The Bluff (Graham Brothers, #2)(2)

Wow. I sound like a domineering jerk. A terrible boss. Not the kind of man I want to be. Not the man I am.

I may have the reputation of a grump, but it’s only in contrast to the rest of my family. Pat is bright, loud sunshine, and my dad, whom we all call Tank from his football days, is hardly ever without a smile and booming laugh. Collin is more serious and uptight, but still warm and kind.

Only my sister, Harper, shares my intensity and doesn’t pass out smiles like parade candy. But no one ever calls her a grouch. After losing Mom, we all closed ranks around our younger sister, and are way too protective to be critical of her.

In Winnie’s presence, I become what they tease me about—only worse. I’m a cartoon version of myself with a tiny storm cloud rumbling over my head. I’m a surly curmudgeon. My life is the lawn, and I’m yelling at Winnie to get off it.

She whistles, long and low. “Is part of my job fetching you coffee? Because you clearly haven’t had enough this morning.”

I drag a hand through my hair, irked by the idea of Winnie doing anything so personal as fixing my coffee. “You won’t be getting me coffee. Or picking up my dry cleaning.”

Winnie eyes my worn jeans and motorcycle boots. “Good. Because I can’t imagine your dry-cleaning bill for the month. Must be enormous.”

Coming from anyone else, this might elicit a chuckle. But it comes from her, so I bite the inside of my cheek. One thing I’ll say for Winnie—she’s whip-smart. At least conversationally. We’ll have to see how this translates to her job.

“I just want someone who will work hard. No drama.” I eye her, hoping she catches my implied meaning: Stop baiting me. Stop with the smart remarks.

“Got it, boss. Be neither seen nor heard while completing my non-coffee, non-dry-cleaning jobs.”

She gives me a jaunty salute which contains all the attitude of a middle finger. I am a bear, and she’s standing there, grinning and poking. So much for low drama.

“Is this how it’s going to be?” I ask, giving her a long look. Not the best idea, especially when I find my gaze snagging on her red lips. I jerk my attention back to the warehouse. “Not the best first impression.”

“Right back at you.” She gestures to the open gate in front of us. “I mean, not even a Welcome to Your First Day banner?”

“Sorry. I disbanded the party-planning committee.”

Winnie spins to face me, hands on her hips. I try not to look—I do—but it’s impossible. I turn to face her, mimicking her pose the way she did earlier. She blinks several times, then laughs. Head thrown back, ponytail swinging, the gentle curve of her throat exposed.

I swallow. I glare. I wait.

My whole body feels hot by the time Winnie’s laughter dissolves into giggles. She lifts her glasses, wipes tears from her deep blue eyes. I don’t move.

“Was that a reference to The Office?” she asks finally, a smile lifting one side of her mouth.

“No.”

It totally was, but I’ll deny it until my deathbed. I do not make jokes outside of my family. Even then, it’s rare.

This was … an anomaly. A glitch. A mistake. Not the tone I want to set on day one. I turn away, and the orange cat stares up at me with its one yellow eye like he totally sees through me. Another cat, this one black, hops up on a nearby stack of wood pallets, and now it feels like Winnie and I are performing in front of a studio audience.

I make a mental note to add Get rid of cats to my already long to-do list. Then fight back a grin as I mentally add Get rid of cats to Winnie’s to-do list.

“Too bad,” Winnie says. “I thought for a moment you had a sense of humor hiding under all that.”

She waves a hand over my body, her gaze sweeping from my head down to my boots, then back up. My pulse kicks up, definitely without my permission. I shouldn’t like the way she’s looking at me. But I do, and I want more, even as I tell myself it’s a bad idea.

Her every word today seemed designed to get a reaction out of me. Might as well give her a taste of the same.

“Under all what?”

For the first time, Winnie loses her composure. A tiny slip, but I see the way she shifts on her feet. I hear the way her breath hitches. I love watching her squirm.

“You know,” she says. When I don’t respond, she groans. “Ugh. I have to say it? It’s surprising to find humor underneath the grumpy demeanor. The boots. The whole—everything. You’re the living embodiment of a fictional bad boy, ready to steal hearts and make ovaries explode.”

Did she say something about ovaries? I frown. “Make … what?”

Winnie covers her face with one hand and groans. “Please, please forget I said any of that.”

Gladly. For the first time, I realize she has a turquoise envelope in her free hand. “What’s that?”

Winnie uncovers her eyes, then looks down like she forgot she was even holding what appears to be a greeting card. Immediately, she tucks it behind her back. “Nothing.”

I continue to stare.

Giving a frustrated huff, she holds out the envelope, shaking it when I don’t move. Finally, she slaps it against my chest. “Take it.”

I do, and when my fingers brush hers, my whole body feels electrified, like I’ve mistakenly grabbed a live wire. It is a wholly unfamiliar feeling, and I can’t decide if I like or hate it. Winnie snatches her hand back, rubbing it, as though she felt it too.