‘I mean, it’s part of it, I guess.’
He frowns, in a very un-Beau like way. My interest sparks. Ihatedthis assignment from the outset. Despite running away to Houston when my life fell apart, I’m not a fan of bull riding,or any sport that practically invites the participants to have their bones rattled around week after week. I especially hated the idea of interviewing someone who’d almost been killed by the sport in the past, and come back for another go. It speaks of a ridiculous amount of egotism and hubris—not to mention callous stupidity. But in person, Beau doesn’t really give any of those vibes, and right now, he doesn’t even seem like his flirty self—which makes me itch to dig beneath the surface.
‘The piece is going to be about your life,’ I elaborate when he doesn’t say anything. ‘You’re a rising star all over again—everyone in the industry’s talking about your comeback.’
He pulls to a stop at the boom gate and puts down his window, then slowly turns to face me. ‘And that’s newsworthy?’
‘Well, this isn’t news,’ I explain. ‘But it’s going to be a feature in the weekend magazine.’ And even though this is a million miles from politics, pride puffs up my chest at that. Sport or not, having a feature in the weekend magazine is a pretty big deal. With the right angle and photos, this could even be a cover article. Ambition fires inside of me, a familiar, welcome touchstone to the core of who I am and what I care about.
Spoiler alert: nothing more than succeeding on my own, out of my father’s shadow. Claims of being a ‘nepo baby’have been impossible to outrun ever since I was forced to change my focus from ballet to journalism. But having an award-winning journalist for your dad makes a lot of people question if you’re only given opportunities because of your last name.
‘Now, why’d anyone wanna ruin their weekend reading about me?’ he asks, with a lazy flicker of his lips.
It’s his fault entirely that I’m thrown off my game, his fault that I don’t realise he’s paying for parking until he’s pressed the ticket into the machine and then tapped his credit card to the reader.
‘I should have paid that,’ I mutter. ‘Given that you drove all this way out here to get me.’
‘It’s not that far from town,’ he placates, easing us through the now-open gate. ‘You can pay me back another time.’
But I hate even the appearance of being in debt to anyone, so his statement leaves a little chip inside of me that I find hard to ignore. ‘I have an expense account. Seriously, let me …’
‘Same difference.’
It’s really not but I can tell I’m not going to win this argument. ‘If you’re hoping to get a flattering article out of paying for parking, you picked the wrong reporter.’
‘Ah, so you’re saying it’s going to be a hit piece?’ He’s still so relaxed, so casual. So likeable,which I reallydon’tlike.
‘Yep, that’s me. Bailey James: word assassin.’
‘I had you picked the minute I saw you.’
I smile despite myself, focusing my attention on the skyline of Fort Worth in the distance, rather than the hulking frame of the man at my side. ‘I’m surprised you even saw me. I was standing in front of you at least twenty seconds before you looked my way.’
‘You’re just a little below my eye level,’ he responds, but there’s something in his voice that makes me feel warm. ‘Besides, I was looking for someone else.’
‘You mean you weren’t there to pick me up? ’Cause I hate to break it to you, but there’s only the two of us in the truck right now.’
‘Believe me, I’m very aware of that,’ he says, and I can’t ignore the way that feeling of warmth turns into something more like lava. ‘I just mean you’re not what I expected.’
I glance down at my floating skirt with a grimace, wishing—not for the first time—that I’d flown in a more businesslike outfit. But Houston was hot; I knew Dallas would be the same. ‘Oh, yeah? What’d you expect?’ I’m a journalist, it’s my job to ask the questions, but for some reason I’m reluctant to hear his answer.
‘Someone older. Stiffer.’
‘Stiffer?’ I repeat, trying to make sense of the word.
‘You know, tight ponytail. Suit. Dull.’
‘How do you know I’m not dull?’
He takes his eyes off the road for a beat. Long enough to assess me and set my pulse skittering. ‘Same way I know what a bull’s thinking, I suppose.’
It takes me a few seconds to respond. I swear the air between us crackles. ‘And how’s that?’
‘Instinct.’
‘Right.’
I sit back in my seat, needing to regain composure, or my land legs, orsomething.Needing to remember that I’m in control here. Except, I’m not. It’s another reason I would have preferred to make my own way to the hotel, on my terms, in my time. So that I could organise our first meeting. Have him waiting for me,so I got a chance to sum him up, before walking to the table and sitting down, introducing myself then asking the first question. This is not how it’s meant to go.
