‘It was the PR team’s idea. Charm her from the start?—’
‘It’s aher?’ I repeat, incredulously.
‘You got something against lady journalists?’
‘No, it’s just—’ I drop my head forward, recognising that I’m not going to win this battle. ‘You know, I could kill you for this.’
His laugh is another harsh bark into the office. ‘I don’t doubt it.’ He pushes a card toward me. ‘Here you go. Flight details. Better get a move on. First impressions and all that.’
I’m still grousing when I pull up at the airport twenty minutes later, steering my truck into a space in the multistorey parking lot before striding across the bridge to the passenger pick-up area. The thing is, I’m not against profile raising. I get the value of this sort of shit. My sister-in-law Beth has managed to turn our ranch into a social media sensation, just by posting videos of our lives out there. I was a part of it, and I loved helping. But all that was for the business. For Cole. For the dream he had of getting the place back into shape, like it was when we were kids.
It was never about me wanting my ego stroked.
Besides, on our social media channels, we control the messaging. Beth or Mackenzie film the videos, edit them together. I know that whatever they post is going to be damn good.
Letting a journalist into my life for an ‘intimate, long-form profile piece’, as Jett described it with faux wide-eyed innocence, is akin to having my skin peeled off. I hate the thought of it. I’m not interested in going all deep and personal with anyone, let alone some journalist I’ve never met. I know I’ll be able to workout a way around it, but fuck me if the idea isn’t giving me the heebie-jeebies right now.
It’s only when I get to the crowded terminal that I realise I have no way of knowing who she is. My mental image of a journalist is someone in a grey suit with a black leather briefcase. Kind of Lois Lane meets Miss Moneypenny. My eyes scan the crowds, looking for anyone that might match that description. I reach into my pocket to retrieve the card Jett had slid across the desk at me, reminding myself of her name: Bailey James.
‘Bailey’ makes me think of bay leaves, which makes me think of a pot roast, and I’m instantly homesick for the ranch. I’m the cook in the family, and whenever I’m back I make the sort of food my brothers all lose their shit for. In fact, I might try to get back next week, I think with a smirk. Especially if there’s some reporter nosing around the tour. I can ditch her for a few days; what Jett doesn’t know, and all that.
‘Beau Donovan?’ A woman has moved to stand a few feet in front of me, but I didn’t notice at first because I was busy looking around the airport for the reporter. She’s on the shorter side, with long, dark strawberry-blonde hair, wide-set brown eyes and sweet Cupid’s bow lips that are pressed into a tight line right now. Tight like her body, which seems to radiate tension, telling me she wants to be here about as much as I do. It’s a bearing that’s completely at odds with her clothes—a long floaty skirt and a tiny white tee that shows just a hint of tanned midriff, giving coastal relaxed vibes. Despite my irritation, I can’t help noticing that she’s pretty—even when obviously pissed off.
I’m used to being recognised. The social media stuff Beth set up went pretty viral in the beginning, and we now have millions of followers—a lot of them have a crossover with the circuit. Sobeing out and about somewhere like this, there’s a fair chance of someone knowing who I am.
I let an easy smile spread across my face, just like everyone expects from me. ‘How’d you do, ma’am?’ I lay it on with a trowel, lifting my hat off my head with a small wink. Anything to help the ranch, right?
The woman is clearly not impressed. She might know who I am, but I quickly realise she’s not necessarily a fan.
‘I told them you didn’t need to come and get me. I’m perfectly capable of taking a cab.’
I’m still thinking how pretty she is, so it takes me a second to register her words and connect the dots. ‘You’rethe reporter?’
I wouldn’t have thought it was possible but her lips compress even more tightly. ‘Bailey James,’ she says, almost reluctantly, then holds out her hand like it’s the last thing she wants to do.
Just because that annoys me, I reach right out and wrap hers—small and soft—in mine, and flick her one of my most carefree grins. The kind that I usually pull out when I want to make a woman go weak at the knees.
Just briefly I think something flickers in the depths of her eyes, but I can’t be sure. A second later she wrenches her hand away and wipes it down the side of her skirt.
‘You really didn’t need to come get me.’
‘It wasn’t my idea,’ I say with a shrug. ‘Boss’s orders.’
She moves her hand from her hip to the handle of a small suitcase—I hadn’t even clocked it before. ‘Okay, well, thanks, I guess.’ She still sounds irritated. ‘Shall we?’
I’m suddenly dreading the drive back into Fort Worth, wondering how many minutes I can shave off it by pushing the speed limit and chasing down a few shortcuts, but it’s peak hour and even with my best efforts, I reckon it’ll be at least thirty minutes before we reach her hotel.
‘Where are you staying?’ I keep my voice conversational.
In what’s surely not a coincidence, she names the same hotel I’m at. Of course. Makes sense. Surprising no one more than myself, last year I finished near the top of my game, meaning I’ve had sponsors falling over themselves this season. In what I can only describe as feast or famine, given how we’ve been struggling on the ranch, some of those partnerships bring in decent money, and some other perks too, like sponsor-paid suites. The one I’m in now was organised by the tour, and I’m guessing the tour’s booked her room too.
‘Do you know it?’ she asks, because I haven’t replied.
‘Sure do.’
She just stares at me like I’m some kind of imbecile—which raises my hackles right up. My twin Nash was always the smart one. I spent most days in school staring out the window, wishing I could be anywhere other than cooped up in class. I’ve got a real dislike for being treated like a fool, because I’m not. I just don’t go in for book-smart stuff, but that’s not the same thing as being dumb.
And it’s been a long time since anyone’s made me feel less than.
