I grind my teeth, trying to see my way through the next few weeks, and failing. I only know one way to deal with a woman, and that’s to get in her pants. It’s not something I generally struggle with. There are exceptions, obviously. Mackenzie’s likea sister to me. Beth’s the same. Regan, who does our books back home. But mostly I flirt my way out of any situation, or into a situation, and it generally works just fine.
Bailey James is definitely someone I’d like getting to know—in different circumstances. But I can’t say the feeling’s mutual. She’s looking at me like I’m something she’s stepped in on the sidewalk—three-day-old gum she can’t wait to get rid of.
‘So,’ she says, deep-brown velvet eyes glancing toward the sliding doors of the airport. ‘Shall we?’
‘Why not?’ My voice is calm, showing no hint of my inner thoughts. I keep my tone level, lightly amused. ‘I’m parked this way.’
‘Great.’ Her smile is performative and perfunctory. I ignore it, reaching past her to take the suitcase.
‘I’ve got it.’ She flicks my hand away.
I can’t help it. I laugh. I can’t remember the last time a girl fought me over something as stupid as carrying a bag.
‘What’s the matter? Got the nuclear codes in there or something?’
I swear she actually rolls her eyes. Somehow I just know that’s something she’d wish she hadn’t done. Despite what she’s wearing, I get the sense that she’s the kind of person who prides herself on professionalism at all times.
‘No, just a fundamental dislike for the assumption that because I’m a woman I can’t lift a finger.’
‘Is that what I just did?’
‘Why else would you want to carry my suitcase?’
‘Where I come from, it’s just what you do.’
‘Yeah, well, where I come from, it’s a sign of patriarchal condescension.’
I let out a low whistle. ‘It’s a bag.’
‘No, it’s centuries of behaviour.’
I lift my hands in silent surrender. ‘Okay, Bailey James, carry your own stuff, if it means that much to you.’
I swear to god, it actually hurts me to watch her hand curve around the handle and begin to pull the damn bag after her. It’s small enough, probably doesn’t weigh that much, but I know my old man would be rolling over in his grave. Then again, maybe not. He dealt with enough prickly women in his life—Mackenzie included—to know that there’s no-one-size-fits-all approach to these things.
‘Where are you from, anyway?’ I ask, as we step out into the blistering August afternoon. The sun’s still high in the sky, beating down on the whole of Dallas, and the asphalt seems to blast that heat right back up at us.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said that where you’re from, “it’s a sign of patriarchal condescension”. Where are you from?’
‘Oh.’ She glances up at me with those eyes—I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone with eyes quite that colour. They’re such a deeply rich brown, like caramelised sugar that I find myself just staring at them for a long beat. ‘The twenty-first century,’ she quips, but the corners of her mouth lift in what’s probably the hint of a smile.
‘Ha ha.’ My tone is droll.
Now her lips curve into a proper smile, and something shifts through me. I’ve felt it often enough to recognise the sensation. Attraction. It lands hard in the centre of my chest, a big, warm knot of awareness that she’s pretty, that I’d like to make her smile more, even if just for a night or two. Which is a very, very dumb idea, because Bailey James works for a hoity newspaper and is going to be writing some long-ass piece on me. The last thing I want is for this to get personal, or to let my guard down.
‘We moved around a lot,’ she says, eyes shifting away from me, scanning the parking lot. ‘Which way?’
I nod to the left.
‘Where do you live now?’
‘Houston.’
That surprises me. ‘But you clearly haven’t spent much time there.’ Her accent is definitely not from that part of the world.
‘A few years.’
