Chapter 1 #2
The woman is clearly not impressed. She might know who I am, but I quickly realise she’s not necessarily a fan.
‘I told them you didn’t need to come and get me. I’m perfectly capable of taking a cab.’
I’m still thinking how pretty she is, so it takes me a second to register her words and connect the dots. ‘You’re the reporter?’
I wouldn’t have thought it was possible but her lips compress even more tightly. ‘Bailey James,’ she says, almost reluctantly, then holds out her hand like it’s the last thing she wants to do.
Just because that annoys me, I reach right out and wrap hers—small and soft—in mine, and flick her one of my most carefree grins. The kind that I usually pull out when I want to make a woman go weak at the knees.
Just briefly I think something flickers in the depths of her eyes, but I can’t be sure. A second later she wrenches her hand away and wipes it down the side of her skirt.
‘You really didn’t need to come get me.’
‘It wasn’t my idea,’ I say with a shrug. ‘Boss’s orders.’
She moves her hand from her hip to the handle of a small suitcase—I hadn’t even clocked it before. ‘Okay, well, thanks, I guess.’ She still sounds irritated. ‘Shall we?’
I’m suddenly dreading the drive back into Fort Worth, wondering how many minutes I can shave off it by pushing the speed limit and chasing down a few shortcuts, but it’s peak hour and even with my best efforts, I reckon it’ll be at least thirty minutes before we reach her hotel.
‘Where are you staying?’ I keep my voice conversational.
In what’s surely not a coincidence, she names the same hotel I’m at.
Of course. Makes sense. Surprising no one more than myself, last year I finished near the top of my game, meaning I’ve had sponsors falling over themselves this season.
In what I can only describe as feast or famine, given how we’ve been struggling on the ranch, some of those partnerships bring in decent money, and some other perks too, like sponsor-paid suites.
The one I’m in now was organised by the tour, and I’m guessing the tour’s booked her room too.
‘Do you know it?’ she asks, because I haven’t replied.
‘Sure do.’
She just stares at me like I’m some kind of imbecile—which raises my hackles right up.
My twin Nash was always the smart one. I spent most days in school staring out the window, wishing I could be anywhere other than cooped up in class.
I’ve got a real dislike for being treated like a fool, because I’m not.
I just don’t go in for book-smart stuff, but that’s not the same thing as being dumb.
And it’s been a long time since anyone’s made me feel less than.
I grind my teeth, trying to see my way through the next few weeks, and failing.
I only know one way to deal with a woman, and that’s to get in her pants.
It’s not something I generally struggle with.
There are exceptions, obviously. Mackenzie’s like a sister to me.
Beth’s the same. Regan, who does our books back home.
But mostly I flirt my way out of any situation, or into a situation, and it generally works just fine.
Bailey James is definitely someone I’d like getting to know—in different circumstances. But I can’t say the feeling’s mutual. She’s looking at me like I’m something she’s stepped in on the sidewalk—three-day-old gum she can’t wait to get rid of.
‘So,’ she says, deep-brown velvet eyes glancing toward the sliding doors of the airport. ‘Shall we?’
‘Why not?’ My voice is calm, showing no hint of my inner thoughts. I keep my tone level, lightly amused. ‘I’m parked this way.’
‘Great.’ Her smile is performative and perfunctory. I ignore it, reaching past her to take the suitcase.
‘I’ve got it.’ She flicks my hand away.
I can’t help it. I laugh. I can’t remember the last time a girl fought me over something as stupid as carrying a bag.
‘What’s the matter? Got the nuclear codes in there or something?’
I swear she actually rolls her eyes. Somehow I just know that’s something she’d wish she hadn’t done. Despite what she’s wearing, I get the sense that she’s the kind of person who prides herself on professionalism at all times.
‘No, just a fundamental dislike for the assumption that because I’m a woman I can’t lift a finger.’
‘Is that what I just did?’
‘Why else would you want to carry my suitcase?’
‘Where I come from, it’s just what you do.’
‘Yeah, well, where I come from, it’s a sign of patriarchal condescension.’
I let out a low whistle. ‘It’s a bag.’
‘No, it’s centuries of behaviour.’
I lift my hands in silent surrender. ‘Okay, Bailey James, carry your own stuff, if it means that much to you.’
I swear to god, it actually hurts me to watch her hand curve around the handle and begin to pull the damn bag after her.
It’s small enough, probably doesn’t weigh that much, but I know my old man would be rolling over in his grave.
Then again, maybe not. He dealt with enough prickly women in his life—Mackenzie included—to know that there’s no-one-size-fits-all approach to these things.
‘Where are you from, anyway?’ I ask, as we step out into the blistering August afternoon. The sun’s still high in the sky, beating down on the whole of Dallas, and the asphalt seems to blast that heat right back up at us.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said that where you’re from, “it’s a sign of patriarchal condescension”. Where are you from?’
‘Oh.’ She glances up at me with those eyes—I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone with eyes quite that colour.
They’re such a deeply rich brown, like caramelised sugar that I find myself just staring at them for a long beat.
‘The twenty-first century,’ she quips, but the corners of her mouth lift in what’s probably the hint of a smile.
‘Ha ha.’ My tone is droll.
Now her lips curve into a proper smile, and something shifts through me.
I’ve felt it often enough to recognise the sensation.
Attraction. It lands hard in the centre of my chest, a big, warm knot of awareness that she’s pretty, that I’d like to make her smile more, even if just for a night or two.
Which is a very, very dumb idea, because Bailey James works for a hoity newspaper and is going to be writing some long-ass piece on me.
The last thing I want is for this to get personal, or to let my guard down.
‘We moved around a lot,’ she says, eyes shifting away from me, scanning the parking lot. ‘Which way?’
I nod to the left.
‘Where do you live now?’
‘Houston.’
That surprises me. ‘But you clearly haven’t spent much time there.’ Her accent is definitely not from that part of the world.
‘A few years.’
Going from the way she was inside the airport terminal, I would have thought she’d clam up when I asked about her. Suddenly the prospect of a thirty-minute drive is slightly improved.
‘Where were you before that?’
‘New York.’
I nod. ‘And before that?’
She lets out a long breath. ‘Aren’t I the one who’s meant to be asking the questions?’
Ah, there it is. The closed-off version of her I’d expected.
‘You got a problem with answering, darlin’?’
Her eyes flare wide. ‘I’ve got a problem with being called “darlin’”,’ she responds, imitating my accent.
I laugh, a deep, throaty sound that isn’t at all familiar. ‘Let me guess. The patriarchy?’
‘Definitely.’
‘That’s not how I meant it.’
‘Yeah, well.’ She blows out again, like she’s giving up on changing my mind. Good for her. ‘I went to school in California.’
‘Now that I can see.’
‘Why?’
I stop walking and look at her. And I don’t mean I glance.
I look at her, the way I’d look at some woman in a bar who made me feel that warm glow of heat, that buzz of attraction.
I let my eyes linger on her sandal-clad feet, then her long, floaty skirt, my throat constricting as my gaze skims her flat, toned stomach, then quickly moves over her shirt before landing on her face.
She’s staring at me not with amusement, or even mutual attraction, but rather impatience.
‘Your outfit screams West Coast.’
She arches a brow.
‘Your tan. Your hair.’
‘My hair’s red.’
‘That’s not red.’ I think of Ash and instantly relax.
Ash, who’s one of my best friends, sometimes more—though not since I got back into bull riding.
That’s a hard line for her, and I respect that.
For as long as I’m doing this, she’s made it clear: nothing more than friendship is on offer.
Ash has been at my side since we were kids, the two of us tumbling around together, laughing until our sides hurt.
Her hair is the deepest red I’ve ever seen, like leaves in the fall, but glossy.
Her skin is creamy white all over, even though she’s outdoors so much of the time.
You’d never know it save for the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose.
‘Yeah, well, it’s not exactly blonde either.’ She looks around again. ‘Are we just going to stand here yapping?’
‘Yapping?’
She crosses her arms over her chest, and I take advantage of that gesture to reach down and grab the handle of her suitcase. ‘This way, Bailey James.’ I don’t turn around to see if she’s following.