Chapter 12
CHAPTER TWELVE
James
I’m glad I’m wearing sunglasses in the morning so Winnie doesn’t see the way my eyes practically bug out of my head as she comes skipping down the sidewalk with a massive rolling bag, followed by a much less enthusiastic Chevy.
Winnie is wearing jeans. The sight hits me like a punch to the gut. All the air leaves my lungs in a sudden whoosh .
A woman in jeans shouldn’t be any man’s Kryptonite. It’s just denim. A boring, basic fabric. But there is something so sexy about a woman in jeans. And because of her penchant for wearing clothes time-warped from the 1950s, this is the first time I’ve seen Winnie in them.
Her look is still very much her, only a little more casual, a little edgier. Her jeans hug her legs, ending at a cuff below her knee, right at the top of her clunky black boots. The boots are not unlike mine, the biggest departure from Winnie’s usual heels, but they somehow really work.
Her top is a crisp white button-down, knotted at her waist with the sleeves rolled almost to her elbows. A bright turquoise tank top peeks through underneath. Her glasses are in place and her hair is in her signature high ponytail, a turquoise bandana knotted around it.
I never notice details like this about clothes . And yet here I am, still cataloging Winnie’s outfit when she throws open the passenger door.
“Hi, boss. Where should I put my bags?”
My tongue seems unable to detach from the roof of my mouth, so I hitch a thumb over my shoulder, indicating the back seat.
What was I thinking, inviting her to the conference?
Part of it felt like a goodwill offering after firing her. I could tell Winnie wanted to go to the conference, and it seemed like a good way to get her some information on the industry without me having to hold her hand. Those are the main reasons I allowed myself to think about.
But there’s more to it, more than I want to admit, even to myself.
As she disappears to throw her bags in the back, Chevy leans into the cab, eyeing me like every thought of his sister is on display. “Do we need to have another talk?”
Winnie bodily yanks him away from the truck. Not for the first time, I’m impressed with how much force she can command for her petite frame.
“You,” she says, jabbing a finger into her brother’s chest, “should never have had any kind of talk with him .”
She points my way when she says him , and it’s like she’s talking about a disease. I choose not to be offended.
“There is nothing the two of you need to discuss when it comes to me. Do you understand? Nothing.”
She swings her head to look at me. “James, are you interested in me?”
What a question for this early in the morning. Answering it feels like jumping rope through a minefield, but there’s only one right thing to say, given the context. Mutely, I shake my head no.
Winnie turns back to Chevy. “See? And I’m not interested in him. Got it? No talks. Go arrest someone or something.”
Hearing Winnie say she isn’t interested leaves me feeling scraped out and hollow instead of relieved. I remind myself that I’m not interested in Winnie. There is attraction, yes. A grudging admiration. But she burrows under my skin like a tick, and that’s not the quality I’m looking for in a woman.
You’re also not looking for a woman, remember?
Chevy crosses his arms. “I wanted to do it. Dad would have.”
Winnie freezes up at this, her whole body snapping tight. I know in our family, throwing Mom into any conversation is bringing in the big guns. Apparently, it’s the same for Winnie and Chevy.
When the silence becomes too heavy, too painful, I locate my tongue and force it to work.
“We should go. Austin traffic is always horrible.”
Winnie practically tosses herself at Chevy in a full-contact embrace.
He stumbles back a step, barely able to extricate his arms from between them so he can hug her back.
When he does, her feet lift off the ground so they’re just standing there, holding each other.
The toes of Winnie’s boots drag in the dirt.
“I’d rather it be you than him ,” she says, and the distaste she uses referencing her dad has me confused.
What’s that about? Did she and her dad have a bad relationship?
I file my questions away under Do Not Ask, Because You Do Not Care.
“Why would you—” Chevy starts, but Winnie shakes her head and wiggles out of his arms.
“Take care of yourself, big brother.” She pats his cheek with enough force that it’s almost a soft slap. “And now that you’ve gotten the talk out of your system, never do it again.”
Winnie hops up into the truck and slams the door in a single motion. Almost immediately, she kicks off her boots, peels off her socks, and tucks her legs up in the seat. Her toenails are painted a bright pink.
I pull away from the curb, ignoring the way Chevy still stands there, eyeballing me even though Winnie essentially just told him to stop doing this. That’s the thing about big brothers. We’ll never stop being overprotective.
Having Winnie in my truck makes it feel as unfamiliar as a rental car. Her scent makes me want to stop by the diner and get a piece of pie. Or press my lips to the crook of her neck to see if she tastes as good as she smells.
NOPE. No, I do NOT want to do that.
I crack my window, but it doesn’t help. And even though I’ve got my eyes firmly fixed on the road before me, I’m aware of every move Winnie makes. I’m like a workhorse in need of a good pair of blinders.
She fishes out a notebook and a pen from her purse. She uncaps it with her teeth and opens the notebook to a blank page and writes the date at the top. Her pen raps out a staccato rhythm that matches my heart, which has picked up speed.
Is she … going to take notes on our road trip? I shift in my seat. The very comfortable, worn-in jeans I chose for the trip suddenly feel a size too small.
“I know we’re on a schedule, but do we possibly have time to stop for coffee?” she asks.
“You seem fairly well-caffeinated.”
“I’ve been up all night, so I’m kind of wired. But I didn’t get coffee before I left.”
“Everything okay?”
“Just couldn’t sleep.”
She doesn’t say she was too excited, but she doesn’t have to.
I could see it in the way she skipped down the sidewalk, and I can see it now in the way she’s smiling slightly, twitching in her seat.
But I can also see signs of her exhaustion under the excitement.
The dark circles under her eyes are slightly hidden behind her glasses, but definitely there.
Her shoulders have started to slump, and while I’m trying to keep my eyes on the road, she yawns.
I hesitate, then gesture to the second stainless steel mug in the console. “For you.”
Her response is dead silence. For two whole minutes—I check the clock—Winnie says nothing and does not move. Even the pen stops tapping on the paper.
“You brought me coffee,” she says finally. A statement, not a question.
I wish I hadn’t.
This morning, I was making a pot, so I thought why not double it? Why not offer an olive branch to hopefully maintain the peace?
The thing is, Winnie is acting like this mug of coffee is some amazing gift, like I showed up with a herd of giraffes or something.
Hesitantly, slowly, methodically, Winnie reaches out for the travel mug.
“It’s just coffee.”
She takes off the lid, looking inside. A flush rises in my chest. Because I didn’t just make extra coffee, which was bad enough.
“You used heavy whipping cream.” She sounds shocked. “Do you even have heavy whipping cream?”
I’m not about to admit I stopped at a convenience store, bought a carton just to add a big splash to her mug, then threw the rest away. I raise my eyebrows and glance over. “How do you know it’s cream?”
“The color is different from just milk. I can tell. Wow. Thank you. This is surprisingly thoughtful.”
“Surprisingly? You don’t think I can be thoughtful?”
Winnie glances over. “I guess it’s not that. It’s surprising you’d do something thoughtful for me .”
Now, that just makes me feel bad. But also, I don’t want Winnie reading into the gesture. There’s nothing to read.
“You’re a valued employee.”
“I’m your only employee.”
“Exactly.”
Winnie takes a long sip of coffee, then puts it back in the cup holder and picks up her pen. “You said you wanted to discuss tweaks to the website.”
“Right.”
“But before that, I wanted to ask some questions about the conference. Like, what sessions are we going to attend?”
“You can look.” I nod to the console between us, where I’ve printed up the schedule, marking the sessions I plan to attend. I feel strangely self-conscious as Winnie glances through my choices.
“Looks like you’re sticking closely to the brewing track. Don’t you already know a lot of this stuff? Wouldn’t it make sense for you to alternate with some of the business sessions or the ones focused on running a brewpub and taproom?”
Winnie has a point. But I can’t muster up any interest for sessions about things like brand-building, community outreach, or taxes and legal issues. “You’re welcome to attend whatever sessions you want.”
“Thanks, boss,” she says, sarcasm layered heavily.
But she pulls out her own program and a highlighter, glancing from mine to hers as she highlights sessions.
“We can divide and conquer. I’ll take one for the team and hit up some of the boring business things and then the social media and promotion. I actually enjoy that.”
Winnie’s talking more to herself than me. Or, at least, she starts that way. Then she turns in her seat, facing me as she lobs way too many questions at me, rapid-fire style.
“What are your goals for this weekend? What do you want to walk away with? Are there any particular vendors you want to check out at the exhibition hall? Other breweries or people you want to connect with? Are you going to any of the networking events?”