‘Safer?’
I expel a breath of relief, glad he understands.
‘I don’t think it matters how much time we spend together, we’re still gonna want to jump each other’s bones whenever we can.’
My heart speeds up. I glance toward the windows of the restaurant, heat moving through my whole body. ‘That’s kind of my point.’
‘Let’s make the most of it while we’re together,’ he suggests. ‘Two-and-a-half weeks’ll fly by.’ He reaches out and brushes his hand over mine quickly. ‘No regrets.’
No regrets.
The simple phrase lands inside of me with a thud. Ever since Kirk, I’ve tried to make choices that avoid exactly that: regret. I regretted falling in love with someone who was a lie. I regrettedfalling in love with a married man, trusting him blindly, planning a whole life with a guy I evidently barely knew. I have regretted that every day since. So I know a thing or two about the pain of waking up and wishing you could click your fingers and change the past.
Beau’s right.
If I don’t dive headlong into this for the rest of the time we have, I’m not going to be able to walk away with a clean break. I mean, I’ll still do it. There’s no future here, no hope for anything other than what we’ve agreed. But I don’t want to be waking up thinking about Beau Donovan in ten years, wishing I’d spent more time with him, wondering ‘what if’. Particularly not when he’ll probably be settled down, married with kids by then, despite what he says.
‘You just can’t get enough of me, can you, cowboy?’ I make sure to layer my voice with amusement, to lighten the tone.
But there’s nothing light about the look on his face as he reaches under the table and brushes his hand over my knee. ‘No, Bailey, I don’t think I can.’
Chapter Thirteen
Beau
Generally, I’d drive straight through. It’s ten hours of decent road, which I tend to eat up in my truck. I like to drive, always have. There’s something about being out on these old roads, just you, the asphalt, never-ending fields and sky, chasing down the horizon, that makes me feel whole. Add in some music, a window down to catch the sun-warmed breeze, and I’m a happy man.
But having Bailey beside me, way more of her slender legs on display in a casual cotton dress than I can handle, is making me feel either like I’ve won the lottery or waltzed right into hell. It causes a physical ache not to reach out and touch her, one I’ve been fighting ever since we drove out of town and the buildings gradually got smaller, cheaper, then gave way to highway and fields, dotted with sunflowers, weeds and clumps of long grass, the odd tree standing like a lone soldier on the horizon.
Usually I’d have been on the road at sunrise to take in a full day’s drive, but Bailey had some emails to catch up on, so I hadbreakfast in the hotel with Jett Alvarez, who still seems to think it’s some great joke that I’m being subjected to this article. Little does he know I’ve quickly turned lemons into lemonade.
Something flashes through me as I imagine what would have happened if he’d set Bailey up to interview one of the younger guys, like I’d suggested. No, not just suggested, but pushed him hard for, because back then the thought of spending three weeks with some nosy journalist had seemed like a fate worse than death.
A grin cracks my face as I prop my elbow against the open window and briefly glance out my side of the car, to the pops of yellow against the blisteringly blue sky. Warmth bathes my skin, anticipation heats my blood, and in this moment, I’m pretty damned happy.
Especially when Bailey reaches over and changes the song. Not because I didn’t like what was playing, but because I like her feeling comfortable enough around me, in my truck, to do whatever the hell she wants.
I look across at her, a buzz of something shifting inside me when I think about what she’s been through. She’s a strong, decent person who doesn’t have a dishonest bone in her body. The thought of her being caught up in an affair is pure shit. Even worse is knowing that she still tortures herself over it, like it was her fault that some jackass lied to her, made her into the other woman.
She’s looking straight ahead, fingers tapping against one knee, her gaze shifting quickly as it chases the scenery. The notepad she’d pulled out at the start of the trip sits in the console between us. I’m starting to realise that she uses it like a shield—a way to remind us both that she’s here in a work capacity as well.
Good thing too, because there are times when I feel myself opening up to her, saying things I never would to a reporter, and need to hold back, or at least make sure she knows I’m not sharing it with her for the article.
The article. I stifle a groan. What the hell is she going to write about me, anyways?
‘So, Washington, huh?’ I say, mainly because I want to saysomethingto her. To hear her speak.
She glances at me, nods.
‘Why?’
She looks straight ahead, but not before I glimpse the hint of a frown between her eyes. ‘I love politics.’
I laugh.
‘What? What’s wrong with that?’
‘It’s just … who loves politics?’
