‘You’re overthinking.’
My jaw drops. How the hell can he know what’s in my mind?
‘It’s as clear as day on your face. It’s just sex. And this is just dinner. Got it?’
I press my lips together. ‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ I say, infusing my tone with a breeziness I don’t feel.
He laughs. ‘Keep working on it,’ he suggests. ‘Burger?’
It looks mouth-wateringly good. ‘Thanks.’
I take it with me to the end of the bed, sitting down with my legs crossed, then placing the plate on my lap.
‘Stop freaking out.’
I stare at him, contemplate denying it again, shrug my shoulders. ‘I’m trying.’
He moves to the counter that runs beside the window and lifts the wine glass I’d poured earlier, bringing it over to me. I take a long drink, then place it on the carpet.
‘You know what will help?’ I ask as I take a bite. It’s huge but delicious. Mayonnaise leaks out and down the side of my mouth. I wipe it with the back of my hand, but a second later Beau’s handing me a pile of napkins. Heat flushes my skin pink.
‘What will help, Bailey James?’
I contemplate telling him why I don’t love the way he keeps using my surname, then decide not to. The thing is, I actually do kind of like it, because he’s the only person who says it like he finds it irresistible. Everyone else does it like a nepo-baby thing, but not Beau. He has no idea who my dad is, and I love that.
‘Let me interview you.’
He sits down on one of the chairs, his legs spread wide. He’s wearing boxer shorts and a big white shirt, and he looks better than perfect. ‘Okay, fine. Shoot.’
The way he says ‘shoot’ makes me feel like he means it almost literally.
‘It won’t hurt.’
His jaw clenches and I almost burst out laughing. This side of him is so incongruous with the Beau I feel like I’ve gotten to know through the clips online.
‘What’s the matter, cowboy? Worried I’m gonna rattle out some skeletons from your closet?’
His eyes latch onto mine and my breath catches in my throat as I feel some heavy, silent communication from him. Something he’s holding back, yet also wants to tell me.
‘I’m not afraid.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so. I’ve seen you tackle a bull with your bare hands, remember?’
His response is to lift his own burger and take a big bite. He manages it way better than I did—no messy mayonnaise squishing down his chin.
‘How’d you get into bull riding?’
He visibly relaxes at my softball question. ‘I barely remember. I grew up on a ranch. We all rode horses, then bulls.’
‘So your parents were behind you?’
‘Knowing how to do it, sure. Occasionally, at home. But not competitively.’
I nod thoughtfully, take another bite of the burger, then swallow. ‘What did your parents want you to do?’
His grin drops a little. ‘I have no idea.’
‘But not this?’
