Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Bailey
It is one hundred per cent not this bull-riding cowboy hick’s fault that I got put on this assignment.
It is most definitely not his fault that my editor is still hazing me this far into my job by making me cover the sports desk when I am literally the least sports-inclined person that’s ever lived.
I once called a tennis racket a ‘bat’ in a feature and have never lived it down.
Anyone who knows me knows I want to do political journalism.
That’s what I get, it’s what I’d be good at—if someone would give me a chance.
My editor keeps dangling the carrot for me.
Do a good enough job on this piece, and we’ll see about sending you to Washington.
It’s been three years of covering sports games and athletes, of swotting up to become a world expert in whatever I’m being sent to write about, and that carrot still seems frustratingly just out of reach.
It’s not this guy’s fault that it’s hotter than Hades today in Dallas, and that I really did want a chance to get back to the hotel to shower and change into something a little more professional before coming face to face with Beau Donovan.
Obviously I’ve researched the hell out of him.
What kind of journalist would I be if I hadn’t?
I know pretty much all his career stats, but I also know he’s regarded as a total heart-throb of the scene, a target for every buckle bunny out there—don’t get me started on what I think of that particular term, and the inherent sexism therein.
But his universal appeal is something he evidently really doesn’t resent if his easy, flirtatious smile is anything to go by.
I also know he’s got a family ranch that his brother runs, courtesy of the thriving social media presence the place has.
This guy screams star potential, to the point I can’t help but wonder why he’s busting a gut—and potentially every bone in his body—working the tour.
Sure, there’s money and status, but his media appeal alone would probably get both of those things for him.
Which is part of what I want to uncover for this story.
Frustration hums inside of me though, because that’s not enough.
If I want this to be what takes me to Washington, I need to make it better.
Deeper. More than just your average fluff piece about a committed athlete.
I’ve watched hours of footage of Beau Donovan being interviewed, right back to when he debuted on the circuit.
I know he’s all easy charm, quick wit and flirtatious beauty.
Yeah, beauty. Super weird to call a cowboy beautiful but anyone who came face to face with this guy would probably reach for the same word.
He might have a chiselled, stubble-covered jaw and a body that’s all big, muscular strength, but he’s also just put together in a way that is … mesmerising.
I stand there, watching him wheel my suitcase away, heart rate not quite back to normal after the way his eyes slowly raked over my body, and I let my own gaze do a retaliatory journey over his jeans-clad legs, the way the Wranglers hug the curve of his ass, the thick, brown leather belt threaded through loops that emphasise his slim waist, then up to his broad shoulders that look like they’d be perfectly capable of bearing the weight of the world without Beau breaking a sweat.
What I can see of his hair underneath the cowboy hat he wears is thick and dark—but I know that anyway, from the interviews I’ve been watching.
In real life, he’s just so much more than I’d expected, and I hate that.
I hate surprises, and with damn good reason.
Show me a woman who’s been caught in a love triangle and not felt like the rug’s been pulled out from under her.
Except it wasn’t a love triangle, I force myself to remember.
I was the other woman. I didn’t know it, but that doesn’t change the fact I had an affair with a married man, and nearly ruined some innocent woman’s life.
Ice runs down my spine as memories I try so hard to blot out shatter through me like shards of glass, cutting my composure, so for a second I’m twenty-one and right back in that moment, realising that everything I thought I knew about the person I loved was a lie.
‘You coming, Bailey James?’
His teasing question drags me back to the present. Straightening my spine and forcing myself to remember that the whole affair-heartbreak situation was three years and several states ago, I still find it hard to let the ball of tension go from my gut.
I make myself walk though, one foot after the other, just like I did back then. Fake it till you make it. The same lesson I learned at eighteen, when my world fell down around me, I employed as a twenty-one year old. Look like you’re fine, and eventually you will be.
His truck is big and black, with an American flag sticker on the bumper. He opens one of the rear doors and places the bag in there like it weighs nothing, then moves to the front passenger door. ‘Am I allowed to open this for you, or are you gonna call me names again?’
I ignore the whip of amusement spreading through me. I’m not here to be flirted with by Beau Donovan, and I’m definitely not here to make friends with him. This is business, as much as any other profile piece I’ve written over the years.
‘It’s your truck,’ I say, courteous and casual all at once.
Except ‘casual’ pretty much flies right out the window when I go to step up into the thing and catch a hint of his cologne.
It’s so uber-masculine, so clean and alpha, that my foot slips and I slide sideways.
I might even have fallen to the ground except for Beau’s quick reaction, the way he stepped forward, his hand curving under my elbow, catching me, righting me, but bringing our bodies really close together.
So close that when my gaze drops down, I see the tarnished buckle of his belt and below it the bulge of his jeans that makes what’s left of my pulse go into complete disarray.
‘I’m fine,’ I say, louder and more panicked than I intended. I cannot be aware of Beau as a guy. I can’t. I’m here to do a job.
Maybe watching all those videos of him was a mistake.
How can I be impartial to his flirting when I’ve already spent hours being charmed by him?
It’s one of the reasons I didn’t want him coming to get me off the plane.
This is work, and if I’d been able to arrange a meeting with him to get the ball rolling, then it would have felt like work.
With me in a suit and a busy restaurant or something. Not this.
‘You sure? It’s a long way up for someone your size.’
His voice still has that teasing tone, so I wonder if maybe he’s not feeling the same sparking in the air that I am, the heat that has nothing to do with the late summer’s day. But then, for the briefest second, his eyes fall to my lips and something inside of me soars hard.
I pull my elbow free. ‘I’m good,’ I reiterate. ‘I just lost my footing. Sea legs, or whatever.’
‘That’s boats, not planes.’
‘Obviously.’ I grab hold of the handle inside his car, using it to pull me into the seat, but I’m aware of him standing right there behind me the whole time, as if to catch me if I fall. I don’t. A moment later, he shuts the door and I expel a quick breath.
Relief is short-lived though. I can’t help but watch him stride around the front of the truck, toward the driver’s side, those jeans fitting him so perfectly it’s like they were made for his body.
He opens the door and swings up into his seat in one motion.
No effort—all easy, relaxed bull rider. And he’s there beside me, this huge, hulking, beautiful cowboy, taking off his hat and placing it on the dash, before turning to face me and flashing that casual grin of his. ‘Well, Bailey James, you ready to go?’
I reach for my seatbelt, glad to have something to do that lets me pull my attention away from him.
As soon as I’m clipped in, he starts the engine.
It’s low and deep, grumbling to life with a satisfying throttle sound.
‘You can just call me Bailey, you know,’ I say, after a pause, as he starts to reverse.
His attention is focused on the mirror, mine is on his face.
Until his eyes shift sideways to meet my gaze, and I quickly glance away again, looking straight ahead.
‘Okay, Bailey. Why me?’
That has me turning to face him once more. This time, I try to keep my mind on what he’s saying, on business. The professional reasons I’m here.
‘You don’t think you’re worthy of a feature piece?’
He pulls a face. ‘Not particularly.’
‘You’re kind of an internet sensation.’
Something draws my attention to the steering wheel, so I see the way his hands tighten on it, even when his voice is all relaxed charm.
‘So, is that the angle? Because if so, I reckon you’d be better off talking to Cole or Beth, or even Mack.
They have more to do with the social media stuff than me these days. ’
‘You were the star of those first videos though, right?’
He pulls a parking ticket from his pocket as we approach the boom gates. ‘You’ve watched them?’
‘I’ve done my research.’ My voice emerges a little defensive. Unnecessarily so, because what reporter wouldn’t in this situation?
‘And you want to talk about our Instagram account?’
‘I mean, it’s part of it, I guess.’