‘I need to interview you.’
‘But who says that can’t go both ways?’
My heart ticks up a beat. I cover my reaction with an instant response, ‘Are you writing an article about me?’
His lips flick in that sexy smile of his. ‘Could be. For a readership of one is all.’
My heart speeds up another notch; I hate that. ‘There’s really no need. This is my job.’
‘I don’t like it.’
I frown. ‘My job?’
‘I don’t give a shit about your job,’ he says with a shake of his head, and another slow, deliberate sip of his drink. ‘I just don’t wanna talk about myself non-stop.’
That’s interesting. In my experience, most peopleloveto talk about themselves. ‘You can talk about the things you like, your home, your family. That’s all a part of it.’
He bristles a little. He tries to hide it, but not quickly enough. I’m trained to look and observe—or maybe I’ve just always been this way. No. I was right the first time. It is training, but a training that began when I was a girl. Even when all I could think of was dancing, my father was coaching me to be a reporter, giving me the powers that helped make him such a success.
‘On one condition: you talk right back.’
I clamp down on my first, fierce reaction to that.No.He says he doesn’t like one-way streets, but I feel the same way about two-ways. It doesn’t work. It gets messy. I don’t share my personal life, not with anyone, not anymore. And especially not with interview subjects.
‘That’s not how this works.’
‘Says who?’
‘Everyone I’ve ever interviewed. I’m a journalist. I ask, you answer.’
He shrugs those broad shoulders in a way that makes my fingertips tingle.
‘Then I’m sorry, Bailey. You’ve wasted your time comin’ out here.’
My lips part on a rush of air. ‘Wait, what?’
He takes another long drink of his beer and places it on the table. ‘I’m not interested in spending three weeks giving you all the dirt on my life and knowing nothing about you. That’s not for me.’
I shake my head, staring at him with bewilderment. ‘This is all arranged.’ Even as I say it, I know it won’t cut the mustard with a guy like Beau. Our team and the circuit management had a deal, but Beau’s his own man. That’s as clear as the day is long.
‘You can go ahead and write what you want, I guess. But if you expect my cooperation, this is the deal.’
In the truck, he’d been the epitome of the easygoing Beau Donovan I’d sort of got to know through his interview clips. Laughing, free-spirited, casual. But this version of him has atoughness that speaks to something deep inside of me—because it’s a toughness I can’t fail to recognise.
He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. It’s both the exact right and wrong thing to do. Right, because it shows how serious he is. He’s digging in, and I know I won’t be able to change his mind. Wrong, because it’s an immediate reminder of the dangers here. I can’t look at his crossed arms without noticing all the things I really shouldn’t. Their size, the hairs on his tanned skin, the muscles, his hands. I can’t look without imagining things that distract and overheat me all at once.
I know I should get the hell out of here, go home and tell my editor that Beau Donovan was impossible to work with, but I refuse to lose this opportunity. I tell myself it’s professional dedication alone that has me narrowing my eyes and nodding once. ‘Fine, Beau. You’ve got yourself a deal—but don’t you go thinking I’m happy about this.’
Chapter Four
Beau
After my old man died, I had nightmares for ages. I couldn’t stop them. They’d come out of nowhere, even when everything was going fine. In my dream, I’d be in a fire, engulfed by flames, just like he had been. I could feel it on my skin, feel the smoke filling my lungs, taking me over completely. And for the first time, in that moment, I feel it even though I’m awake. Heat, smoke, danger. It rushes to surround, take over and consume me, and all the while Bailey is staring over the table with those velvet brown eyes, as though she’d like to kill me just a little bit. If I wasn’t feeling like I was half on fire I’d laugh, because she looks, if possible, even more beautiful when she’s fit-to-be-tied mad—the fire in her eyes, the twist in her lips, the determination in the set of her jaw.
She looks too mad to talk, and I feel like I’m suffocating in smoke, so we’re a great pair. Before I can think of something to say, to water down the ice a little, a waiter approaches the table, carrying an empty tray.
‘Good evening, y’all.’
I flick a smile in his direction.
