The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(84)

“Why are we here?” I bite out, my voice rougher than I mean for it to be.

Winnie doesn’t flinch at my tone. “You looked like you could use a breather.”

My shoulders loosen a little. But only a little. Winnie reads me like she wrote the manual. Right now, though, I’m not sure I want to be read.

“There are a lot of people.” I don’t mean to sound accusing, but it slips into my tone.

“I may have downplayed it a little.” Winnie’s mouth tilts up in a small smile. “I know this probably wasn’t an easy yes for you, the King of No. But it’s a really nice thing for you to do for the town.”

I didn’t do it for the town.

I swallow those words down. It’s not the right time to discuss the feelings I have for Winnie. How they’ve grown wild as weeds and taken over my lawn. How earlier, I had the realization all those unfamiliar feelings might fall under the heading of one Very Big Feeling.

And then, after seeing her in the midst of everyone outside, a dark thread of doubt stitched its way through me.

I realize she’s waiting for my answer, so I nod.

“What do you think?” Winnie twists her hands, then seems to realize she’s doing it and balls her hands into fists.

I see a crack in Winnie’s tough shell, a breathy whisper of vulnerability. I chew the inside of my cheek as I fumble for the right words. On the one hand, what she managed to pull together in a few hours is almost impossible. Dark Horse for the first time, feels like a real, living thing. More than a possibility.

But my worry speaks louder. Thinking of all the people outside leaves me feeling like I’ve stepped in a fire ant pile. They’re swarming up my legs, preparing to bite. I scratch at my arm. Is this even what I want—to work in a business filled with people? I’ve known that’s what I’m creating, what I’m working toward.

But it was always a concept. An idea. Now, the all-too-real reality is right outside the doors, and I’m not sure it’s what I want.

Seeing all the people, getting a real picture of what this business will be like if it succeeds has me fearing success as much as failure.

I want to brew beer. Do I want all this?

I really didn’t think through the logistics of having the tasting room being an extension of the brewing area. It sounded like a great idea, something many breweries are doing to create that sense of authenticity, to let the patrons really get the full experience. But now, I can imagine working at the tanks while just a half-dozen feet away, patrons drink beer while music plays and stools scrape over the concrete.

My hands tremble at the idea of adjusting temperature, checking valves, and filling kegs with an audience. It’s too late to change the layout now that the drains are in place and the plumbing and electrical has been set in place for the bar area.

The room is cool, but sweat prickles at my hairline and along my spine.

“James?”

More than a sliver of vulnerability colors Winnie’s eyes now. She’s genuinely worried, and knowing her, I bet she’s more concerned about how I’m doing than about receiving some kind of praise for a job well done.

The light that radiated so clearly from her outside has dimmed.

I did that. I put out Winnie’s light.

Guilt gnaws at me like a dog with a bone. I sift through possible responses, trying to find one that’s accurate but also doesn’t broadcast all the volatile things brewing inside me. I breathe deep, thinking of Mo’s words from our ride earlier. How he lost his family, showed up in Sheet Cake, and was given a new lease on life. How he volunteers to drive old folks to this event. I know for a fact he baked no less than a dozen pies for today.

In contrast, I’m a big bunch of sour grapes. I am a claustrophobic man inside an airplane bathroom at cruising altitude. There is nowhere for me to go.

Seeing Winnie’s excitement, her vulnerability, her hope for this place, for me, makes it all worse. I may love her, but am I the kind of man she needs? Disappointing her doesn’t feel like a possibility; it feels like a sure thing. She’s betting on me, and the odds are five hundred to one.

I swallow and wrangle my lips into something like a tiny smile. “You pulled off the impossible, temp. Well done.”

My tone could use some work, but the words are true. I can say them, even if I don’t feel them.

To be very clear, I definitely do NOT feel them.

And, as Winnie’s eyes brighten and she launches herself at me, wrapping her arms around and clinging to my body for a hug I probably need but definitely don’t want, I do my best to pretend here too. The act of running my hands up and down her back is just that—an act.

I’ve read about people having skin hunger—the need for more touch when there hasn’t been enough. I’ve got the opposite problem. Mine is skin overwhelm.

And if Winnie doesn’t step away from me soon, the hot, itchy feeling clawing its way up my spine is going to end in an eruption this woman in no way deserves.

Maybe she senses it, or maybe she just needs to get back outside, but Winnie lets go. She pats my chest twice, then a few more times with an appreciative smile. If she notices me tensing, she probably thinks I’m just flexing for her. I’d prefer she think that than realize I’m an overfilled balloon about to burst.

“Stay in here as long as you need.” Winnie backs toward the door. “I’ve got things under control out there. Okay?”