He’s quiet. The hand on my knee squeezes a little, then disappears. ‘Yeah, I lied.’ He drags his other hand through his hair. ‘I think about it all the fucking time. I wish I didn’t. I wish I didn’t wake up conscious of every ache and creak in my body, conscious of how different it feels this time around.’
I wince, his honesty pulling at something deep inside of me, his pain so raw that I don’t know how to help.
‘Beau.’ I lean forward, frowning. None of this is my business. It’s his life, and I’m a very temporary part of it. Meaningless, just like we agreed.
‘You have a lot to offer beyond bull riding,’ I say instead.
He grunts.
‘No, listen.’ My food is forgotten. ‘It’s like with me and ballet. At the time, I was so devastated. I honestly thought my life wasn’t worth living if I couldn’t dance. I really felt that. But it’s like they say—the closing of one door can be the opening of another. I genuinely love what I do now. Not better than ballet, but differently, and probably equally. I would never have found my way here had I not gotten injured. I know it will be the same for you. One day, when you’re ready, you’ll walk away from this and something else will jump out at you. Something else you can’t wait to try. This is just the first act in your life. Trust me.’
His eyes hold mine for a long time, before he turns, looks out the window, a muscle jerking low in his jaw.
‘Maybe,’ he says, reaching for his cutlery. I watch him eat for a while, wondering if there’s anything else I can say to convince him, then decide to let it go for now. We’ve got time, and if it’s the one thing I achieve on this trip, outside of my research, it will be this: making Beau realise there’s life after bulls.
Beau keeps conversation light with all the skills of a pro, asking me about my life, my other articles, why I want to get into political journalism. Pretty much anything surface level. He asks me about school, tells me anecdotes about his family, his hometown, his life, but nothing deep. Nothing personal. The sort of froth he’d tell anyone, just to shoot the breeze, and I let him, because the truth is, with the way he’s touching me beneath the table, the feeling of denim on skin, of his warm, broad legs around mine, I can hardly think straight. My mind is a mess, my body even more so.
When our plates are empty, my eyes shift to his truck, parked outside.
‘I guess we should go,’ I murmur.
His smile is an answer all on its own. But before I can stand, he reaches out, his finger confident as he presses it to the side of my lips and swipes. I have no clue if I have some sauce there, or if he’s just touching me for the sake of it, but I don’t pull back, even when I know I should.
‘Better,’ he murmurs, only his eyes are clinging to my lips, and my raging pulse can’t take it. I clear my throat, hardly able to speak. My eyes scan the room, partly panicked, and land on the door to the restrooms. ‘I’ll … be right back,’ I say, finally pulling away from him and standing a little unsteadily, so I bump the table as I make my escape.
Once in the privacy of a stall, I close the door and lean against it, struggling to get my breath. I’m conscious of everything: the soft fabric against my breasts, the heat of my skin, the tingle in my thighs. I close my eyes and remember the way his gaze clung to my lips, his look of desire, the sense that he wants me every bit as much as I want him. The feeling that we’re still hours from our destination and the thought of waiting is almost too much to bear.
Waiting, like I know we’re going to be together. Waiting, like it’s the ticking of a clock and it’s inevitable that he and I will find our way into bed tonight. Excitement thrums in my veins, a steady stream of need and want, as I use the facilities then move to the basin. I stare at my reflection as I lather my hands, the telltale pink flush, the parted lips, the ponytail that hangs over one shoulder from where I’ve been playing with the ends.
I look as hot for him as I feel, god help me.
When I open the door, Beau’s waiting for me, sunglasses propped on his head, two bottles of water held easily in one of his big hands. Even the sight of that makes my thighs clench, so I have to look away again quickly.
‘You all good there, darlin’?’
I swallow back a retort, wishing I could find something to say that would play it cool—and failing. ‘Fine,’ I mutter tersely. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
His soft laugh follows me to the car.
But the second he opens the door for me and I turn to face him, I physically feel the tables turn. His eyes flare wide and his smile drops. A single shift from my hand to the belt of his pants,hooking into it and pulling him closer, is all it takes to make him growl low in his throat. ‘Hop in, Bailey,’ he says.
I stare up at him, my mouth as parched as the fields beyond the gas station.
‘Where are we staying tonight?’ I mean it to come out conversationally but it’s a thready, desperate plea.
‘About two hours away.’
Two hours. It doesn’t seem like that long, and yet …
He moves then, shifting one leg between mine, so I feel the sturdiness of the denim against my inner thighs and squeeze my eyes shut for a second, just to process the onslaught of sensations. ‘Think you can make it, Bailey?’
I bite into my lower lip, and pull on his jeans a little harder. ‘Can you?’
‘I’ve got no fucking idea. I hope so.’ He moves his leg a little higher and I fight an almost irresistible urge to push down on it, to rub myself against his muscular thigh until I come. ‘I haven’t fooled around in a truck since I was a teenager, but hey, desperate times …’
It’s hardly the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard but it pulls at me harder than rope on a bull. I glance at the back seat of his pick-up, then toward the diner, knowing that we can’t give in to temptation yet. Even when I really, really want to.
‘Wendy would be scandalised.’
