chest goes tight again.

Trust is a currency with a very high exchange rate for me. This feels somehow like a trick question. Of course I trust her, but I also am scared of where this is going.

“Yes?”

There’s a long pause on the line. “I wanted to see if we could hold Feastivus at Dark Horse.”

I blink. Tell myself to breathe steadily. Then realize I’m gripping Tank’s bathroom counter so hard either my knuckles or the granite are going to crack.

Right now, Dark Horse is little more than an empty warehouse, halfway under construction. We have electrical now, but that’s about it. A lot of burned-out industrial bulbs needing to be replaced. No heat or HVAC system. The bathrooms are framed in, but there is no plumbing. Duct tape on the floor marks out plans for the contractor. Boxes of things like shelving units are stacked in corners, waiting to be put together.

My thoughts go straight to worst-case scenarios like lawsuits and electrical fires. Even the idea of having half the town traipsing around the outside makes my skin feel warm and prickly. It was bad enough on the workday, and that was only a dozen or so people. I haven’t minded the work crew, obviously, but random people?

“How would this work, exactly?” I ask carefully. “There are no tables or chairs. No heat.”

“You wouldn’t need to worry about it. I’ll handle everything.”

“No bathrooms.”

“I’ve got a plan. Trust me, boss.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to force my pulse to slow. Everything about this spells disaster. Or maybe just my worst nightmare. Either way, it’s not what I want.

And yet … I already know I’m going to say yes. Unless there’s another solution.

“What about Tank’s place?”

“It’s not big enough.”

“How many people are we talking about?”

Winnie sighs. “James, I love you, but you’re a giant buzzkill. You know that?”

My brain stops functioning at the words I love you. Winnie threw the phrase out casually, like a joke. I know she doesn’t really MEAN the words. I'm honestly not even sure she realizes she’s said it.

But hearing the words come out of her mouth immediately forced me to realize something: I think I do love her.

Not casually.

Not like the way I love a good steak or being alone or the feeling I get finishing a table or bench or something I’ve built with my hands and hard work.

Love love.

And I have no idea what to do with that knowledge. Or the ensuing sense of panic. I close my eyes, gripping the counter again with my free hand. “Okay.”

Winnie squeals. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. And to think, your favorite word used to be no.”

The problem is: no still is my favorite word. And now there are two people in the world, in this little town even, I can’t seem to say it to. One is pint-sized and can school me in chess. The other has a sassy mouth, inked skin, and her hand wrapped around my heart.





Probably to keep me away from whatever dark magic she’s working at the warehouse, Winnie sends me on an errand. It’s one I’m pretty sure does not require both me and Big Mo, but here we are—driving around town in a borrowed shuttle bus, picking up elderly people for Feastivus.

“Well, aren’t you a big boy?” A smiling woman wearing a pink wig and bifocals lets go of her cane long enough to pat my chest. I hand her off to Big Mo, who grins at me before helping her up the bus steps.

I head back to the front of the nursing home for two more ladies. They each take an arm, giggling as we shuffle toward the bus. The one on the left is massaging my bicep, and before Big Mo takes her arm to help her up the shuttle steps, she sniffs me.

The one on the right pats me on the butt like an athlete might for a teammate. “You’d fetch a pretty penny at the livestock show. And I would know. I was in the FFA. Raised some prize heifers.”

There have been times in my life, most especially when I played college ball, where I absolutely felt like a piece of meat. Never has it been so LITERAL. Technically, in this situation, I’m not a piece of meat but a side of beef.

We get the last few people loaded up while I’m gritting my teeth and Big Mo is trying to hold back laughter. Before we pull away, he waves to the woman in scrubs standing by the entrance to the assisted living center.

“You’ll bring me back some pie, Big Mo?” she calls.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, even though I’m pretty certain the woman is younger than he is. Though, with the big beard and bushy eyebrows, it’s hard to pinpoint exactly how old Big Mo is. I’d guess around Tank’s age, mid-fifties, maybe a few years younger.