The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)
Emma St. Clair
BLUFF:
an action such as a call or raise intended to deceive others about the cards a player has in hand; a lie told to others or to oneself
CHAPTER ONE
James
I’m standing on the deserted sidewalk of a town ridiculously named Sheet Cake, staring at a run-down warehouse. Not just any building, but one I’m supposed to magically turn into a successful brewery in a matter of months. It is ground zero in a cascading number of bad decisions I’ve made lately.
This is why I don’t listen to other people. It’s why I work alone, why I shouldn’t care if my family teases me about being a control freak. Because when I loosen up, even a little, I end up here on my thirtieth birthday, questioning all my life choices in a tiny Texas town.
But even as I’m running through potential solutions as well as exit strategies, another bad decision appears, this one in human form. I hear the sound of her heels from halfway up the block. Who wears high heels on a street with more potholes than pavement, anyway? SHE does.
Stopping right next to me, close enough to make my skin itch, she mirrors my stance, arms crossed over her chest, facing the building. I refuse to look. If I ignore her, maybe she’ll go away.
Doubtful.
Winchester Boyd is a hangnail on my soul. The current bane of my existence. And as of today at nine a.m., my employee.
I glance at my watch. Nine-oh-one. I heave a sigh.
Winnie says nothing, and I continue pretending she isn’t there, even as every cell in my body seems to have swung her way like tiny, malfunctioning satellites. Being around her is like being massaged with rough-grit sandpaper.
Clenching my jaw, I force my attention to the empty warehouse and attached grain elevators. All metal, mostly corrugated. A lot rusted. While Winnie and I stand in tense silence, an orange cat with only one eye shimmies under the fence and saunters by like the place is his and we’re the trespassers. On the plus side, a cat problem means there isn’t a rat problem.
My current bar for positive thinking is at an all-time low.
The cat blinks its yellow eye at me, then sits down and begins to give himself a bath, starting between his legs. Because of course it does.
“It’s a bit of a hot mess, isn’t it?” Winnie asks. “But—”
“Nice attitude.” I can’t help bristling at her words. I think I was already pretty well bristled by just her presence before Winnie spoke.
Why AM I so irritated by her? It’s the sassy, sarcastic mouth and maybe something deeper on a chemical level. She and I are like magnets with the same pole facing out, creating this invisible yet palpable push between us. From the first moment we met, she seemed completely wary of me for no good reason, like I offended her before even speaking. Which in turn offended me.
The thing is, I don’t disagree with her assessment about the building. This place is a hot mess, but it’s MY hot mess. At least, after some convincing from Tank and Pat, it’s mine. And maybe I’m questioning the wisdom in all of this—the move to Sheet Cake, expanding from a smaller home brewing system to a ten-thousand-barrel operation and tasting room, and using this massive, rusted-out building—but I won’t admit it.
I will make this work. Because if Dark Horse Brewing fails, it’s not just my own savings on the line. THAT I could handle. But my family doesn’t just have a lot of nosy opinions about the business—they’ve invested financially. And I won’t fail them.
“I hadn’t finished,” Winnie says. “It’s a bit of a hot mess but—”
“I got the gist.”
I feel Winnie’s eyes on me, but I refuse to turn her way. Now I’m wondering what she had planned to say before I cut in. The need to know burns, making my fingers twitch.
But WHAT, Winnie?
She’s silent for a few long beats. Then I see her nodding from my peripheral vision. “I was wondering how our workplace dynamic would be. I get it now.”
“Do tell.”
“You like your employees to toe the company line. Not to speak the truth, especially if it hurts. Am I getting warm?”
This woman will be the death of me. Literally, figuratively, maybe both.
“Ice. Cold.”
I turn to face her now, which only makes everything worse. Because, despite the way she can irritate me in an instant, all of Winnie’s individual parts work to create a tantalizing whole: silky blond hair, dark blue eyes behind black-framed glasses, lips painted a red that begs to be kissed off that smart mouth. Her style, not that I really get style, is edgy pin-up girl: a button-down blouse tucked into a belted knee-length skirt, heels with a little cut-out for the toes, a high ponytail with a scarf tied around it. For reasons I can’t explain, the lack of visible skin is somehow sexier than if she were wearing less. The hint of her tattoos peeking out from her rolled-up sleeves makes me want to see more.
My attraction to her is a reflex, one I plan to eradicate. So far, it’s like trying to stop myself from sneezing.
Any day now, the things I dislike about her will sour the attraction. Any. Day. Now.
Today would be preferable. Right this second would be perfect.
“Why don’t you enlighten me, boss—what do you want in an employee?”
I don’t hold back the snarl in my voice. “Someone who knows their place and stays in it.”