The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(83)

A fact highlighted by the giant Dark Horse banner featuring Winnie’s final logo concept hanging out in front as we pull up to the curb. I narrow my eyes. Winnie couldn’t have whipped that up today, since it’s professionally printed. Which means she’s been working on this and who knows what else without asking me. The idea comes with a sharp pinch of discomfort.

The sign looks great. Be thankful not irritated, I tell myself. But I don’t like details out of my control, much less out of my knowledge. I really hate secrets and surprises, especially when it comes to things like my own business, where there should be zero surprises, even good ones.

“You coming?” Big Mo asks, and I realize I’m frozen in my seat, staring at the sign and what lies beyond.

There is a flurry of activity and people, way more than I thought would be here—and that’s not including those we need to help off the van. I climb out, taking in everything I can at a glance. I see folding tables, portable space heaters, and twinkling lights strung across the courtyard outside of the main building.

It’s hard to breathe. Somewhere, under the rising sense of panic, there’s a sliver of excitement, humming like a live wire. This is a tiny foreshadow of things to come, of what this place could be.

What it will be, I mentally amend. Tank and Wolf Waters appear at the shuttle steps helping folks out of the van. I stop just inside the gate to take in the full effect.

Tables are set up for at least fifty, maybe closer to seventy-five. There are candles and tablecloths and pitchers of water and mason jars of what I’d guess is Judge Judie’s moonshine. Collin is tossing a football with some kids. There are a dozen or so dogs running around underfoot, and a loud hum of conversation and laughter as the tables fill up. The Bobs, who apparently moonlight as a bluegrass band when they’re not obsessing over the high school football team, are setting up drums on a makeshift stage.

Dark Horse feels very alive. The air practically vibrates with joy and anticipation. My insides feel like they’re vibrating with exactly the opposite emotions.

I spot Winnie, floating between tables, calling out hellos as well as orders, pointing to where platters of food can go while stopping one of the dogs from eating a stick of butter right off a dish on the table. She’s glowing brighter than all the twinkling lights, an easy smile on her face and a radiant energy practically following her in a cloud.

My heart shudders once, then struggles to find its rhythm, like a half-capsized boat wobbling its way back to upright. Winnie is so incredibly, indescribably beautiful—totally in her element. This is her JAM.

But it is not mine. Not even a little bit.

Nope. I’m ready to run, where she looks ready to grow roots.

“Can you give us a hand, James?” Big Mo passes me, an elderly woman on each arm, and I head back to the shuttle, clenching and unclenching my jaw.

I help a white-haired woman off the shuttle, trying not to flinch at her touch as she wraps her hand around my arm.

“Well, isn’t this lovely,” she says as we shuffle through the gates, and all I can manage around the knot in my throat is a grunt. I think she said her name is June, but my mind is stuck in January.

That’s when I’m supposed to have this place at least in some semblance of working order, even if not fully operational. The Sheet Cake Festival brings thousands to this town, and Tank wants at least a half dozen shops and restaurants up and running, even some of the lofts to show people what this place could be.

More people. More activity. More noise.

“You all right there, big fella?” June eyes me with an assessing gaze behind her thick glasses.

“Yep.”

She harrumphs and looks ready to press me for more when Winnie appears suddenly. Just the sight of her makes the tension let up a tiny fraction of a bit. Then I see the light in her eyes, a massive contrast to the dark cloud pouring rain over my head, and my shoulders tense.

“Don’t mind him.” Winnie helps June into one of the folding chairs. “He’s a man of single syllables.”

“Don’t need words when you've got a body like that,” June says.

“Agreed.” Winnie gives me a smile I wish I could return and loops her arm through mine. Leaning close, she says, “Come with me for a sec. I need your help with something.”

I don’t fight as Winnie drags me toward the building. Each time a person stops her to say hello or ask a question, it’s like a kick to my gut. My mouth is desert-dry by the time we make it into the building.

More lights are strung across the ceiling here, and a series of folding tables have been set up with the food. There are several turkeys, Tank’s brisket, and a whole platter of sausages along with multiple dishes of potatoes, rolls, and the green bean casserole I made earlier, slightly singed on top.

My stomach rumbles at the smell, but I’m not really hungry. Instead, I feel shaky and sick.

We reach a storage closet, the only one with a chair. Winnie pushes me down into it and closes the door, leaning her back against it.

The room is dim, lit only by the afternoon light coming through the dirty window. The room feels too small, too hot. I shrug off my jacket and toss it over the back of my chair.

Memories of making out with Winnie in this room yesterday shoot to the front of my mind, then fade under the weight of my overwhelm.

Winnie studies my face with a look of concern.