I focus on the tray in his hands, the beers he’s bought, and notice pretty quickly that the woman he’s picked up has taken one of them. Meaning he’s short a drink.
Beau starts with me, moving to offer the tray my way first, but I shake my head. ‘I’m going to grab a wine,’ I say lightly. ‘You go ahead.’
Something flicks in his gaze, something that I ignore. Even his disappointment is probably an act. ‘I’ll be right back.’
I don’t wait for his answer before shifting through the pulsing crowd to the teeming mass at the bar. I’m not Beau Donovan, and nobody bustles around to serve me. Which is just fine, because it gives me a chance to cool my jets and get my professional head back into gear.
His friends were nice, and they had a lot of good things to say about Beau. At first, I wondered if it was because I’m a journalist, but deep down I know the truth. He’s a good guy. The kind of guy the others on the circuit really look up to. The sort of man who’d give you the shirt off his back, if you needed it.
The singer stops, the band goes quiet and pre-recorded music starts to play as they take their break, this time a country song from decades earlier that has the whole bar pumping, with people singing at the top of their lungs. I’m caught wincing by Beau Donovan, who chooses that moment to appear at my side.
‘What are you doing here?’ I ask, exasperation in my voice.
‘I said I’d buy you a drink,’ he points out, leaning close because it’s so loud all of a sudden that we can barely hear each other. He’s warm and smells like a forest. I hate that I notice those things; I hate even more that I know it has nothing to do with my journalistic training and everything to do with the factthere’s something completely absorbing about him. Just like the brunette clearly noticed.
‘I can buy my own drink.’
‘It’s not your fault your beer got swiped.’
‘It wasn’t my beer,’ I say with a shake of my head. ‘Though you did work mighty fast.’ I glance over his broad shoulder toward the other woman. She’s singing along with the guys Beau just introduced me to.
‘Getting drinks?’ he asks, faux clueless, I’m absolutely sure.
I pull a face to show my scepticism, and am rewarded with a flash of his smile. The same smile he no doubt gives every woman with a pulse he meets.
‘Picking up.’ My gaze shifts to the woman again, hating the jealousy I feel. Hating that I can’t control that, hating that there’s something about Beau that makes me feel proprietorial even when I have absolutely no right. ‘She’s cute.’
‘Is she?’
I snort. ‘Like you didn’t notice.’
He shrugs.
‘Is this what it’s like for you?’ I shuffle forward as a gap forms in the crowd. It’s still going to take forever to be served. Except of course it’s not, because a second later Beau’s being asked what he’ll have.
I tamp down on my frustration as he orders a glass of white wine and pays for it, then turns to face me, fully staring me down, so I have the sense that there’s nowhere to run or hide.
‘Iswhatwhat it’s like for me?’
‘Women falling at your feet,’ I murmur, with no idea what I’m saying or why. Just like in the hallway back at the arena, there’s a reason for us to be standing so close. Just like then, there are people everywhere, jostling us together. Except it was the same in the restaurant a couple of nights ago, when it was just the two of us at a table. It didn’t matter that there were no crowds pushing us close together. I still felt a heavy magnetic draw toward him. I still felt as though being near him was as vital to me as sucking in oxygen.
‘Is that what they’re doing?’
‘Seems like it.’
His smile is slow now, reminding me of butter melting in a pan. ‘She was being friendly. I was friendly right back.’
I smother my snort this time. ‘If you say so.’
‘What’s the matter, Bailey James?’ He leans even closer, so I feel his breath against my cheek. ‘Are you jealous?’
Something inside of me bristles. Actually, a thousand things. They spike my insides like nails. Because Ihatemen who play women off each other. I hate men with fragile egos, who need constant reassurance. I hate men who think jealousy is something to be worn like a badge of honour, a sign that they’re king of their particular castle or whatever. I hate even more that he’s right.
‘No,’ I respond, voice cool, grateful for the interruption of the barman, pushing a glass of wine toward Beau. ‘I’m not jealous, Beau. I’m curious—because it’s my job to be curious.’
I can tell I’ve surprised him. His thick, dark brows knit closer together and his eyes probe mine, like he’s trying to understand me. But how can he? How can he understand what it’s like to think of yourself as smart and independent, to cautiously, judiciously fall in love with just the right kind of man, only to realise you’ve been taken for a fool the whole time? How can he understand that wariness and avoidance are now my stock in trade when it comes to guys, that someone like Beau who threatens to pull at the threads of that self-preservation is everything I need to avoid like the plague.
‘Thank you for the wine,’ I say, in the same stiff tone, reaching out to take the glass, carefully avoiding his fingers as I do so.
