‘I can tell.’
‘How?’
‘Because of the way you talk, the way your brain works, the way you don’t leave any stone unturned, and the way you carry that damn notepad everywhere with you,’ I say with a smile, glancing down at her lean, tanned legs and feeling my pulse go weird. ‘So how come your boss would let the fact you have a famous journalist dad get in the way of your promotion?’
‘It’s not just him. It’s everyone. From the minute I handed in my first essay and topped the class, people have presumed it’s because of dad. That lecturers go easy on me because of who I am, who he is, that my internships are all because he pulled strings. And maybe some of them were,’ she admits, eyes dropping to the console between us. I reach out and press my finger beneath her chin, forcing her to meet my eyes.
‘So you think that if you go to DC and write about serious people and serious things, you’ll finally get out from under his shadow?’ She bites her lower lip, not meeting my eyes. ‘You think you’ll prove that you’re as good as him, maybe even better?’
‘It’s what I want to do,’ she says, but defensively. I know there’s probably truth in her words, but I also know this is more about her dad than she’s willing to admit, even to herself. ‘You’re running from him,’ I say gently. ‘But you’re also running toward him. Want some advice?’
She shakes her head a little, then sighs. ‘What is it?’
‘You’re never gonna be happy until you stop living like you’ve got something to prove.’
‘Easy for you to say.’
‘I’m serious. Who gives a shit what people say about you? You’re doing what you love. You’ve built something amazing out of the ashes of your first love. You’ve pivoted, and made it magic. People are always gonna say dumb shit. First off, that’s usually because they’re jealous. Second, you’ve just got to tune it out. What difference does it make to your life?’
Her eyes hold mine for a beat, and then her lips curve in a small smile. ‘That’s pretty deep for a bull rider,’ she teases, and I grin back at her, but I can’t help the wave of frustration that washes over me. I’m not trying to be deep, so much as real. To help her. Only Bailey doesn’t want my help, and I’m not going to be in her life long enough to change a damn thing.
‘Let’s go get something to eat,’ I suggest, lightening the mood, stepping out of the truck and inhaling the fresh country air. I turn to face Bailey right as the sun lands on her hair, making it look like fire and flames. My gut rolls, and doesn’t stop rolling all the while I watch her walk so casually, so sexily, into the diner. At the door, she turns, smiles at me and winks. ‘You comin’, cowboy?’
I nod my agreement, with a sinking feeling that maybe, just maybe, I’ve bitten off more than I can chew.
Chapter Fourteen
Bailey
I’m not a fiction writer, but the second we step into the diner I’m itching to get it all down, every single bit of it, to build into a story. It’s the kind of place I’ve read about or seen in movies all my life. The linoleum floor, booths against the big windows with views of the parking lot, a backlit jukebox against the far wall, and decor that looks like it hasn’t changed since the sixties. The woman at the counter’s wearing a pale blue dress with a white apron, and even has a pencil tucked behind her ear, for crying out loud. When we walk in, she smiles at us, her lips painted a coral pink.
‘Why, you’re Beau Donovan,’ she says with a flicker of her eyelashes.
The hand Beau has on the small of my back drops. Good boy. He’s been recognised, and the last thing I want is for someone to pull out their cell phone and snap a picture of him being all handsy with me. I mean, it’s fine that we’re here together. Thatcan easily be passed off as work. But not that we’re anything other than two people in a professional arrangement.
‘Sure am, ma’am. How’d you do?’
I almost roll my eyes at the way he does that—switching into exaggerated cowboy-speak when the circumstances seem to require it. Except I also kind of wonder if this is who he truly is. Old-fashioned good manners are stitched into this guy, so too his deep, husky drawl. You can take the man out of the ranch, I think, as we move toward the counter and the waitress slides a couple of laminated menus at us.
‘What do you recommend, Wendy?’ She beams as he refers to the name on her badge.
‘Chicken fried steaks are what we’re known for.’
I look around, wondering just howknown foranything this roadside diner is.
Beau winks at Wendy in full-blown charm mode, and I swear she blushes.
‘Great. One of them for me. And for you, Bay Jay?’
I resist the urge to flick him on the arm, and bite back a smile. ‘Erm.’ I scan the menu, too distracted by the man at my side to think of food. I select something at random. ‘A tuna melt, thanks.’
‘And to drink?’ Wendy asks, scribbling down our order.
‘Just water’s fine,’ I say.
‘And a soda.’
Before I can pull out my wallet, Beau’s slid his credit card across to Wendy. I throw him a look as we walk toward a booth in the corner. ‘I’ll get dinner.’
