Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Winnie
I glare at James and, when that doesn’t seem to have any effect, I cross my arms and glare. I use all the strength my eyeball muscles can muster to show him just how serious I am. “I’m not getting on that thing.”
The thing in question being James’s motorcycle, which he apparently swapped for his car the other night after the elevator kiss. I was all for going to have brunch with his family this morning … until I learned how we’d be getting there.
James pinches the bridge of his nose, and I want to grin. I’m really serious about not wanting to ride on a motorcycle, but is it bad I also enjoy frustrating him? Especially when I know he’s not JUST frustrated.
I’ve started to categorize James’s levels of grump.
There’s the true grump, when he’s legitimately mad or unhappy or stressed.
He has an amused grumpy, where he finds something funny, but doesn’t want to show it.
Medium grumpy is kind of his comfortable resting state.
A close cousin to amused grumpy, is the acting-grumpy-so-he-won’t-appear-happy, which is exactly what it sounds like.
I’m not sure why he can’t just BE happy, but whatever.
Right now, he’s the irritated-masking-slight-amusement grumpy.
“Get on the bike, temp.”
“No.”
It’s a matter of safety. More accurately, it’s about my self-preservation.
All morning, James has been sweet . In the grumpiest way possible, of course, but shockingly thoughtful and attentive.
From waking me up by running gentle fingers through my hair to supplying me with coffee as soon as my eyes blinked open, he’s been taking care of me.
All this after rescuing me from my nightmare, holding me close, and listening to me spill my dark secrets.
And let’s not forget the spooning and the kissing. There was also that.
Now he’s trying to get me on a motorcycle, all pressed up close with my arms wrapped around him? I don’t think so. Not happening. I don’t care what the books say. That’s the way babies are made.
“Why not?” James finally asks, each syllable punctuated slowly, carefully, as though I’m trying his patience.
“You only have one helmet. That’s why not.” A valid reason, even if it’s not the real or only one.
James holds out the shiny black motorcycle helmet to me. “You can wear it.”
“And then you won’t have a helmet.”
“There’s no helmet law in Texas. It’s fine.”
“And that’s one stupid decision on Texas’s part. Your skull is not getting cracked open like an egg on my watch.”
“It’s only a few miles. I’m safe.”
Maybe he is a safe driver. Rider? Biker? Motorcyclist? I don’t even know the correct term here. But James Graham is anything but safe.
He already owns the majority shares of my heart’s stock and is angling for a hostile takeover.
Maybe not THAT hostile. But I’m doing my best not to completely fall for this man who fired me once, ignored me at the conference, and then ran off after we kissed.
He’s made me all unsteady, and I don’t like unsteady.
I cross my arms. “I don’t trust the other drivers.”
A true statement. But I also don’t trust myself.
I don’t know why, but climbing on the back of this motorcycle with James feels like a point of no return.
Like once I’ve wrapped myself around him during daylight hours and let this sexy man steer us through Austin traffic, it’s all over. I’ll be his forever, no take-backs.
“Let me worry about the other drivers,” he says.
“How about you ride home, get your truck, and then come back to pick me up later in that. I’ll just wait in the lobby. You have to come back with the truck anyway for our bags. No problem.”
“Fine.” James sighs and turns away. I immediately regret saying no.
He climbs on the bike in a move that deserves at least a PG-13 rating. I can barely drag my eyes away from his thighs and his butt in those dark jeans. He secures the helmet on the back of the bike.
“You forgot your helmet.”
“No, I didn’t.”
Stupid, stubborn, infuriating man!
He fires up the bike, and the motor’s deep purr is a sexy, sexy sound to match the sexy, sexy sight. He looks like the quintessential bad boy from the pages of one of my romance novels come to life. Only better. Because he’s here, not a fictional man.
And, unlike a fictional man, you aren’t promised a happily ever after.
But I CAN kiss him. Let’s see a fictional man do that!
James begins maneuvering out of the parking spot, backing up slowly and using his feet to balance the bike. He pauses when we’re eye to eye. I can’t read his expression, but it’s dark with a spark of something. A dare? A challenge?
I’m about ten seconds from caving in and hopping up there with him.
“Tank will be disappointed,” James says, speaking louder to be heard over the bike. “He’s making you crepes.”
I am only as strong as my weakest part, and my weakest part is most definitely crepes.
“Crepes?” My question comes out like a wheeze. I don’t usually get all fangirly about James’s family. But the famous Think Tank, whose face has graced Billboards, magazine covers, and Sports Center, is making ME crepes???
Pardon me while my head explodes.
James shrugs. “I told him you liked crepes, so he’s making them. Just for you.”
My brow furrows. “How do you even know I like crepes?”
James doesn’t answer, just blinks. It makes me want to yank out his dark eyelashes one by one. The thing is, he’d probably look just as good with bald eyelids.
“Jo told me,” he says finally. “She said you took her all the way to Austin once for crepes at some food truck.”
I blow out a breath. “What else did Jo tell you?”
James raises one brow. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Come on. Get on the bike, Winchester.”
Winchester . Why does it make me shiver when he says my full name?
I’d always been secretly proud of my daddy naming me after his favorite gun, just like he named Chevy after his favorite truck.
That is, until I found out the truth about my dad.
I’ve hated my full name ever since. But when James says it …
the name changes and feels different coming from his lips, from that low, gravelly voice.
“You could bring some crepes back when you pick me up,” I suggest.
“I could.”
But he won’t. The implication is clear.
“He even bought Nutella. And heavy whipping cream for your coffee, though I can’t promise he won’t judge you for it.”
The price of my self-preservation is not Nutella crepes! It is NOT. I am all too aware that whether he means to or not, James Graham is going to hurt me. Bad. I’m already way too invested in him, and he’s shown me he doesn’t know what he wants.
He revs the engine. “And Harper wanted you to meet Sergeant Pepper.”
“Who’s Sergeant Pepper?”
“A baby goat Chase rescued.”
“A baby goat?” My resolve is like a bowl of Jell-O in direct sunlight. I’m watery, and any solid part I had left is melting into goo.
“He’s not much of a baby anymore. Still likes to cuddle, though. Harper said she might bring some other babies. The woman who adopted Sergeant Pepper raises them.”
I fist my hands on my hips, glaring. “You don’t play fair, James Graham.”
“Who said I’m playing?”
But he is playing. And he’s doing so down and dirty, because talking about crepes and baby goats and cuddling goats is wholly unfair. The mental image of James Graham cuddling a baby goat has me feeling heat flush from the bottoms of my feet all the way up to the tips of my ears and my forehead.
One side of his mouth gives the tiniest fraction of a twitch as he studies me. “You okay? You look a little—”
“Shut up.”
I unclip the helmet and attempt to swing myself on the back of the bike.
I’m not as graceful as I intended and almost fall off the other side, but James reaches back, his broad hand spanning my thigh and holding me in place.
He gives my leg a squeeze before letting go, and I’m practically panting from his touch.
“This is for the goats,” I tell him.
“Sure,” he says. “The goats.”
“And the crepes.”
“Understandable.”
I get the helmet on but fumble with the strap. “And because I like your family.”
James swivels, brushing my hands away. With masterful hands, he fastens the buckle under my chin, taking extra care to adjust until it’s snug. His fingertips lazily trail down my neck when he’s done, leaving a flush in their wake. Our gazes lock, and I'm met with a dark pool of desire.
“Just my family?” he asks in a low voice, eyes still fixed on mine.
Again—the man plays so, so dirty. But who’s to say I can’t do the same?
I let my lips part, dropping my gaze to James’s mouth, then back up to his eyes, where his pupils almost eclipse the golden-brown irises. Leaning about as close as I can with the helmet on, I keep my voice low. He sucks in a breath.
“Just your family.”
I pat his shoulder twice and lean back, feeling proud of myself when James chuckles and shakes his head. He revs the engine and pulls forward. My sense of smug satisfaction is lost when I squeal.
“Hold on to me,” he orders, speaking loud over the engine as he starts to drive.
He doesn’t need to ask twice. And I’m not just holding on for safety. I’m holding on because I’m a sucker for punishment. It’s also why I slide my hands under his jacket, keeping them over his T-shirt, which is thin enough to reveal a lot of what’s underneath.
I try not to count the abs. I really do. But I’m not made of self-control, so I settle for just making a mental note of the ones directly under my palms. I didn’t get the chance last night during the shirtless cuddle-fest, so this feels like my due.
I barely catch the curve of a smile on his face as he tilts his head to speak over the roar of the engine. “I’ve got six.”
“What?” I’m blushing furiously under the helmet.
“My abs. Trying to save you the trouble of counting.”
I don’t deny it, since it’s obvious I was doing it. “Six, not eight?” I tease. “What are you—an underachiever?”