He laughs, low and gruff. Wendy appears with two plates, which she places down between us before weaving back to the counter to grab our drinks.
‘Bull riding’s the beginning and the end for me, but even I know it’s just a sport.’
‘You’re twenty-eight,’ I say thoughtfully, as I bite into a fry.
He stiffens, and I drop one hand to my bag, pulling out my notepad on autopilot, placing it on the table. Wendy returns with the drinks, and before she’s even put mine down Beau’s grabbed his, like he’s desperate to quench his parched throat.
‘Yeah?’
I open the notebook, aware of the way his gaze is tracking every movement I make.
‘How long do you think you can do this for?’
His jaw tightens, a barely noticeable gesture of restraint. Of concern?
‘I haven’t thought about it.’
‘Liar.’
Our eyes lock and the heat between us flares with something different. A challenge. But from him to me, or vice versa?
He grins, but I know the way he is now. I can see it’s the kind of smile he’s offering as a shield, to hide whatever’s going on in that big head of his.
‘I never lie about sport.’
‘You’ve thought about the end.’
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘Because we’re the same person.’ I regret it almost as soon as I’ve said it, and quickly clarify. ‘When it comes to our sport, I mean—our passion, our first love. You live and breathe this, and I’d putmy last penny on you living in fear of the day you have to give it up. Just like I did.’
‘You still miss it?’
I close my eyes, wanting to shut down his question and knowing I can’t. It’s not fair. I’m asking him to reveal his innermost thoughts to me, to make himself vulnerable for the sake of my article. I can meet him halfway on that.
‘Yes.’
His lips twist, but not with amusement, so much as a grimace of shared understanding.
‘I’d have loved to see you dance.’ And the way he says it, I know he really feels it. I know he means it, and that sends a throb of something through my body.
I ease back in my seat without moving my legs, because I like the way they feel, trapped by his. ‘There’s probably some footage somewhere,’ I say, before I can think better of it. ‘But, you know, if you’ve seen one ballet, you’ve seen them all.’
‘Don’t do that,’ he says quietly, and beneath the table he puts a hand on my knee, drawing my focus sharply back to his face. I look around, but no one’s watching us. And even if they were, beneath the table is hidden from view, unless you happened to get down on your knees.
‘Do what?’
‘Don’t downplay it.’
I’m caught off guard by the thickening in my throat. ‘Was I?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, you didn’t even answer my question,’ I point out.
‘I thought I had.’
‘You lied.’
