I hold my breath, hover my finger over the keyboard, ready to type a reply, but something stops me. Some self-preservation instinct. An understanding, finally, that if I’m not really careful, I’m going to end up way over my head with this guy. What was supposed to be my rebound, my final closing of the book on the whole Kirk saga, could have the opposite effect.
But I refuse to let it.
Resolutely, I place my phone down and go back to staring at my laptop, my brain pounding with temptation as the device almost seems to take on a life of its own, dancing in my mind to get my attention.
I make a groaning sound and stuff the damned thing into my pocket, out of sight, but definitely not out of mind.
The next morning, the strange presentiment of disaster is still with me, tightening my organs like a vice. I take a long time in the shower, dress slowly but deliberately in a pair of black trousers and pale shirt, pull my hair into a no-nonsense ponytail and apply a light layer of make-up. I brew a coffee, turn on the morning news, then, and only then, reach for my phone, breath held. Half hoping, half afraid, to see another text from Beau.
There isn’t one, and the disappointment is searing.
I open our message thread and start to type something, then delete it. I start again, delete it. With a growl, I throw my phone onto the bed then sit down, head in my hands, breath bursting through me.
Over the past week, we’ve had separate rooms—and we’ve mostly stuck to them. Sure, he’s come to me or I’ve gone to him most nights, but we haven’t slept over, because there’s too much risk in a hotel like this, with a heap of the tour guys and sponsors, as well as media, staying in the same place. We shared a drink in the bar one night, but kept it ultra professional. That’s it.
Boundaries adhered to.
Keeping this just how we agreed—lowkey, casual and private.
But it doesn’t feel like enough, and here’s how I know that’s true: I can’t wait to get back on the road with him. To be locked in the cab of his truck, close enough to touch whenever I want, to taste him in the air. I can’t wait to check into some shitty little motel just off the highway and go back to sharing a room, to fallingasleep listening to the thump of his heart, to making love to him whenever I stir, to letting him get under my skin and not fighting it.
It’s enough for me to know that I have to run a mile. I can’t just trail around with him, getting more and more invested in his life, and no matter what we promised each other I’m starting to realise that I was wrong.
Kirk didn’t immunise me completely. It turns out, under the right circumstances I can still want everything I used to want with him. I can feel the dreams shaping themselves in my mind, against my will, without my permission, making me toy with the idea of a future that’s nowhere in my plans. A future that’s completely impossible.
I stand and move restlessly across the hotel room, staring out at the trees that surround the paved courtyard. People are there eating breakfast from the buffet, but I barely register them. I know I can’t go on the road with Beau. This whole thing has become a slippery slope—I’m in danger of falling.
Decision made, I pace back to the bed, pick up my phone and type out a quick text.
Don’t wait for me; I’ll take a flight to Arizona. I’ve got some stuff to do here.
I hold my breath, half expecting him to argue with me, to say something, but it’s crickets.
Disappointment is sharp—and yet another warning I heed. Beau is turning out to be more than I expected, and definitely more than I wanted. A complication I have to take control of.
I raid the minibar rather than going down for breakfast. I’m not in the mood to see anyone—especially not Beau. If he’s even still around. I know he usually gets on the road at the crack of dawn. He was probably waiting for me, but once he got my text I bet he just packed up and left. Because why would he stay? This is meaningless. We both agreed on that. So far as I know, I’m the only one who’s struggling to keep it in that box.
I close my eyes and see his easy, untroubled grin, and remember the feeling I always have that there’s more beneath the surface, more that he keeps locked up.
By lunchtime, I’m starving and figure it’s safe to head out of my room. I check my appearance out of habit, neatening my hair and wiping a dash of pen ink from my cheek.
An elderly couple is getting into the elevator at the same time as me. I smile politely then ride down in silence, stepping out into the tiled foyer before splitting left, toward the restaurant.
I see him the second I walk in. Of course I do. Beau might as well have his own gravitational pull, so far as I’m concerned. He’s so big and goddamn handsome in his jeans and shirt, worn boots, with his cowboy hat placed on the tabletop to his right. He’s sitting with someone I don’t know, so I force myself to ignore his presence, even when every single cell in my body remains aware of him. The hostess shows me to a table by the window. Not only does it have a pretty view of the water feature in the courtyard, but if I choose the seat she’s indicated I’ll be looking right at Beau.
I deliberately opt for the other, facing away from him, but if anything that just makes me more hyper-aware of his voice. It reaches me as a dull throb, too soft to discern the actual words, but his tone is achingly familiar.
I should have called down for room service, I realise, wondering if it’s too late to bolt. And show him how bothered I am by this? Not likely. I do however order a club sandwich—I figure it’ll be one of the quickest meals they make. I can eat fast, then go hide out in my room until he disappears.
My stomach clenches at that, almost as if it’s berating me from the inside out, imploring me not to be such a coward. To make hay while the sun shines, and just appreciate this while it lasts. But whatever power I had to sit back and enjoy the ride evaporated completely with Kirk, and that, I suspect, will never come back.
Chapter Seventeen
Beau
‘Slow down, Bailey.’ I keep my voice low and level, controlled and cool, even when something is sharpening inside of me, pissing me the hell off. It started in my gut last night when she didn’t reply to my text, even though I could see the light on in her room. And then her response this morning, to just casually tell me to go on my merry fucking way, like there’s nothing between us.
And now this? Eating across the restaurant, deliberately sitting so she couldn’t see me, and leaving without so much as a glance in my direction? I’ve never wrapped up a conversation quite so fast as I just did, so I could go after her. She jabs her finger to the elevator button before turning to face me, a smile on her features that’s just as coldly dismissive as that first day at the airport.
