Chapter 2 #2
He frowns, in a very un-Beau like way. My interest sparks.
I hated this 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 really don’t like.
‘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, or something.
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.
But why is that so unnerving? He isn’t the first athlete I’ve interviewed, nor the first incredibly hot guy I’ve ever been around.
But in person Beau Donovan is somehow more than the sum of his parts, and I wasn’t completely prepared for that.
I thought his flirty country act might be just that—an act—but sitting here now, I’m not so sure.
His right knee shifts as he moves his leg, like he’s stretching it, though there’s not enough room in his footwell to do that comfortably because of how tall and big he is.
I try to keep my gaze trained on the skyline, but it doesn’t matter how many times I resolve not to let it, I still find my attention wandering back to him.
‘So, tell me how this works?’ he asks, as we pull to a stop at an intersection.
When I don’t answer, he glances across at me and says, ‘I’ve never been interviewed before.’
‘Yeah, you have. I’ve seen you talk to reporters.’
‘After an event, sure, but not like this.’ His brow furrows, and I find myself staring intently at the small lines above his eyes. ‘What kinds of things do you want to know about me?’
‘Everything,’ I can’t resist teasing. ‘We’ll start with your first memory, and go from there.’
He doesn’t panic though. Instead, Beau tilts his head back and laughs, before focusing once more on the road ahead.
‘Is that funny?’
‘You trying to scare me, Bailey James?’
‘Bailey,’ I say on autopilot. ‘Is it working?’
His eyes flick to mine. ‘Do I look like someone who scares easy?’
He looks like someone who could scare anyone and anything away if he wanted to.
He looks like someone strong, reliable and dependable.
The kind of man you could really trust. But looks can always, always be deceiving; I learned that lesson the hard way.
Nine months of my life spent falling in love with a married man showed me that it doesn’t matter what you think, you can never really know anyone.
It makes my job particularly interesting, because a part of what I do, in theory, is get inside a person, to see the parts they don’t want to show.
I think I’m good at it—the more time I have the better, because cracking someone open and really getting to their core is a big job.
But after Kirk I came to understand that sometimes it’s just a case of seeing what that person wants you to see.
He manipulated me into believing everything he put out there. Bastard.
‘I couldn’t say,’ I murmur, the lightness of the mood evaporating for me completely. ‘Basically, I’ll spend the next few weeks getting to know everything about you and your world.’
He drags a hand over his square, stubbled jaw, as he assimilates that. ‘So the article’s more about the sport than me?’
‘The article will be about you.’ I flex my ankle, the injury that ended my ballet dreams something I now live with.
It’s stiff from the flight, in need of a stretch and rub.
I try not to imagine Beau’s hands providing said rub, but it’s too late.
I picture it and my heart catapults around my chest a bit.
I force myself to focus; it takes a monumental effort.
‘But a part of you is bull riding. So that will form sort of the backdrop to what we’re doing here. ’
‘It’s not just a part of me. It is me. It’s who I am.’
My fingers are itching for my notepad. Unlike a lot of colleagues my age, I’m old school.
I find my brain works best with a pen and paper, rather than my phone or laptop keyboard.
I like to handwrite quotes, riff on the theme of an article, feel the satisfying scratch of ballpoint running over paper fibres.
I reach into my handbag, until my fingers connect with the familiar spiral top. I pull it out, then search for a pen and scribble down his quote. When I look up, we’re stopped at another set of lights and his eyes are resting on me, his expression bemused.
‘Are we on the record already, BJ?’
I tug my lips to the side, not loving the way he drawls the abbreviation of my name. ‘Bailey,’ I correct with faux patience. ‘And, yes. Always, with me.’
‘Always?’ he says, shaking his head. ‘That sounds risky.’
‘Only if you’ve got something to hide.’ I tap my pen against the notepad, smiling over-sweetly.
‘Doesn’t everybody?’
It’s a casual question, thrown out as he starts to drive again.
Across the highway, in the distance, I see the outline of the enormous stadium.
One of the first pieces I did for the Houston Standard was covering a game there.
I knew nothing about football a week beforehand and was an expert by the end.
I still don’t really get the appeal though.
‘I’m not interested in exposing your deepest, darkest secrets, if that’s what you’re worried about.’
‘Honey, I ain’t even a little worried.’ His eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles.
Relaxed, easygoing, just like in the videos I’ve watched.
But I feel something beneath the surface with Beau Donovan, something he works hard to keep hidden, and I want to find out what that is.
Not just for the article, but because I’ve always been someone who likes to unravel mysteries, and in person Beau Donovan feels like more of a mystery than I’d anticipated.