Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
James
If I thought I was miserable the first day of the conference, today is worse.
Much, much worse. I’m not sure if it’s the fact I’m dealing with the aftershocks of kissing Winnie or the fact that I’m walking around smelling like her bodywash.
Probably a combination of both. Add in the lack of sleep and I’m on edge.
Her body wash, for the record, is called Caramel Perfection. The scent of it is driving me mad. Every time I turn my head, it’s like Winnie is right there with me. Except she isn’t right there. She isn’t anywhere.
Not in our room, not in the exhibition hall, not in any of the sessions—and yes, I walked into every room during the middle of presentations—and not in the hotel bar.
I even checked across the street at the little place where we ate lunch.
No sharp-tongued blond looking like a pin-up dream. She is a ghost.
Yesterday, I managed to deal with the crowds, the noise, and the overwhelm by focusing on her.
Just seeing a flash of her blond hair across the room, a sliver of her smile, the nervous way she pushes up her glasses.
It amused me more than I care to admit watching her take notes in a little notebook.
Even though Winnie didn’t know I was watching, she anchored me.
Seeing her calmed the buzz in my head always caused by crowded events.
So, after today, the last place I want to be right now is waiting outside the big room for the award show. But when Winnie mentioned Daniel, I didn’t have a choice. I almost crushed the phone to dust in my hand when I read her text.
Someone bumps me, and I snarl. I feel like a train barreling its way off the track at full speed. The voices in the hall build to a fever pitch, and I’m rubbing my head when a singular voice cuts through it all, the only voice I care about hearing.
“There you are!”
Winnie . Her hand lands on my arm and all the air whooshes out of me.
She smiles up at me, causing all my muscles to loosen up and relax.
Except the big meaty one in the center of my chest, which is beating double-time.
My right hand slides into my pocket, touching the seed.
It’s become like a weird talisman, though I’m not sure if it’s bringing me good or bad fortune.
A guy wearing sunglasses passes much too close to Winnie, and it’s all I can do not to drag her out of here. To somewhere quiet and private. Another elevator. Or a closet. Or our shared room, which we need to discuss before tonight.
“Hey.” I rub my eyes, suddenly feeling every bit of the exhaustion that’s been clinging to me.
Winnie studies me. “Did you get a nap today?”
I frown. “I’m not a toddler.”
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling. “Adults take naps too, James. It’s a whole thing. You should try it sometime. Maybe it would help with this disposition.”
She pokes at my frown, and I push her hand away before I can act on the impulse to kiss her fingertip.
The urge startles me. Have I ever wanted to kiss a woman’s finger?
Not that I can recall. But when I look at Winnie, there’s a whole laundry list of places I’d like to press my lips.
There’s the inside of her wrist and each corner of her eyebrows.
The tip of her nose. The freckle I’ve just now noticed on her forearm.
And, of course, her lips. Especially now that I know how they feel under mine and how she tastes.
“Come on, boss. Let’s get seats.”
Winnie begins dragging me and I let her, though the last place I want to go right now is this awards show. Winnie hasn’t mentioned it, so I’m guessing she doesn’t know I’m a finalist in two categories. She’s definitely the type to say—or do —something with that kind of information.
We’re in the middle of a crush of people, and I lean even closer to Winnie, letting our shoulders brush. I’m not sure if it’s more for her protection against the crowd or mine.
The feel of soft fabric against my forearm grabs my attention, and I realize that she’s changed clothes since I saw her this morning. “You’re wearing flannel?”
Winnie stretches out one arm, examining the soft red and black plaid shirt. It’s too big on her—the sleeves are rolled up and the shirt is knotted at the waist, a black tee barely showing underneath.
She tugs at the collar. “I know, right? It’s growing on me. Must be something in the water. Or in the beer. Over there—Kyoko saved us seats. I’ll introduce you. She’s brilliant.”
Winnie directs us to a row near the center of the room.
I’d prefer the back, but at least I get the aisle seat.
I can easily escape if needed. Winnie introduces me to her friend, and I do my best to be polite, though I’m honestly running on fumes and done with small talk and, most especially, people who aren’t Winnie.
“Nice job last night with Daniel,” Kyoko says.
I shrug. “It happens.”
Kyoko laughs and hands Winnie two coffees. Winnie tries to press one of them into my hands. “For you,” she says. “To get some pep back in that step, boss.”
I bite back a retort about not being a peppy kind of guy and instead take the proffered coffee. I admit, after a few sips, it helps. Marginally, anyway. The emcee is just beginning when I lean close to Winnie.
“Thank you.”
Her eyes glint up at me as the lights dim a little. “It’s nothing.”
It doesn’t feel like nothing, but I don’t argue with her as the emcee announces the first category. I submitted beer in five categories and was picked as a finalist in two. Though the taste tests were done blind, I can’t help but think my reputation will factor in somehow.
No one in this room thinks I deserve to be here. To them, I’m just a dumb jock clinging to his family’s fame. That’s what more than one article has written about me. A few others gave Dark Horse a positive spin, but the bad reviews always hit harder and stick longer.
I try to quell the stupid hope in my chest as my first category approaches.
Maybe I care more than I wanted to admit about the validation this award would provide.
It also doesn’t escape my notice how no one goes up to accept awards alone.
Even the smaller breweries have three to five people going up to the stage, most wearing T-shirts with matching logos. A team.
Which you’ve been saying all along you don’t want and you don’t need.
What’s more, every time a winner is announced, other groups stand up to offer the winners bro-y back slaps and hugs. I’ve only spoken to a handful of people at the conference, one of whom I threw in a pool last night. I shift in my seat, which suddenly feels too small.
When the Chocolate & Coffee category is up, Winnie leans forward slightly, wrapping her hand around my arm. It’s obvious she found out somehow. I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s too smart for her own good.
They announce the bronze and silver winners. Not me.
That’s it, then. I relax slightly in my seat. If I didn’t win those—
“James,” Winnie hisses.
I grunt, and she says my name again, louder, punctuated with a little shove. “Get up there! You won!”
“What?”
Realization dawns slowly. Too slowly. The room is poised, waiting. Winnie’s eyes urge me to the front, and I see the name Dark Horse projected on the screen. I won.
I won?
I stumble a little as I get to my feet. Winnie whoops, and I debate about whether I should grab her hand and drag her with me, but she gives me a shove and says, “Go on!”
I glance back once more as I leave the row, just as she and Kyoko hop up on their chairs, clapping and cheering. Some guy down the row tells them to sit down, and I hear Winnie snap, “Cram it, you hipster wannabe lumberjack.”
I make what feels like an endless walk to the front with a huge grin on my face, ignoring the people who are clapping politely, maybe even somewhat begrudgingly.
I can’t bring myself to care. Because I WON.
I manage to climb the steps to the stage without tripping over my boots. One of the emcees gives me a genuine smile as he hands me a small gold medallion on a strip of leather. They’re meant to be worn like a bolo, but I simply hold it in my palm, loving the weight of it.
Honestly, after letting go of my football dreams, I never thought I’d have something like this again, this feeling of pride. Of winning. Of doing something significant on this scale. Maybe few people outside this room would care.
But I do. No matter what I tried to tell myself beforehand—I DO care about this win.
“Congratulations,” he says, ushering me on even as they begin to announce the next category.
I almost walk right by the photo op at the end of the stage, a big backdrop with all the sponsors’ logos and the conference name up top.
“Smile,” the photographer orders.
“No.” But I do pause, holding up the award.
It’s then I hear familiar voices cheering and shouting, making entirely too much noise. There’s a whole row in back standing on chairs, clapping wildly and making an inappropriate amount of noise. I do a double take when I realize who they are.
It’s my family: Tank, Collin, Harper, and Chase. I squint as I come down the stairs. They’re all wearing matching black shirts with the Dark Horse logo Winnie designed for the site mock-up. The real logo. Not the unicorns.
My chest tightens as I walk down the steps. I don’t need anyone to tell me Winnie is responsible. She did this. She got my family here. She made T-shirts. I realize when I catch her eye that she’s ditched the flannel, and she’s wearing one of the Dark Horse shirts too.
How? How did she do this so fast? And when?
The bigger question I don’t want to consider is why . I don’t deserve this. Not after the way I’ve treated her. The clipped responses. Firing her. Ditching her at the conference. I definitely don’t deserve this after the way I responded to the kiss.
And I absolutely should have dragged her up there on the stage with me. The regret is as instant as my resolve to do better. To be better.
I am intensely focused as I make my way back to her. Determined.
Try , Tank said. Risk .
My gaze captures hers, and I don’t let go. I’m lucky not to trip over anything. But I suspect any and all things would have moved out of my way, not daring to get between me and Winnie.
When I reach her, I do not hesitate or second-guess.
I don’t worry about being the caveman my family accuses me of being.
I simply grab Winnie around the waist and lift her straight off the chair she’s standing on.
She squeals, then laughs. I lower her down so we’re face-to-face, but her feet still don’t touch the ground.
Like it’s the most natural thing in the world, her hands wrap around my neck.
“I don’t deserve you,” I mutter.
“Few men do,” she says lightly. “Now put me down, you Neanderthal.”
“No.”
“Sit down,” some guy mutters from behind us, and I send him a look that makes him cower.
“Come on, boss,” Winnie says, patting me twice on the shoulder like this is a cage match and she’s tapping out. “Let me go.”
“Not a chance.”
Instead, giving my amused family members a nod, knowing they’ll follow, I march Winnie up the aisle and right out of the room, ignoring everything but the weight of her in my arms.