The Bluff (Love Stories in Sheet Cake, Texas, #2)

by Emma St. Clair

“Winchester!” a deep voice bellows from inside.

😮😮😮

James stands in the shadows, arms crossed in a way that shows off his impressive chest and arms.

“I didn’t ask for help.” “Maybe that’s your problem. Or, one of them, anyway.”

When I put my fists on my hips, James’s gaze drops to my hands. He must notice his gloves, because his expression shifts. Slight, but some flicker of life. Then it dies.

“Like I said last night, check with me before taking it upon yourself to make decisions.” “Sir, yes, sir. No think but groupthink. Got it, boss.” I hear snickering and see Chase and Collin standing by—more like hiding behind—a few stacks of wooden pallets, clearly trying to muffle their laughter. “You two are more entertaining than television,” Collin says, wiping his eyes. “I don’t remember the last time I’ve heard anyone talk to Jamie that way.” “Jamie?” I ask. Chase glances around furtively. “The only one who can call him Jamie and not get punched is Harper. I wouldn’t advise it.” Collin waves dismissively, then gives me a once-over. His grin is quick. “Somehow, I don’t think he’ll be punching Winnie.” “More working! Less chatter!” James booms from somewhere nearby.

I’m not particularly hungry, but I stop long enough to say hello and offer thanks, since I’m not sure James will. But I’m shocked when I walk over just as he’s saying thank you and offering both older women a hug. Eula Martin holds onto James a little longer than is appropriate, and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing as she says, “My, my, my. I’m not sure why you’re covering up all this with a shirt, but don’t do so on our account, young man.”

His eyes meet mine, and I try to wipe the amusement off my face. Not soon enough, clearly, as he glares. I can’t win with him. Which means I should probably stop trying.

Vanz Hairless cats look like wrinkly old men Bob1 As a wrinkly old man, I take offense to that comment. Personally, I think they look like fruit bats. WayneNGarthBrooks I’d be happy to shave a cat for you. You provide the cat. I’ll do the shaving.

AlisaTheCotton Or maybe like one of those cat cafes they have in Japan? Except instead of coffee and cats, it’s beer and cats? DeltaDeltaDelta Or maybe you could cuddle with one of the Graham brothers while drinking a beer? I’d pay for that.

Despite the benefit of extra help, I’m stressed, irritated, and overwhelmed with a near-crippling frustration. All the tension has centered in my skull, giving me a headache to end all headaches. And a big cause of it all is the woman walking by precariously balancing a stack of rotten boards. I resist the urge to scoop them out of Winnie’s hands. She would fight me, first of all—I may not know her well, but I know this for certain. Plus, she’s shown through the day how well she can handle heavy lifting. Now that she’s wearing my gloves, I don’t need to worry about her getting splinters. She should really be wearing long sleeves to protect her arms though. Or so you won’t find yourself distracted by her tattoos? Busted. By my own internal monologue. All day long, I’ve struggled. Struggled not to boil over when another person I hardly know shows up to “help.” Struggled not to snap when Winnie baits me—because, oh yes, it’s very clear half the things she says are to get a reaction out of me. Struggled not to stare at the tattoos covering her toned arms. Struggled not to worry about her safety—which is a thing I don’t know why I’m worrying about at all.

Which was especially ironic considering the fact Collin spent most of the day glued to her side. Smiling, talking, even cracking jokes, apparently, based on the laughter I kept hearing from her. “Don’t forget you have a girlfriend,” I muttered to him at one point. “Oh—do you not like me flirting with yours?” His grin was just begging to be knocked off his face. Winnie came around the corner at that point, which is the only reason the two of us didn’t end up in a scuffle. When he and Chase finally drive back to Austin, I couldn’t be more thrilled.

I hear the swish of a broom over concrete and head toward the sound. Winnie is sweeping the first and smaller room in the warehouse, the one that will become the main bar. Without electricity, the shadows pool inside the building, and I use them to hide from sight, for the first time all day allowing myself the indulgence of watching her.

Winnie is impossible to ignore, even sweaty from a day of work and dressed in baggy, athletic clothes. It’s the woman herself who holds all the allure, not whatever she’s wearing. My gaze falls from her messy ponytail to her full lips down to her lean but defined shoulders and arms. Winnie may be petite, but she looks like she knows her way around a weight bench. Her pale skin and lithe muscles only emphasize the dark tattoos swirling down her arms. They’re something like vines or ribbons, curving and twisting over her skin with what look like words and other objects woven in. I want to trace them with my fingers, study them, ask her about each one. Winnie suddenly pauses, looking up to meet my gaze. I jerk mine away from her tattoos. “Am I sweeping to your impossibly high standards, boss?” That. That right there is why the muscles in my shoulders feel like they’ll never unclench again. It’s the teasing lilt in Winnie’s voice, the slight edge of sarcasm every time she says boss, the glint in her eyes, more visible today without her glasses. That threw me off too—the uninhibited view of her deep blue eyes. Does she wear contacts? Or are the glasses just for show? You don’t care, James. Winnie’s eyesight is not your business.

“Well?” She leans on the handle of the push broom, grinning at me. Her skin glows with a light sheen of sweat. She looks tired, but the happy kind of tired, the energized kind. My work gloves still cover her hands, and I like seeing them there, touching her skin. Something about her sets off a series of connected reactions in me, spanning the distance from anger to attraction. Turns out, those two are closer in proximity to one another than I ever thought. “It’s fine.” “...

I’m working to scrounge up words to thank her when she starts to take off my work gloves with her teeth. All my thoughts die right where they are. I swear my head is about to explode. First, because those things are filthy. She’s been hauling rusty, old equipment and sweeping broken glass and picking up rotted pieces of wood for hours. My dirty gloves shouldn’t be anywhere near her mouth. But also … watching Winnie’s teeth close around the finger of my glove has me imagining her mouth biting down on my fingertip. What would a little nip from her feel like? “James? Are you still with me?” “Yep.” The problem is I’m a little too with her. I shake my head to dispel my errant thoughts. There’s nothing I can do, however, to shake loose the inexplicable attraction to a woman I don’t like. And the resulting frustration because Winnie’s draw only seems to be growing, not diminishing. No, now I’ve devolved to the point of imagining Winnie nipping me with her teeth. This is not like me. Tank made words like consent and respect a part of our early education, saying he refused to raise a house full of men who behaved like teenage boys in a locker room. I am not a man who imagines women—much less my employee—biting me. And yep—now I’m picturing it again.

“When is the contractor coming? He’s pretty late.” “Any minute now, temp.” Winnie’s eyes light up at my words, and my stomach dips. Why did I have to go give her a nickname pulled straight from The Office? And yet … the nickname totally fits. She is my Ryan—the totally unqualified temp I can’t get rid of.

“Hey! I’m Winnie.” “Peter. Good to meet you. Are you his, um, partner or …?” Peter looks between me and Winnie, and I don’t know if he means partner in the romantic or business sense. I’m also not sure which of those ideas is the most preposterous. Winnie chokes out a laugh. “No. Not in any sense of the word.” She laughs again, and it shouldn’t irritate me that she finds either idea as absurd as I do.

Winnie doesn’t suffer from the same visualization issues I do. Between Peter’s questions and her suggestions, I start to actually get a sense of how the space will work. With the two of them doing ninety percent of the talking, I could feel like the third wheel, but Winnie makes sure to keep drawing me in. She has this way of making her ideas feel like my ideas. Peter doesn’t seem to notice that they aren’t, and if I were less observant, I might not realize it either. She’s that good at sweeping people up in her world. A good quality. Maybe a dangerous one.

I like everything Winnie suggests. Though it would normally get my back up having someone—especially someone on her second day of work as a temp—butting in, I’m grateful. For her ideas and for her unobtrusive way of presenting them.

“How’s the website coming?” I ask instead. “I’ve got the framework set up, but I have a lot of questions for you before I can do much more. We should really sit down and discuss—” “I’m sure whatever you build will be fine.” Not even remotely true. But after today, I need a Winnie break. Being around her is doing funny things to my head. Maybe we can move our communication to text so I don’t have to see her at all.

“Thank you.” She raises one brow. “For promising not to screw it up?” “For today.” I figure it’s best to keep it vague. I am grateful, yet somehow still resentful of the way Winnie jumped in with both feet. “Which reminds me—I’ve got another job for you.” “Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like this job?” she asks slowly. I grin, and Winnie drops the broom. It clatters to the ground, and we both ignore it. “How do you feel about cats?” Her eyes widen. “James, no.” “Your mission, should you choose to accept it—and to be clear, it isn’t optional—is to rid this building of all the strays.”

When he walks outside, Winnie and I are left simmering in an electric tension. We stare for a few long seconds, and it feels dangerous to hold her gaze for this long. She must feel the same way, because she looks away as she steps forward, holding out my gloves. Call me selfish, call me a total Neanderthal, but I want those blue eyes on ME. I grab the gloves but take Winnie’s hand too. She jolts a little, then blinks up at me. Her confusion is evident, and well-warranted. I’ve been careful not to touch her today, even casually, because the attraction I feel without touching Winnie is bad enough. And yet … I want her close like this. I want her closer. It’s a terrible one, but before I can convince my thumb of that, it traces a line up the inside of her wrist. Winnie’s lips part, and she releases a soft exhale. Something I don’t want to name hangs between us, or maybe it passes between us like a signal or current. For the moment, my headache is gone, replaced by a heady and heavy sense of want. It’s deeper than just a physical connection, though it’s absolutely that too. I feel like some invisible thread has wound its way through me, tethering us together.

I immediately drop Winnie’s hand, and she jumps. I feel like I’ve been scorched, starting with where our hands met and stretching halfway up my arm. The sensation only stops when I step back. Way back. I need to regain some semblance of control, of dignity, of normalcy. My thoughts, my body, my everything are all out of whack where Winnie is concerned. And if there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s being out of control of a situation. Even more so—out of control of myself.

Chevy’s hand lands on my shoulder and squeezes roughly. He raises his brows, a smirk on his face. “Got dinner plans? Because we need to have a word about my sister.”

“The food was excellent,” I say, more to end the exchange than anything. I want to eat my pie, and I want to go home. I’ve had enough people for one day. For several days. Maybe for a week.

Mari slides the check to Chevy. I try to grab it, but he holds it out of reach and already has cash in hand. “Keep the change,” he says, then winks at me. “I asked you out, so dinner’s on me.” “Does this mean I’ll get a second date?” I ask, taking a bite of pie, letting the flavors explode on my tongue. It is every bit as good as it sounded. No, better. Chevy chuckles. “That depends.” He grips his fork like a weapon and pins me with a surprisingly intense gaze. “What are your intentions with my sister?” I choke on my pie. Chevy passes me a stack of napkins, a knowing smile on his face. “What?” I ask, when I’m finally composed enough to speak. “I said, what are your intentions with Winnie?” “She works for me.” Chevy rolls his eyes. “Obviously. But I’ve seen you two together and there’s this … I don’t know, something between you. And whether it’s actual dislike or an attraction you’re both pretending doesn’t exist, I figured it best to discuss now, before we have a problem.” “We won’t have a problem.” Even as I say the words, I feel like I’m trying to convince myself as much as Chevy. I already feel like Winnie is a problem. Or, at least, the complicated reactions I have to her are a problem. “I hope not. Because I kind of like you and your family.” Chevy plays with his fork, dragging it through the whipped cream melting on his plate. “Ever since our dad died, I’ve been waiting to ask someone what their intentions are with my sister. I’m not passing up this first opportunity...

I can only nod, because a lump the size of Texas is expanding in my throat. Winnie and Chevy lost both parents. I wonder what my life would be like if I’d lost Dad as well as Mom. I can’t picture a world without Tank in it. He’s the rudder to our little family ship, steering us on a steady course, holding us together.

Don’t start going soft toward her just because you share a similar loss. She’s still your employee. A meddler. And she has a boyfriend. That last thought pulls me out of the drain I’m circling with a jolt. I haven’t given a single thought to Winnie’s boyfriend since I met the guy at Pat and Lindy’s reception earlier in the week. It only took a minute or two in a room with him for the buttoned-up and boring Dale to rub me totally the wrong way. He seemed all wrong for Winnie. Or maybe it’s just a reminder that I barely know the woman.

If I thought it was going anywhere serious, I’d have chased him off. I figured it would sort itself out in time, and it did. Which brings me back to you and Winnie.” “There is no me and Winnie. Outside of the job.”

It is very important I keep my face blank and my mouth shut. I’m not about to tell Chevy I don’t like his sister, while I also would like to press her up against any available surface and kiss the smart words right off her lips.

Personally, I prefer bad-boy bosses.

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Stewing is the last thing I want to be doing when it comes to James. The man already takes up too much space in my head. Especially after our very last exchange, the one ending with him grabbing my hand. If I couldn’t still feel the ghost of his thumb skating up my wrist, I might think I imagined it. His touch was so light, so tender, so UN-James-like that I almost keeled over right there in the warehouse. It sent a thrill through me. Not simply a visceral reaction in every living cell in my body, but his touch woke something up in my mind too, the kind of curiosity I have a hard time turning off. I haven’t been able to stop questioning how James really feels about me or wondering what else besides a surprising gentleness he’s hiding under the surface.

There is a lot more to my grumpy boss than he wants to reveal. Which only makes me determined to slice through him layer by layer. Bad idea, Winnie. Very, VERY bad. Layers belong in dips or winter wardrobes, not in your boss.

“I took your boss to dinner.” I drop my hands and stare. Then, with trembling fingers, I pick up my soda water and promptly choke. My brother grins at my reaction. I glare. “Why?” I demand when I can speak properly again. “I wanted to make sure he and I were on the same page.” Chevy takes a slow sip of beer, watching my reaction. My brother has a way of putting people at ease, friendly and casual while he’s actually cataloging every detail. It’s why he's so good at his job, and why he should probably be a detective in a bigger city rather than a deputy here. I only hope he doesn’t notice the way my pulse is fluttering in my neck. My heart has gone telltale, intent on beating its way out of my body and revealing the effect even the idea of James Graham has on me. I attempt to keep my voice steady. “And what page is that?” “The one where if he hurts my baby sister, he’ll rue the day.”

Right now, my brother just moved to the tippy-top of my figurative murder list. Which is saying something, considering the fact that James tasked me with removing all the cats from his warehouse.

What my brother doesn’t know, and what I can’t ever tell him, is that he’s dead-wrong about our father. We all were wrong about him. And that’s the painful truth I’ll carry with me to the grave, just the way Dad did.

Gasps!

TEXT THREAD Winnie: *gif of cartoon clock* James: ??? Winnie: Gasp! Have you never seen Beauty and the Beast? James: Why are you sending me a gif of Cogsworth Winnie: YOU KNOW COGSWORTH!?!!!!!! Winnie: Are you a secret cartoon lover? James: No Winnie: What’s your favorite Disney movie? OMG do you have a favorite princess? James: Focus. Why did you send the gif Winnie: It’s Ariel, isn’t it? Men love the seashell bra. And the singing. James: THE GIF, WINNIE. WHY Winnie: That was my way of telling you I’m done for the day. Winnie: You know, clocking out? Get it??? James: Make a spreadsheet for your hours. No need to check in Winnie: Since you seemed to be avoiding me, thought I’d make sure you knew I was working. James: I’m your boss, not your babysitter. Spreadsheet Winnie: You’re no fun. James: Never claimed to be Winnie: Ugh. I bet you don’t even text with gifs, considering you barely use punctuation. You’re the captain of the Fun Police. James: *gif of Rapunzel from Tangled* Winnie: Sorry for the slow response. I passed out from shock. James: You asked about my favorite princess Winnie: Rapunzel, huh? Innnnteresting. VERY interesting. James: Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, temp Winnie: You have no idea how much I’ve learned about you from just this conversation. James: You’ve learned nothing Winnie: I’ve learned EVERYTHING. Winnie: The key question: Did you like Rapunzel before or after she cut her hair? James: Both James: She didn’t change personalities. Just her hair Win...

I’m just about to lift my hand off the rook when a small and slightly smug voice says, “Are you sure you want to move your rook there?” My hand stills on the wooden piece, one I carved last year in between building benches and tables. I was sure about my next move. But one glance at Jo, who is unable to hide her smile, has me second-guessing. You’d think mind games in chess wouldn’t be something I’d need to worry about with a five-year-old. But Jo is anything but a typical five-year-old. I’m not sure if it’s because she started reading at three or because she spent more time around adults than kids or just some genetic windfall, but Jo is brilliant, perceptive, and speaks like she’s already got a college degree.

I glance at the folding table Tank set up for the game, then frown. “Did you invite extra people?” Dad shrugs. “With Pat gone, we had space. You know our table is always open.” Maybe our table has always been open, technically speaking, but the last new player we added was Chase, Harper’s husband, almost seven years ago. He was my sister’s best friend for years before they finally admitted they were in love—something we could have told them long ago. Just because that turned out well doesn’t mean I want to welcome a bunch of new people. I walk to the kitchen and grab a glass of water. It does nothing to ease the tightness in my chest, the swirling in my gut, and the heat spreading over my skin.

You can handle change. You’re thirty now. A whole new decade. Time to chill, man. If Winnie’s here, just be your normal brooding self. It will be fine.

But I’m hanging by a thread here, frayed and thin. I can trace it back to my first day as Winnie’s boss. Or maybe it was the workday, trying to keep my eyes from straying to her tattoos and lean muscles. It could have been dinner with Chevy, where he told me Winnie is single AND put the idea of dating her in my head.

My fingers go down to my pocket, where I’m still carrying the seed she gave me. The thing is probably going to sprout if I don’t figure out what to do with it. I have just as little idea what to do with Winnie.

Harper joins me in the kitchen, giving my shoulder a nudge. “Hey, biggest brother. How’s life?” “Life is life. Are you playing tonight?” I ask Harper, already knowing her answer. She makes a face. “I brought a book. Poker doesn’t interest me.” She pauses. “It’s weird being here rather than home.” “Thank you! It’s totally weird.” “It’s probably a good thing,” Harper says, and this is where we’ll disagree.

Balancing the beer precariously, I swing open the door, then immediately drop a bottle, which shatters on the hardwoods. Because standing with Chevy is the last person I want to see, wearing a short dress with anchors all over it. Anchors. “Hey, boss,” Winnie says, holding up a bottle of tequila. “Looks like you could use a drink.”

I do not let Winnie make me a drink. It’s a stupid stand to take, especially since everyone raves about her jalapeno margaritas. Apparently, Winnie makes her own jalapeno-infused tequila. Good for her. I stick with one of my beers, telling myself I’m not interested in her tequila. But I can’t stop thinking about testing a batch of jalapeno beer.

cannot get my head in the game tonight, and the reason why has blond hair and glasses and is sitting directly across from me in a ridiculous anchor dress. I can’t explain why this dress feels like such a personal affront. But each tiny, red anchor is like a smirking mouth, making me think about Winnie’s lips.

Collin presses a hand to his chest. “Who could you possibly mean?” This earns a laugh from Winnie. Collin grins at her, making me set my bottle down a little harder than I mean to on the table. Winnie’s eyes flick to me, and her smile dies immediately. Great. Now I’m a smile murderer. Once again, Collin seems to have taken on Pat’s role in absentia as the fun brother. Which is fine so long as he doesn’t start hitting on Winnie. Because, if he hasn’t forgotten, he has a girlfriend.

AND WINNIE IS JAMES’ GIRLFRIEND

Is the tension spiking between Winnie and me THAT obvious?

Chevy shoots me a look, which I know is meant to remind me of his warnings. Like I could forget. “Can we focus on the game? Your deal, temp.” Winnie sighs, giving me a look, which tells me this conversation isn’t over.

“Just pick something simple,” Chevy suggests. Look—I like Chevy. But despite my own comment that came out ruder than I expect, I very much dislike how he’s speaking to Winnie. It’s patronizing and demeaning, even if she doesn’t know poker. If he weren’t her brother, we’d be having words. If he were my brother, one of us would have already dragged him outside by the collar. Winnie practically growls. “I swear—if you say one more thing to me, we’re going to take this outside.”