I move my legs wider, capturing hers. Her eyes flare, and heat sparks like a livewire. ‘Want to show me your room?’
My laugh is a desperate plea. ‘I really don’t think that’s a good idea.’
Her pout is an exaggeration. ‘But I want to see it.’
I know what will happen if we go in there. Thoughts of my bed swallow me like quicksand, but I have to be strong for the both of us. ‘Better idea,’ I say, putting a hand on her hip, stroking her there gently, aching to feel her skin beneath the jeans. ‘You go take a look, make notes in that trusty little book of yours, then meet me out by the truck.’
She makes a tsking sound and straightens, pulling away from me. ‘Beau Donovan, you’re a gentleman.’
‘Believe me, I wish I wasn’t right now.’
Her smile is slow to spread and sweet as pie. ‘Thank you,’ she says, with a wink. ‘Which way?’
I bite back a groan, just imagining her walking into my room without me being there to show her around. Except showing her around is only the beginning of what I’d do to her if I had her in my room. ‘Through the hallway, second right, third door on the left.’
She repeats the instructions then, with another quick glance in the direction of the doors, she blows me a slow kiss. It seems to land all over my body.
Bailey
His room is everything I would have expected. I smile as soon as I walk in and practically taste him. His masculine, piney fragrance is subtle in the air, so I breathe in deeply to fill my lungs. The bed is made but rumpled, like maybe he was sitting on it earlier today. There’s a desk with a pinboard over it, filled with photos and old letters. Awards clutter one of the shelves, not on display, really, so much as just stored there. I look across them, take a few photos with my phone—for the article—and run my hand over his pillow, closing my eyes and imagining Beau here. I see him in his jeans, boots, shirts, feel what it would be like to lie beside him on this bed. To not worry about being seen, about anyone finding out. I imagine what it would be like to fully lean into this, to trust that he wouldn’t hurt me, to trust that we both wanted the same thing, and my smile drops clear off my face.
I can’t even imagine that reality—it feels impossible.
But for tonight, I just want to let this fantasy bubble around me, to enjoy being with Beau, in his home, his town, seeing him like this, truly in his element. Away from the circuit, the events, the sense that he has to be Beau Donovan the Bull Rider all the time, the legend rather than the man, the cheeky, charming athlete rather than the multi-faceted human.
I catch hold of another thread I want to weave into my article, touching on the truth of what drives Beau, the pieces he keeps locked beneath the surface. The drive to succeed, the grit, the serious focus I see on his face at rodeos, qualities that are almost the polar opposite to his relaxed, jocular vibe.
There’s a large window on the far wall of his room. I look out, see the way the moonlight is streaking across the grass, the silhouette of trees in the distance. A creeping sense of recognition moves over me, of comfort. This is Beau’s home and it really, really feels like that—a home.
Beau
About ten minutes later, Bailey steps out of the front door, head bent, bag over her shoulder. I watch her with curiosity and admiration as she walks toward the truck.
‘Well?’ I ask when she reaches me.
Her eyes crinkle at the corners. ‘You’re neat.’
I let out a gruff laugh. ‘That’s what you noticed about my room?’
She nods.
‘I’m disappointed. I’d have thought a world-class journalist like you would spot all sorts of things.’
She arches a single brow. ‘You want a sneak peek of my article?’
I put a hand on her hip; I can’t help it. Besides, we’re alone out here. Just us, the night birds, and the explosion of stars overhead.
‘You’ve kept every trophy you’ve ever won, but you don’t display them proudly. They’re kind of all jumbled together, covered in dust. They’re a part of your life, but they don’t define you,’ she says, moving her hand to my hip, so we’re locked together, toe to toe. I want to say something flippant but find it almost impossible. ‘Your bed is made, your room ordered, because you like things to be a certain way, but also because you were taught to show respect for your belongings, and that includes your space. You have photographs all over your pinboard, but mostly they’re of family. These people are your home, and your heart.’ The air crackles between us, her accuracy—how she really sees me—taking my breath away a little. Then she smiles, lightly teasing. ‘And there’s not a single book in your room, which tells me either you don’t read, or you read on a Kindle. I didn’t go around opening drawers to find out.’
I return her smile. ‘Thorough.’
We stare into each other’s eyes a moment, a beat that seems heavy in the air, neither of us able to break free of it.
‘I like your family.’
‘I’m glad.’ And I am. Gladder than I probably should be, given the temporary nature of Bailey’s place in my life. But short term or not, seeing her slot into things here just feels validating, and important. I lift a hand, curving it around her cheek. Her eyes flutter closed. ‘I think they liked you too.’
Her smile is low, a dimple carving in her other cheek. ‘I should get back to the hotel,’ she says, in a tone that tells me it’s the last thing she wants to do.
