Chapter 3 #2
Sleeps with? Jeez. Where did that come from?
He makes some throwaway joke about sharing a room and I’m suddenly imagining us in bed together?
I have no doubt Beau Donovan has a way of charming women into bed in three seconds flat, but not this woman.
I’ve been too badly burned before. Besides, I’m here to work.
With that in mind, I shower the plane off me, change into a pair of tailored navy blue pants and a pale-pink blouse, then pin my hair up into a bun high on my head.
I opt for heels, even though they’re new and pinch my feet, because I want to minimise the height difference between us.
It’s just an extra inch, but that’s not nothing.
Before heading downstairs to the bar, I take a second to check my appearance. Now I look like the version of myself I would have wished him to meet. This is business, and my outfit screams that.
The hotel itself is a cowboy’s—or cowboy wannabe’s—wet dream.
It’s all darkly wooded, with timber beams, exposed brick, raw edges and natural fibres.
The room itself is stunning, with a terracotta-tile floor, heavy oak bed and a bull’s head mounted over the flatscreen.
The small deck overlooks a pool that’s lined with cactus and grasses.
The corridors are the same vibe, wide with high ceilings, and windows at one end that frame the dusky sky.
I noticed the bar on my way to check in, and retrace my steps there now.
There are still plenty of tables available, but it’s filling up.
The seats are large and comfortable, spaced well enough apart to allow for privacy.
Some are leather, some are covered in cow hide, some are a dark wood.
There are chesterfields near the fireplace and big old stools at the bar.
Everything about this place has a hint of a western saloon, but with added polish, for well-monied guests.
It’s both charming and atmospheric, a homey space for when you’re on the road, where your every need will be catered for.
These are background thoughts, populating my brain as they do whenever I’m in the research phase of an article.
But the second I see Beau, all those details blur like a filter’s been placed over them.
I’m not conscious of the furniture or the smoky, woody smell, or the low hum of the other guests.
I feel the heat of his gaze on me, the intensity of his eyes, remember the twist of his lips, the creases in the corners of his eyes when he smiles.
I remember the way his large, weathered hands curved over the steering wheel, the way he drove with such easy command and confidence.
I remember the way his truck was like an extension of him, big and rumbling, all masculine and powerful.
And I really, really wish I didn’t remember any of those things, because all that businesslike energy I wanted to exude suddenly seems to have fallen off a cliff.
‘Bailey James.’
I’ve given up trying to get him to use just my first name.
He can have no idea how much my full name twists inside of me, the fact it’s like a poisoned chalice.
If I’d known as much when I first graduated, I would have chosen to publish under something else, but why would it have occurred to me that my dad’s success would become a millstone around my neck?
Why would I have ever thought I’d want to hide from that?
‘Beau Donovan,’ I say needlessly. I can see by the way people are looking at him that here, in this place, Beau needs no introduction.
He is a god to these people, loved because of his grit and strength, and the fact he came back from the kind of accident that would have killed a lesser man.
Around these parts, fearlessness means the world.
Even though I know his grin is something he whips out to charm and disarm, that doesn’t stop it from doing exactly those two things as he flashes it at me now. ‘What would you like?’
I scan the rows of liquor behind the bar, then turn back to Beau. ‘Whatever you’re having is fine.’
He orders two beers, but before he can pay I hold out my hand. ‘I insist.’
The consternation on his face is immediate, though he smothers it pretty quickly. Those old-fashioned manners of his means he doesn’t much like the thought of a woman buying him a drink.
‘This is work. Technically, it’s on the paper,’ I point out. ‘Besides, it’s the least I can do to thank you for coming to get me.’
‘That was my pleasure.’
Again, I know flirting is just a way of life for Beau, but my skin lifts in goosebumps anyway, my insides doing a funny little tremble at the way the words seem to be loaded with extra meaning.
The guy behind the bar has a thick handlebar moustache, and it quivers as he puts the beers down on the counter.
‘I’ve got it,’ I say firmly to both of them. Apparently, those same old-fashioned manners preclude either from arguing with me.
‘On one condition,’ Beau says, as I hand my card over.
I turn to face him, then wish I hadn’t, because we’re so close that I can see the specks of gold in his deep, dark eyes.
‘What’s that?’
‘Let me buy dinner.’
Dinner. I panic at even the suggestion. I know it’s not a date—this is work.
And no matter how much I feel little sparks bursting beneath my skin, there’s no way on earth I’m going to give in to that.
Not after the disaster that was Kirk. Okay, that was three years ago, and I’ve learned a lot since then, but my whole entire focus is on my job.
That’s what’s keeping me safe, that’s what’s keeping me on track.
‘Let’s start with a drink,’ I say cautiously, and I swear I hear the guy behind the bar guffaw. ‘You’ve got an event tomorrow.’
‘And a man’s gotta eat.’ He pats his flat stomach. Even without looking down, I know what it would look like, what it would feel like. Lean and hard as a wall, muscled and strong. I can imagine the rough rawness of his cotton shirt, the warmth of his skin. My throat is dry, my palms clammy.
‘A man can eat anytime, I’m not standing in his way.
’ I reach for one of the beers, lift it toward him in a half salute before bringing it to my lips to take a sip.
I need it. The drink slips down, ice cold and refreshing, but it does nothing to quell the heat building between my legs.
I make the mistake of glancing across at him to see his eyes resting on my mouth, tracing the moistness there courtesy of the beer.
‘Let’s sit down.’ I turn away abruptly, scanning the room for the least intimate chairs I can find, then close my eyes against the futility of that.
Intimacy is exactly what I need if I want this guy to open up to me.
And I do. This feature has the potential to blow my career wide open.
I know my editor can’t keep passing me up for the Washington desk forever; I just have to knock his socks far enough off to let him forget that I’m Pulitzer Prize winner Randolf James’s daughter.
‘Over there?’ I gesture to two big armchairs in the window alcove. Because they’re nestled into the buildout, there’s no way anyone can get close enough to hear our conversation, but they’re visible to the whole bar, meaning we’re not likely to do something stupid.
Like what? A shocked voice bursts through me. What the hell am I afraid of? That if we’re alone, we won’t be able to keep our hands off each other?
I fidget with my fingers uneasily as I make my way through the tables and chairs to the seats in question.
I can’t help but watch as he eases his bulky frame into the seat to the left of the table.
His jeans are faded and worn, but man, they hug his body in all the right places.
His butt, his thighs, and most concerningly, that bulge in the front of his pants that suddenly I find it almost impossible not to look at.
I force myself to sit down and grip my beer as though it’s a lifeline.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he says, relaxing back in the chair, legs spread wide, elbows pressing to the armrests, a study in relaxation.
‘Is that new for you?’
For a second, something flashes in his eyes, but it’s gone again almost instantly, leaving the appearance of amusement on his face instead. ‘Is that how it’s gonna be, Bailey?’
It’s the first time he’s used just my first name, and I know I should be glad.
Only it feels like a reaction to my words, like he’s being more formal, not less, and I don’t want that.
I’m tempted to apologise, but a sense of self-preservation holds me back.
Maybe it’s better if we keep a wary, almost combative, distance?
Better than thinking about his flat stomach, bulging pants, ass-hugging jeans, and the possibility of falling into bed together.
Oh. My. God. For the first time in my career, I’m seriously tempted to cry off an assignment.
To tell my editor to send someone else for this.
But just the thought of my editor’s face, the smug look of victory, makes me hold my ground.
‘Let’s get started,’ I demur, pulling my notebook from my bag and opening it to the page I’d been writing on in the car. I tap my pen to the edge, glancing across at him.
For once, his expression isn’t that lighthearted grin. He looks contemplative and deep, as though he’s working out some huge problem.
‘Don’t be worried,’ I say, after a pause. Isn’t that my job? To reassure him? I am the professional here, after all.
He leans forward, and he’s so big that it only takes a slight movement for me to feel as though he’s almost engulfing me, even when we’re still several feet apart. He reaches for his beer and holds it between his hands, eyes locked to my face. ‘Don’t you want to know what I’ve been thinking?’