Going from the way she was inside the airport terminal, I would have thought she’d clam up when I asked about her. Suddenly the prospect of a thirty-minute drive is slightly improved.
‘Where were you before that?’
‘New York.’
I nod. ‘And before that?’
She lets out a long breath. ‘Aren’t I the one who’s meant to be asking the questions?’
Ah, there it is. The closed-off version of her I’d expected.
‘You got a problem with answering, darlin’?’
Her eyes flare wide. ‘I’ve got a problem with being called “darlin’”,’ she responds, imitating my accent.
I laugh, a deep, throaty sound that isn’t at all familiar. ‘Let me guess. The patriarchy?’
‘Definitely.’
‘That’s not how I meant it.’
‘Yeah, well.’ She blows out again, like she’s giving up on changing my mind. Good for her. ‘I went to school in California.’
‘NowthatI can see.’
‘Why?’
I stop walking and look at her. And I don’t mean I glance. Ilookat her, the way I’d look at some woman in a bar who made me feel that warm glow of heat, that buzz of attraction. I let my eyes linger on her sandal-clad feet, then her long, floaty skirt, my throat constricting as my gaze skims her flat, toned stomach, then quickly moves over her shirt before landing on her face. She’s staring at me not with amusement, or even mutual attraction, but rather impatience.
‘Your outfit screams West Coast.’
She arches a brow.
‘Your tan. Your hair.’
‘My hair’s red.’
‘That’s not red.’ I think of Ash and instantly relax. Ash, who’s one of my best friends, sometimes more—though not since I got back into bull riding. That’s a hard line for her, and I respect that. For as long as I’m doing this, she’s made it clear: nothing more than friendship is on offer. Ash has been at my side since we were kids, the two of us tumbling around together, laughing until our sides hurt. Her hair is the deepest red I’ve ever seen, like leaves in the fall, but glossy. Her skin is creamy white all over, even though she’s outdoors so much of the time. You’d never know it save for the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
‘Yeah, well, it’s not exactly blonde either.’ She looks around again. ‘Are we just going to stand here yapping?’
‘Yapping?’
She crosses her arms over her chest, and I take advantage of that gesture to reach down and grab the handle of her suitcase. ‘This way, Bailey James.’ I don’t turn around to see if she’s following.
Chapter Two
Bailey
It is one hundred per cent not this bull-riding cowboy hick’s fault that I got put on this assignment. It is most definitely not his fault that my editor is still hazing me this far into my job by making me cover the sports desk when I am literally the least sports-inclined person that’s ever lived. I once called a tennis racket a ‘bat’ in a feature and have never lived it down.
Anyone who knows me knows I want to do political journalism. That’s what I get, it’s what I’d be good at—if someone would give me a chance. My editor keeps dangling the carrot for me.Do a good enough job on this piece, and we’ll see about sending you to Washington.It’s been three years of covering sports games and athletes, of swotting up to become a world expert in whatever I’m being sent to write about, and that carrot still seems frustratingly just out of reach.
It’s not this guy’s fault that it’s hotter than Hades today in Dallas, and that I really did want a chance to get back to the hotelto shower and change into something a little more professional before coming face to face with Beau Donovan.
Obviously I’ve researched the hell out of him. What kind of journalist would I be if I hadn’t? I know pretty much all his career stats, but I also know he’s regarded as a total heart-throb of the scene, a target for every buckle bunny out there—don’t get me started on what I think ofthatparticular term, and the inherent sexism therein. But his universal appeal is something he evidently really doesn’t resent if his easy, flirtatious smile is anything to go by.
I also know he’s got a family ranch that his brother runs, courtesy of the thriving social media presence the place has. This guy screams star potential, to the point I can’t help but wonder why he’s busting a gut—and potentially every bone in his body—working the tour. Sure, there’s money and status, but his media appeal alone would probably get both of those things for him.
