Chapter 24 #2
James raises one dark brow, then does his best impression of an alligator bellow … which sounds just like his normal growl. Only a little more playful.
“How’s that?” he asks.
I grin. “You didn’t scare me off.”
“I wasn’t trying to scare you off.”
Whatever maturity I’ve earned in my twenty-eight years flees at his words.
I suddenly, desperately need to not think about James, growling NOT to scare me off.
James, in thigh-hugging sweatpants, next to me in this horribly uncomfortable couch bed.
James, who stepped in between me and Dale, who took off my shoes, massaged my feet, and drew me a bath.
“What should we watch next?” I zero all my attention in on the tiny screen. “Bloopers? Dance videos? True crime? What are you into?”
For a moment, James freezes, and I feel like I’ve unintentionally hit a nerve asking about the most mundane of things. I can see the thoughts flying behind his eyes as he tries to come up with an answer.
I lightly touch his arm. Before my fingertips get any ideas about exploring, I pull them back. “It’s okay if you don’t have one thing you’re into. Or if you’re unsure.”
He crosses his arms, his face taking on the stubborn bent of a two-year-old fighting bedtime. “I like brewing beer. And making furniture.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
It feels like we’re fighting, but I’m not sure about what. But I file this whole conversation away for later. James plucks the phone out of my hand and clicks it off before setting it down on the table out of my reach.
“No more Tiktok.”
“Okay, boss . Can I have my phone back?”
“No.”
I laugh. “I need to make you a T-shirt with your favorite word.”
“What’s my favorite word?”
I blink at him. “Really? You don’t know?” When he only shrugs, I have to laugh. “It’s no . And I swear, it accounts for at least ninety percent of your daily word count. Maybe ninety-five.”
James pauses for a beat, then, with the smallest sliver of a smile, says, “No.”
I totally lose it then, and though James doesn’t laugh, I swear, his small smile grows a tiny fraction before he turns away, hiding it from view.
“So, that’s what you do to unwind—watch mindless videos on TikTok?” he asks when I’ve finally stopped laughing and can breathe again.
“Don’t judge, old man.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re not judging? Or old?”
He glares. “Either.”
“Hm.”
“I’m not,” he insists. His brown eyes look almost golden this close. There are tiny flecks of an olive green I hadn’t noticed before. James at rest has a perpetually hard expression. But right now, his eyes are softer.
I realize I’m staring and pull myself back to the conversation. “If I’m trying to unwind, it’s Tiktok or novels.” I lift my chin. “Romance novels.”
He makes a humming sound in the back of his throat that makes the tiny hairs stand up on my arms.
“What about you? Or do you ever unwind?”
He ignores my dig. “Woodworking. Or I ride my bike.”
“Bike as in bicycle or bike as in motorcycle?”
“Motorcycle.” He gives me a look like my question is the most ridiculous thing ever.
“Don’t act like it’s a dumb question.” I toss a pillow at him, and he looks startled as it bounces off his face and onto the floor. I wonder if anyone is ever playful with James, or if they’re too scared of his gruff exterior.
“Can you see me riding a bicycle?”
And now I’m imagining James in bike shorts. Those thighs in Spandex would be lethal. LETHAL.
I know I’m probably blushing. I can feel the creep of heat moving over my skin. “I guess the leather jacket and boots should have clued me in. Your style is much more MC than Tour de France.”
James is quiet for a moment, then says, “You have an interesting style.”
“I can’t tell if that means you like it or hate it.”
“I don’t hate it.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling. “Thanks. Best compliment I’ve had all day.
” James grunts, and before he feels obligated to say something nicer, I add, “I got into the pin-up, rockabilly thing when I was thirteen. I guess you could say I zagged when everyone else zigged into fringed vests, liquid leggings, and babydoll shirts.”
“Any reason?”
I pick at the edge of the sheet, drawing it up a little higher over my lap.
“My mom loved the 40s and 50s. She didn’t dress like this, but she loved the style and music and pretty much anything from that era.
She collected vintage posters, calendars, that kind of thing.
” I pause, drawing in a slow breath and letting it out just as slowly.
“Then, she died. This felt like a way to connect with her. It also felt a little bit like my own personal armor.”
I think I’ve gone too deep, bringing up my mom, but after a moment, James says, “It suits you.”
Our eyes meet and hold. As the moment stretches to two … three … four … it’s hard not to let my gaze fall to his lips. I’ve spent way too much time today thinking about James’s mouth. It is lush and luscious and I’d like to pay the first and last months’ deposit and move in.
Complications , I remind myself, dropping my gaze.
I find myself leaning into humor, just like I did with Tank at dinner. I press a hand to my chest dramatically and channel my best Southern belle. “Why, James Graham—I do believe you paid me half a compliment.”
He grunts, and like that, he’s up and out of the bed. The thin mattress can’t handle the sudden change of weight and I faceplant into the space he left with an oof . I manage to dig my face out of the James-shaped dip in the bed just as he stops halfway into the bathroom.
I worried I offended him, but that tiny grin is back, even maybe a few millimeters bigger. Oh, the things that smile does to my heart!
With the kind of half-smile marketing teams use to sell absolutely anything at all, James says, “It was three-fourths of a compliment, temp.”