Chapter 8 #2
I’m carrying a few bottles of my beer to hand out around the table when there’s a knock at the door. Despite a host of voices shouting to come in, no one opens the door. Balancing the beer precariously, I swing open the door, then immediately drop a bottle, which shatters on the hardwoods.
Because standing with Chevy is the last person I want to see, wearing a short dress with anchors all over it. Anchors .
“Hey, boss,” Winnie says, holding up a bottle of tequila. “Looks like you could use a drink.”
* * *
I do not let Winnie make me a drink. It’s a stupid stand to take, especially since everyone raves about her jalapeno margaritas.
Apparently, Winnie makes her own jalapeno-infused tequila.
Good for her. I stick with one of my beers, telling myself I’m not interested in her tequila.
But I can’t stop thinking about testing a batch of jalapeno beer.
We’re only a few hands in, and I’m already a lot of chips down.
I cannot get my head in the game tonight, and the reason why has blond hair and glasses and is sitting directly across from me in a ridiculous anchor dress.
I can’t explain why this dress feels like such a personal affront.
But each tiny, red anchor is like a smirking mouth, making me think about Winnie’s lips.
“Your bet, Win.” Chevy nudges her, and Winnie frowns and nudges him back, harder.
“I’m thinking,” she says.
“You can call—that’s when you match what’s been put into the pot. You can raise, which means—”
“Will you just drink your beer and be quiet? I don’t need poker mansplained to me.”
But that hasn’t stopped Chevy from giving her unsolicited advice every hand. They’ve been biting back and forth like a couple of wild dogs since they walked in, not just about poker. Is it wrong to find it highly entertaining to see Winnie so riled up? And for once, it’s not because of me.
I keep my smiles hidden behind my beer as Chevy tries to explain the betting, how much each chip is worth, and what each game is. Winnie has moved from telling him to leave her alone to elbowing him. I think she stomped on his foot under the table based on the grunt I just heard.
I’ll give Winnie this: she’s focused, as though determined to figure out the game.
It makes sense, given what I know of her.
She seems to throw herself wholeheartedly into any task she’s given, whether it be cleaning up a warehouse, catching cats (she’s up to seven now), or learning poker.
Her focus and all Chevy’s tips haven’t helped yet.
Her stack of chips is the only one smaller than mine.
“You two remind me of another set of siblings I know. Always bickering,” Chase says, rubbing his chin. From her spot on the couch, Harper snorts.
Collin presses a hand to his chest. “Who could you possibly mean?”
This earns a laugh from Winnie. Collin grins at her, making me set my bottle down a little harder than I mean to on the table. Winnie’s eyes flick to me, and her smile dies immediately.
Great. Now I’m a smile murderer. Once again, Collin seems to have taken on Pat’s role in absentia as the fun brother. Which is fine so long as he doesn’t start hitting on Winnie. Because, if he hasn’t forgotten, he has a girlfriend.
“Fold.” Winnie pushes her cards to the middle. I don’t miss the reassuring smile Tank gives her before he goes all in, forcing the rest of us out and claiming all the chips in the center.
Chase groans, counting his own diminishing stack of chips. Chevy shakes his head and leans toward Winnie. “That was good luck, getting out before losing any more.”
“I don’t believe in luck,” Winnie snaps.
“How did things go with the contractor?” Collin asks. “Any update on the timeline?”
“Fine. And nope.”
Harper chimes in from the couch. “When are you going to let me help with the bookkeeping?”
I crack my neck and keep my eyes on my chips. “How about no business talk at the table?”
“When do you leave for the conference, James?” Tank asks, completely ignoring me.
It’s supposed to be Winnie’s deal, which also means shuffling and choosing the game, but she’s totally focused on me. Chevy intercepts the cards and starts shuffling for her.
“Friday. I’ll stay at the hotel rather than the house just so I don’t have to keep driving back and forth. You know, traffic. I just need to make a reservation.”
I’m dreading the Craft Brewer’s Annual Conference and Trade Show this weekend for a lot of reasons. First: people. Lots and lots of people. I’ve been around enough people this week to last me a month, so the timing is poor.
The second reason is that, despite needing to connect with other people in my industry and talk to various vendors, I don’t like the vibe at these things. It feels like a bearded boys’ club. I attended one meeting last year and haven’t felt that out of place since I was in high school.
I just want to brew the best beer I can, by myself. I don’t need beer buddies or whatever. I am up for awards in the Strong Hoppy and Chocolate & Coffee categories—something I’m proud of but trying not to think about. The chances of winning are unlikely.
My plan: get in, connect with some vendors, hit a few sessions, and get out.
“What conference?” Winnie asks, as Chevy slides the fully shuffled deck in front of her.
“It’s a beer thing,” I say. “For work.”
Winnie eyes me coolly. “When are we leaving?”
“You don’t need to be there. It’s boring industry stuff.”
“Boring industry stuff is my middle name.”
“No.”
“I could be an asset. After all, it’s my job, boss .”
No. Not happening. The only thing I can imagine making the conference worse is having Winnie next to me all weekend. But I can’t exactly extricate myself from this with so many eyes watching this conversation play out. I swear, even Harper’s dogs have woken up and are glancing my way.
Collin clears his throat, and I don’t miss the sharp glance Tank shoots my way.
I know he’s going to give me a lecture about manners later, one I probably deserve but will also ignore.
Is the tension spiking between Winnie and me THAT obvious?
When I catch Big Mo hiding a smile behind his can of soda, I have to concede that it is.
I wish Tank had kept his big mouth shut about the conference.
Chevy shoots me a look, which I know is meant to remind me of his warnings. Like I could forget.
“Can we focus on the game? Your deal, temp.”
Winnie sighs, giving me a look, which tells me this conversation isn’t over. Turning to my dad, she taps the top of the deck. “So, I get to choose the game? Any game?”
Before Tank can answer, I jump in. “Go Fish doesn’t count. Neither does Crazy Eights.”
Someone—I’m betting Collin—kicks me under the table, and Tank gives me another disapproving look. I meant my comment to be teasing, but it came out of my mouth as just plain rude.
This happens to me sometimes, where my gruffness encroaches on rudeness territory. I remember in seventh grade, I started getting notes on my report cards talking about my tone of voice problem. When I stopped talking almost at all in class, the next report card said I had a tone of face problem.
Right now, I think I have both.
Ever so slowly, Winnie raises her brows at me. “What about Uno? Old Maid? Those okay with you?”
I lean back, crossing my arms over my chest. No need to dignify this with a verbal response. Big Mo coughs, I’m pretty sure to cover his laughter.
“What’ll it be, Winnie?” Tank asks.
Though most of us prefer the classic Texas hold ’em, it’s the choice of the person dealing.
Every so often someone—usually Pat—chooses some stupid game like Love Your Neighbor which lasts forever, involves multiple rounds of betting, and passing cards around the table to other players.
So far tonight, we’ve played hold ‘em and one round of five-card stud.
“Just pick something simple,” Chevy suggests.
Look—I like Chevy. But despite my own comment that came out ruder than I expect, I very much dislike how he’s speaking to Winnie.
It’s patronizing and demeaning, even if she doesn’t know poker.
If he weren’t her brother, we’d be having words.
If he were my brother, one of us would have already dragged him outside by the collar.
Winnie practically growls. “I swear—if you say one more thing to me, we’re going to take this outside.”
Collin whistles low.
“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Big Mo says. “Think you could take her now, Chevy? Because my money’s on Winnie.”
“Same,” Harper calls from the couch. I cover my smile with my hand.
“Thank you for those votes of confidence, but I think my brother is sorry. Aren’t you?” Winnie definitely kicks him under the table now.
“I’m just trying to help,” Chevy says, wincing. “Stop kicking me.”
“When did I ask you for help?”
“I just thought—”
“Keep thinking on your own game.”
Chevy winces. “Jeez, sorry for trying to help.”
She kicks him again. “That’s not a real apology.”
“Ow! Fine. I thought it would be nice since you’ve never played.”
Winnie sighs, pushing her glasses on top of her head to rub her eyes, something she’s done more than once tonight.
She puts the glasses back in place and glances around the table, looking at each of us in turn.
When her gaze collides with mine, her blue irises sear like a cattle brand on some invisible part of me.
Her focus moves on just as quickly from me as she does with everyone else at the table, and I try to tell myself I’m not bothered I didn’t get an extra few seconds of her stare.
The look she gives Chevy is harder and makes him squirm in his seat. I respect the way she doesn’t back down. It’s actually pretty hot. Which is not good.
“Could we get back to the game?” I ask.
Winnie heaves a sigh and begins to shuffle the cards.
“I already shuffle …d.” Chevy’s words drop from his lips as his mouth hangs open.
Winnie’s fingers fly over the deck as she expertly shuffles the cards.
The room is suddenly silent, and all eyes are on her hands.
Jaws have dropped around the table, and Chevy’s is the lowest of all.
She’s not doing a standard shuffle, but something I’ve never seen before.
It’s the kind of thing reserved for Vegas dealers or movies about poker.
The snap and shh of the cards and the deft movements of her hands are hypnotizing. Why is this so sexy? It shouldn’t be, but her strong yet delicate hands are fascinating to watch. Beautiful. Once again, Winchester Boyd has managed to shock me.
She clears her throat. “Omaha, high low. Low hole wild,” she says, naming a game I’m only nominally familiar with, and begins to deal.
The cards fly over the table, each landing exactly where they should. Omaha isn’t that uncommon of a game, but her specificity tells me two things that track with her ability to shuffle: Winnie is no poker novice, and I have even more reason to stay away from her.
When the cards have all been dealt, Winnie turns to her brother, putting her arm around the back of Chevy’s chair and leaning close.
“I never said I hadn’t played poker before,” she says.
“When did you learn?”
She shrugs, turning back to her cards, point made. “College.”
Tank and Big Mo both begin to laugh, deep booming sounds that echo off the hardwoods.
Harper has her face buried in her book, but I can see her shoulders shaking.
Chase grins, and Collin looks at Winnie like she’s the most beautiful creature he’s ever seen.
He’s not wrong. But I want to smack the look off his face anyway.
“Nice,” Collin says, slapping a hand on the table. “Now things are getting interesting.”
He flashes a smile at Winnie, and when she smiles back, jealousy snakes its way up my throat. She winks at Collin, and I’m ready to knock out his teeth.
Chevy’s eyes are still huge, and he sputters. “Were you trying to hustle us?”
Chase, ever the peacemaker, looks about ready to separate these two, but Winnie only rolls her eyes and pats Chevy on the back. She gestures to her small pile of chips.
“I’m doing a terrible job of hustling if that were the case. Which, to be clear, it isn’t. I’ve had crap cards all night, but I think my luck’s about to change. Can we play now?”
With a heavy sigh, Chevy hangs his head. “On behalf of every man who has ever made an incorrect assumption about a woman, I apologize.”
“A little grandiose, but I’ll take it,” Winnie says. “Tank, bet’s to you.”
With a grin, my dad tosses a few chips to the center. “I call. Not going to miss out on this hand.”
Big Mo calls, and when it comes to me, I don’t hesitate.
“Raise.” I’ve got nothing but a Jack and a great poker face.
Chase folds, and Collin and Chevy call. It’s back to Winnie, and she tilts her head for a moment, appraising me. I keep my face impassive, daring her to figure me out.
With the tiniest of smiles, Winnie narrows her eyes, then tosses in a few more chips. “James Graham, I’m calling your bluff.”
I swallow but otherwise do not move. It has to be a good guess, it HAS to, because if Winnie has learned to read me, I’m totally sunk—and I don’t mean in the game.