Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
James
I really need to stop caring. No, that’s not accurate. I never started caring. This isn’t care . It’s … concern . If I saw a guy trying to put unwanted hands on Harper—or any woman, for that matter—I’d step in if needed.
Okay, and maybe the guy was going for Winnie’s lanyard, not grabbing her. But Winnie didn’t look happy about him getting handsy.
Most guys would do something—wouldn’t they? It means nothing .
Yet I can’t stop replaying the moment over and over during my morning sessions.
Some guy from some company is talking about supply chains, which apparently, I should be paying attention to.
If I thought I knew all the things that could go wrong with Dark Horse, I was wrong.
Shipping and sourcing on a bigger scale is a challenge.
My head gives a mild pulse of pain, right up top behind my hairline.
The dull headache has only worsened through the day, despite buying ibuprofen at the tiny, overpriced store in the lobby.
I swallowed them down with a warm beer sample, which was less than pleasant.
So far, the pounding just keeps growing, matching the worries I have about expanding my business and the other worries about the woman who seems to have taken up residence inside my brain.
What session is she in now? Has that guy left her alone? If he has, is someone else bothering her?
Or maybe is someone else not bothering her? My ribs feel like they’re constricting at the thought of seeing Winnie enjoying another man’s company.
I’m startled by clapping and the sound of shuffling bodies.
The session is over, and there’s a mass exodus toward the double doors at the back of the room for lunch.
People are mostly clustered in groups of three to five, many sporting T-shirts (under their flannel, of course) with their brewery logo.
As I follow the herd alone, I feel an odd pang of …
something I can’t identify or maybe just don’t want to.
The smell of Tex-Mex has my stomach rumbling.
But I can already see the line snaking out the door of one of the larger conference rooms. The noise out here becomes like a living thing, and the crush of bodies bumping into each other, bumping into me, is too much.
I move away from the big room hosting the lunch included with our conference ticket.
I’m too hungry, too surly, and too over-peopled.
Winnie’s probably in there, cozying up to strangers, making friends and taking notes in her little notebook like some sexy nerd librarian. Nerdbrarian—can that be a thing?
Absolutely not.
Forcibly shoving thoughts of Winnie out of my head, I make my way downstairs to find more chaos, more people.
You know what? Flannel isn’t so bad compared to eye-blinding leggings and child clowns.
This whole trip so far—from the way I hurt Winnie’s feelings on the drive to the smell of my room (not to mention the whole one-room issue) to the guy hitting on her—it’s all adding to the pain in my head.
Whatever help I thought it might be to have Winnie here, the real estate she takes up in my head cancels it out.
I push through the lobby doors, taking in deep lungfuls of cold air.
Better. Much better. The weight of worry eases a little now that I’m not in the midst of crowds.
Hopefully, I can find a place within walking distance to eat.
Almost directly across the street is what looks like a small pub.
Even though it’s lunchtime in the center of Austin, this side of the hotel is on a less busy street, one of many under construction, and I don’t see a single person heading in or out. Perfect.
This illusion shatters the moment I walk inside to see Winnie.
She’s seated at a long table with three guys and one other woman, all wearing the same black shirts with Straight Shooter emblazoned on them.
I pause, midstride, wondering if I can get back out the door before it swings shut behind me, before she sees me.
Too late.
Winnie’s eyes have already found me, as though I’ve got some kind of homing beacon. After a sliver of hesitation, she lifts a hand to me. “James,” she calls. “Join us?”
Maybe it’s the tiny waver in her voice, the one I’m sure no one but me hears, which has me nodding. She sounds like she expects me to say no or simply walk away. There’s that dagger in my chest again, the one telling me I’m a first-rate jerk.
I order a beer and a sandwich, all the while feeling the table watching me. I can hear them speaking in lowered voices. Winnie’s probably telling them I’m … what? How exactly will Winnie describe me to them?
Probably something like her grumpy boss who brought her to a conference only to abandon her while everyone else has a team.
I don’t need a team , I remind myself. And if I did, Winnie wouldn’t be part of it. She’s temporary.
I don’t need togetherness and matching shirts.
So, why do I feel so uncomfortable on the outside looking in?
As I reach the long table with my beer, Winnie scoots over on the bench seat, leaving me no choice but to sit next to her.
I hang my jacket on a hook next to the table and sit down.
A guy with a long ponytail is on Winnie’s other side, and I feel a stupid surge of pleasure that she scoots a little away from him as I sit down.
Of course, that means our thighs are touching.
Our shoulders brush when either of us takes a breath. This will not be distracting at all.
Because I don’t care.
“I see you also had the urge to duck and cover,” Winnie says. When she turns to smile at me, our faces are much too close together.
“Yup.”
“Great minds,” she says, clinking her beer glass against mine. I don’t clink back.
“James Graham.” My name rolls a little too easily off the tongue of the woman across from me. It’s practically a purr, and it makes my spine straighten.
I don’t like it, because I immediately recognize it for what it is. I may not have ever had the fame or notoriety my dad and brothers did, but I’m known. And too many people, this woman apparently included, seem more than happy to grab what they can get.
“Everyone, this is James.” Winnie jumps in with introductions, leaning forward on the table, forming a shield between me and the rest of the table.
I immediately forget all the names. Hopefully I can count on Winnie to carry the conversation. She does not disappoint.
“James,” Winnie says, giving me a small smile that makes something shift in my chest, “is the owner and mastermind of Dark Horse Brewery.”
The minute Winnie sits back, the woman across the table leans closer to me.
She’s punk-rock pretty with dark eyeliner, an eyebrow ring, and long platinum hair.
Her name was something aggressively strange.
Pleather, maybe? That can’t be right, but that’s the name stuck in my mind.
She sends a flirty smile my way, which I do not return.
“I’ve heard good things about you. Where’s your brewery, James?”
I tense. How did I not think of this moment? The one where I’d have to admit my brewery will be opening in a town with a name as ridiculous as Sheet Cake?
Winnie jumps in before I can speak, leaning forward again like a tiny little lineman protecting her quarterback. “He’s based right here in Austin.”
Not completely true, but not a lie either since my setup is still here in town.
Winnie shifts closer to me, giving my arm a squeeze.
She leaves her hand curled against my biceps.
I’m not sure if it’s because she senses my discomfort or because she’s staking some kind of claim.
Both seem unlikely, but I can't think of another explanation for her touch.
Either way, I don’t hate it. Even though I want to. I feel strangely grounded by her hand on me, warm even through my shirt.
“Nice,” Pleather says. “We’re in San Antonio. Not too far. Just a few minutes up the road. An easy drive.”
I can hear the suggestion in her voice, the offer implicit in her words. Winnie’s fingers tighten on my arm.
“We’re aware of Texas geography,” Winnie mutters.
Winnie is definitely staking a claim, then. Interesting.
“And you two … work together?” the woman asks, her eyes flicking to Winnie’s hand on my arm.
“Very closely,” Winnie says, and I barely keep myself from breaking into a grin. Jealousy is a look I like a little too much on her. Especially when it’s jealousy involving me . I stay quiet, happy to watch this play out.
“And what do you do?” the woman asks, taking a sip of her beer. She’s very clearly undeterred and rather seems to be taking Winnie’s actions as a challenge. I feel a little like a steak that’s been thrown between two lions, and I’m not sure how I got here.
“A little of everything,” Winnie hedges, and again I hear the uncertain note in her voice.
I think of how I told her on the way here I essentially didn’t want her around. How I ditched her after check-in, heading downstairs almost as soon as she went inside her room. How I kept her in my sights in the expo hall, just so I could stay out of her line of vision.
Not just so you could stay out of her line of vision.
Fine. If I’m being completely honest, I enjoyed observing Winnie without her knowing. Total creeper behavior, I know. But despite myself, I find her fascinating.
And attractive.
Dude. How about we ease up on the honesty, subconscious?
Yes, it’s no hardship to look at Winnie. But I found a sense of admiration growing as she approached tables, asking questions, putting people at ease, scribbling notes and cramming her bag full of promotional materials and business cards.
To be honest, she’s probably done more than I have for Dark Horse at the conference so far. I spaced out in the two sessions I attended, either thinking about Winnie or stressing out about all the things I still have to do, things I don’t know how to do.