Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Winnie
When Tank invited me to poker night, he warned me the guys could be pretty intense. He undersold it about as much as I downplayed my knowledge of the game. James by himself has the intensity of a front-row seat to the sun.
I totally love his intensity, for the record.
I especially loved the moment they all realized I already knew how to play poker. Considering what Chevy pulled with James this week, it was especially satisfying to shock my irritatingly overstepping brother.
We’re taking a quick bathroom and drink break, and I wander into the kitchen. I open the fridge to find rows of unmarked bottles. I’d bet anything this is James’s special stash. I still have yet to taste his beer, and I’m feeling a little surly about it.
“Do you prefer hoppy IPAs? Or more of a stout?” Collin is suddenly beside me, peering into the fridge with his face so close to mine it makes my stomach do a quick twist.
I glance at Collin, then quickly away. There’s nowhere for me to go because I’m trapped between the refrigerator door and Collin’s body.
He’s not as big as James, but the Graham men are all supersized.
They definitely won the gene pool lottery.
All of them are attractive, more than anyone has the right to be.
Other than James, they’re all very nice.
Definitely down-to-earth for being a fairly famous family.
I’m secretly hoping Harper might want to be my friend, but she is exceptionally intimidating.
“I don’t know beer as well as I should,” I admit. “I’m more a fan of the hard stuff.”
Again, downplaying. No need to tell him I’m a certified mixologist. It’s not like I’m going to do anything with it, other than play around with recipes and make drinks for my friends.
“I loved your spicy margaritas,” Collin says. “My lips are still burning.”
“Then I’ve done my job.”
Collin plucks two beers from the shelf, and we both stand.
I move back a bit now that the fridge is shut.
He pops them open and hands me one. The smile he flashes me is disarming, and if I weren't already struggling to tame my love/hate thing with one Graham brother, Collin would have me in a puddle on the floor.
The heat of his smile practically blows back my hair like opening a hot oven door.
I smooth down my dress. It’s my lucky poker dress, a flouncy black one with a sweetheart neckline and anchors. In front of Collin, it suddenly feels too short.
“This is Last Draft Pick.” Collin rolls his eyes. “James has the worst names, but he won’t listen to any of us about it.”
I file that tidbit away for later. I don’t know what’s normal for naming beers and need to do some research to see what other craft breweries are using for names. One more thing to research. I have an ever-growing list.
“It’s a milk stout,” Collin says.
Beer and milk sounds like a disgusting combo, though from what I’ve learned so far from YouTube, milk stout is popular.
From the first sip, I totally get it. “Wow.” It’s rich, and though it has the slightly bitter beer taste I’ve never quite acclimated to, it’s creamy with layered flavors. I’m trying to pick them out, but it’s not easy. “Do I taste … cinnamon?”
“Cardamom.” James’s voice is so close I feel his breath ghosting over my neck. What is it with these brothers being giants but having the ability to sneak up like ninjas? They all need collars with bells.
I jump—who wouldn’t?—and his hand closes around mine, keeping me from dropping my beer.
“Sorry,” James says, his apology sounding less apologetic than any apology I’ve ever heard.
Then he smiles, and if I thought Collin’s smile was a lot, this is like the difference between firing a water gun and dropping an atomic bomb.
It annihilates every single cell in my body, an explosive flash leaving only rubble behind.
This is the last thing I need. My feelings are already confusing enough when he’s being a jerk. I don’t need him suddenly handing out smiles.
Plus, I would bet anything he’s only doing so because of Collin. It’s simple sibling rivalry, nothing more.
“I think I’ve broken enough bottles for one night,” James says. I’d forgotten about the one he dropped when I arrived. I couldn’t decide if it was a good or bad omen.
“You two seem to have that effect on each other,” Collin says drily.
“Why didn’t you invite your girlfriend tonight, Collin?” James asks, without looking at his brother.
It’s clear what James really means is, why are you flirting with Winnie if you have a girlfriend, Collin?
But when Collin winks at me, I think I get it. Oh, he’s bad. So, so bad. He’s just been trying to get James to act exactly like he is right now—jealous and territorial. Chevy and I have our sibling moments, but the Grahams are like watching the sibling rivalry Olympics.
James doesn’t seem to have figured this out, and is standing much, much too close to me, his hand still covering mine. Collin tips his beer to me as he begins to back away. “Enjoy.”
James’s hand on mine feels far more intimate, probably because it’s so unnecessary. The small gesture seems obscene and feels even more so. Not one time has another man’s touch impacted me this way. And that is a terrifying prospect.
But my physical reactions are just that. I even got a flutter from Collin showing me attention. Except there is no comparison between how I felt when Collin smiled at me and how I feel now with James’s hand curled around mine.
I jerk away from him, thankful I don’t spill a drop of this beer, which might be my new favorite thing.
I focus on breathing and put on a mask of calm. “Cardamom? How’d you get that flavor profile?”
“Reminds me of Christmas. And the richness that comes from a bowl of pho.” James makes a face. “The broth. Not the beef part.”
Huh. I never questioned or even wondered what’s in pho—just that it’s delicious. Christmas and pho … like the idea of milk and beer, it sounds weird, but somehow it totally works. I wonder if James is some kind of genius, or if this is what all craft brewers are like.
If you go to the conference, you can find out.
For reasons I can’t—or don’t want to—fully explain, I desperately want to go to the conference Tank mentioned.
I NEED to go. What’s more, I think James needs me to go.
Not that he realizes it or would admit it if he did.
When the contractor started asking questions, James got this glazed look. Total donut of the face.
But when I jumped in, playing go-between, it seemed to ease James into it.
He seems adamant about doing all this himself, when it’s obvious to me his passion is in brewing and flavor profiles.
I’d love to help with the things he doesn’t want to do—aside from catching cats—if I could just get him to see how useful I am.
Knowing James doesn’t want me to go to the conference only makes it more appealing. The memory of how he brushed me off earlier activates my snark.
“Did you, like, go to beer university?”
I’m aware there’s no such thing. I might have googled it.
I wish I could bottle up the look James is giving me and package it for commercial sale. It would make a really great replacement for KEEP OUT and NO TRESPASSING signs. Just this look, nothing more, would be enough.
“No,” he says, and it’s like the word has an extra weight to it. “Did you go to liquor university to learn how to make jalapeno margaritas?”
“I’m a certified mixologist.”
That shuts him up. Actually, it looks like it shut him down.
“But I learned the trick with the jalapeno infusion at a bar. They had a great drink, I asked how they made it, and the bartender talked to me about infusing. You can do it with a lot of different things. Fruit, black pepper. I tried garlic vodka once. It was as bad as it sounds.”
“Garlic vodka?” James sounds intrigued rather than disgusted.
“Trust me—don’t do it.” I draw in a breath, realizing this might be the longest conversation outside of texting we’ve had. I wish I could access the text James, who seems slightly looser and more willing to engage. But so far, text James seems to exist only on the phone.
“So, how’d you get into making beer?” I smile. “If not at beer university.”
Before he can answer, Tank calls out, “Five-minute warning!”
In the time I looked at Tank, James drifted away like a ghost. So much for pleasant conversation. We can just pretend I didn’t try to engage James Graham in small talk.
Not that it was small—honestly, getting James to say more than single-syllable words feels huge—but I don’t know him any better than I did before.
I know so little about James, even things I feel like I should know.
I guess there’s Google, but it probably has more information than I could possibly want to know.
And maybe things I don’t want to know, like about past relationships.
I remember how hard it was for Lindy after she and Pat broke up to see photos online of him with other women.
James probably has a pretty low profile, since he didn’t get to play pro.
But I don’t want to see a photo of James with another woman.
Let’s not discuss WHY the idea makes me stabby, because I’m pretending it doesn’t.
This realization does not bode well as far as my mental well-being when it comes to the brooding hulk of a man I work for.
As I head to the bathroom, I try to remind myself of reasons I don’t like James.
He’s rude. Seems to have even lower expectations of me than most people.
Wears a dark cloud of negativity like a backpack wherever he goes.
Is too hot for his own good. The shining crown on top is that James does not like me.
I’m not the kind of woman to chase after an uninterested man.
For friendship or anything else. Though James did get possessive a few minutes ago when Collin baited him.
I didn’t imagine that. Or the way he held onto my hand much longer than he needed to if his goal was to keep me from dropping the bottle.
Whatever. He’s your boss. And you don’t need a man. Especially not so quickly after getting out of a spectacularly stupid relationship. You obviously are terrible at making decisions with regard to men.
I wish all of my logic was enough to keep me from peeking into the shower and lifting the bodywash up to my nose. I assume since this is the guest bathroom it belongs to James, but when I smell it, I’m certain.
There are educational programs in schools across the country warning about the dangers of drugs. But there should absolutely be a similar program about the dangers of men’s body products. Aftershave, bodywash, cologne—all of them need warning labels. Maybe prescriptions or age restrictions.
May cause infatuation, wild bouts of lust, obsession, or addiction. Please use responsibly.
I set the bottle back down and catch a glimpse of my dilated pupils in the mirror.
“Gross,” I whisper, pointing an accusing finger at my reflection. “You are not this person.”
But I am this person—the one with a very stupid, illogical, and inconvenient crush on her very obstinate, uninterested, irritating boss.
I open the bathroom door and nearly run straight into Tank. For a second, I thought it was James. Their builds are so similar and other than the light gray at Tank’s temples and the smile lines—well, and the fact he’s smiling—he could almost be James’s older brother.
“Sorry,” I say, trying to step around him.
But Tank blocks me, shooting a furtive glance back toward the open living area where I can hear laughter, conversation, and the distinct clink of chips. “I wanted to ask you for a favor.”
“Anything.” My answer is automatic, an instinctive response to the power and charisma Tank exudes.
I absolutely understand why he had gigs lined up on ESPN and other places after his time on the field ended.
But I definitely didn’t mean to say yes so quickly.
Especially because I’m pretty sure this favor will have to do with his broody son.
His voice lowers. “Go with James to the conference. Make the reservations for the hotel. I’ll happily cover it if I need to. I’ll give you my credit card number.”
This is one of those moments that feels too good to be true. Like a stranger appears, granting the secret wish you never spoke out loud.
“I can do that.”
I'm not about to argue about the payment. I know Tank and the other brothers are investors, so this is a business thing. Plus, my finances are like a pair of too-small jeans right now.
Tank nods and seems ready to slip back to the poker table, but I stop him with a word.
“Why?”
Again, he glances out to the big room, I’m sure nervous James will hear this conversation. I don’t need to be told he wouldn’t like it.
Tank sighs. “I have some concerns. James is brilliant at brewing. But there are so many parts to what he’s trying to do. More than what one person can achieve. And he won't accept help.”
“Imagine that.”
Tank chuckles. “He needs someone who can be a sounding board, who can help with the details he won’t admit are not his forte. Someone he trusts.”
“He definitely does not trust me.”
“That will change.” Tank seems sure, but that doesn’t mean he’s right.
“He’d hate that you asked me,” I say.
Tank spins the gold band on his finger. His wedding band. The sight makes my heart shudder, a tiny movement I feel all the way to my toes.
“You already seem to understand him in ways most people don’t,” Tank says, and this statement gives me a little thrill of pleasure, like a gold star next to a teacher’s red-scrawled Excellent Work!
at the top of a paper. “If I didn’t absolutely think he needs this, I wouldn’t put you in this position.
If you can’t go because it’s too last minute, I understand. ”
“Oh, I was planning to go.”
When Tank smiles, a tiny, joyful explosion goes off inside me.
“I think you’re going to be good for him, Winnie.”
That remains to be seen. At the very least, I’m shaking the man like he’s a can of soda, just waiting to pop the lid and watch the spray.