Chapter 14 #2
“Okay, then. I’m Carl. And you are …?” He tries to peer at my lanyard, but it’s turned backward. He reaches for it, which means he’s essentially reaching for my chest.
I react instinctively and am about to smack his hand when a much larger hand grasps Carl’s wrist, yanking it away. I recognize the rumbling growl before I recognize the hand.
James . I shouldn’t feel so giddy at his sudden and unexpected protective side. It’s not like I need a rescue. I’m used to handling myself. But after getting the complete cold shoulder today, I’m not going to complain about James swooping in. Especially not if it means Carl goes away.
James drops Carl’s hand. “No.”
Just no , like the guy now rubbing his wrist is a dog who tried to steal a hamburger off the counter. It takes no small effort not to beam at James. I’m pretty sure he’d disappear in a puff of smoke if I did.
“We were just talking,” Carl says. “She doesn’t need a guard dog.”
James assesses me with a brief glance, and I cannot for the life of me read the expression in his dark eyes.
“I’m sure she could handle you on her own. But that doesn’t mean she should have to. Leave.”
If I liked the way James stepped in to physically protect me, I love his verbal defense even more. I have a theory. It’s that every woman has two fantasies—one where she’s rescued by a dashing hero, and one where she doesn’t need a hero at all and rescues herself.
James just delivered both these fantasies to me on a silver platter.
The impact this has on my heart is devastating. All the anger and frustration I’ve built up dissipates and turns to dust.
James crosses his arms and looms over Carl. I try not to look wildly enamored, but I feel like I’m turning into a real-life heart-eye emoji.
Holding up both hands, Carl backs away, shooting us both narrow looks. His attention dips to James’s name tag and recognition crosses his features.
“James Graham,” he scoffs. “The failed football player who thinks he can brew beer.”
“Hey!” I lunge toward Carl, not even sure what my plan is, only that I never stand by when someone goes after one of my friends.
James gets a fistful of my shirt and yanks me back against his hard chest. As much as I’d still like to chase down Carl and make him regret his words and bad taste in cologne, I really do NOT mind being hauled up against James.
James says nothing, and I close my eyes for half a second, feeling his breath on my hair. I could stay here all day. Who needs a hotel room? I’ve got James Graham’s broad chest. It’s better than a penthouse suite.
Almost immediately, he takes a big step back. I pretend I’m not internally weeping. Instead, I watch as Carl is absorbed into a crowd of guys who all have handlebar mustaches. Every single one. I’d like to make them line up according to length, but they probably wouldn't appreciate it.
James and I are now left standing together in the crowded room, just outside the rows of vendor tables. Though there is a dull roar in the room, our little bubble of silence feels loud. And maybe a little awkward after the whole full-body contact incident.
I consider various responses and decide not thanking James is the best option. Eyeballing his black button-down shirt, worn jeans, and motorcycle boots, I say, “I’m surprised they allowed you in here without the proper uniform. No flannel, no beard, no service.”
James makes a sound that I almost think might be a chuckle. I try not to show my delight in getting any kind of reaction out of him.
“You’re not in flannel either,” he points out.
“Yeah. And I’m missing that darn Y chromosome. Still. It’s been a productive morning already.”
I watch as James’s dark eyes sweep over the room, taking in the tables and the clusters of people with plastic beer cups in hand. His eyes are wary, and I don’t miss the way his body shrinks away from the crowds.
He says nothing else, so I go on. “Though I’ve realized how much I don’t know about Dark Horse’s operations.”
When James offers up nothing, I pull out the conference schedule. “You’re hitting up the session about hops, right? Or are you going to stay here and network?”
He still says nothing. I don’t know why I expected a little more from him after he stepped in with Carl. Guess we’re back to him playing our respective roles of boss ignoring his sole employee and sole employee seething with resentment while trying to prove her usefulness.
It only makes his determination to shut me out more frustrating. I remember when I first met James months ago, I told Val and Lindy he would be trouble. I stand by that assessment.
“I’m going to Brand Awareness and Building a Social Media Presence,” I tell him.
Still nothing. My anger mounts.
“Then I’m probably headed to the one on successful customer service and atmosphere. I think that will be helpful for when we open.”
I said we on purpose, expecting James to bristle. One thing I’ve noticed for sure—James is not about the we. Dark Horse is an I kind of business. But even this doesn’t elicit a response. I guess James only cares when the Carls of the world are encroaching.
As if to prove my point, James starts to back away. “See you.”
I watch him duck out of the room just as Kyoko appears with two coffees. “Who was that hunk of man?”
“My boss.”
Recognition passes over her face. “That’s James Graham. James Graham is your boss ?”
“Unfortunately.”
“I hate to tell you, but you’re not looking at him like you think it’s unfortunate.”
“Ugh. Can we talk beer and not bosses?”
Kyoko sighs. “If you insist. But I’m putting a pin in this conversation. What session are you going to now?”
“The brand and social media one.”
“Me too! Fancy that. Let’s go.”
Kyoko hands me my coffee and we head for the doors. I spot James standing by the wall outside the exhibition area, looking at his phone. He glances up and I swear he sees me, but his gaze slides right by like I’m nothing.
And this is the same guy who just practically tore some guy’s hand off for getting near me? As I follow Kyoko toward the conference room, I tell myself I really need to stop caring.