Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Bailey
He does make it sound simple. So simple I almost forget the reasons I had for doing a blind-panic bolt from his room.
But it was everything—not just the FaceTime call with his family, so much as the sheer spiral I felt when I got dressed in the bathroom and realised how much I didn’t want to leave his room.
How much I wanted to stay there with Beau.
In his arms, his bed, listening to his stories, even just with my head resting on his chest so I could hear the deep throb of his voice up close as he spoke.
Which is needy in a way I promised myself I’d never be again.
The worst thing about the situation with Kirk is something I still struggle to face: how tempted I was to stay with him anyway. Even once I found out. By then, I loved him like I hadn’t known possible. I loved him with all my heart.
I really thought he was my other half.
We shared the same interests, the same goals.
We’d built a whole future life around what I believed we both wanted, where we saw ourselves ending up, and I was so invested in that I never took a breath to read the warning signs.
I just trusted him, and believed him. When I saw his wife, saw them together, I was furious, and then I was just desperate to cling to whatever he would give me.
Breadcrumbs of the life I thought we’d lead.
I wasn’t tempted for long.
I knew, even as I tried to work out how I could still be his and have him be mine, that he never really had been. It was all an illusion. But for a few minutes, I was the worst kind of traitor to women, and I hate that he did that to me.
Afterward, I swore I would never get so swallowed up by a man that I couldn’t think straight.
I’ve only known Beau a few days, but I guess it seems like I’ve known him even longer because of how much research I’ve done.
And the truth that I hold deep, deep down in my chest is that I can see the risks here.
He is the kind of man who could consume even the most cautious of women.
He would be so easy to love, to want to be loved by, even when I know that’s not on the table.
‘No pressure, Bay Jay.’ And he gives me that adorable, relaxed, easygoing smile of his and stands again, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Like this really is the easiest thing.
I stare up at him and try to exhale, to tell myself I’ve been so messed up by Kirk that I can’t take anyone or anything at face value.
I tell myself that Beau is not Kirk, that he’s one of the good ones.
That no matter what else, I’m safe with him—for right now.
Probably safest of all, because we both know what this is, and isn’t, from the outset. No fake promises, no mixed messages.
‘Okay,’ I say, a little embarrassed now at how I’d basically run out on him. I stand up, so we’re toe to toe. ‘I’m sorry I overreacted. That’s really not like me. It’s just … none of this is like me,’ I admit. ‘I guess I’m a little thrown by recent events.’
‘Baby, sometimes being thrown is just what a person needs.’ And to prove his point, he lifts me up and plonks me down in the middle of the bed, his big, beautiful frame over mine, his smile ribbing me and asking me a question all at once.
I push up onto my elbows and kiss him—to hell with being scared, to hell with letting Kirk call any more shots in my life.
A few weeks with a sexy, rugged, casual cowboy is just what the doctor ordered.
I wake up the next morning all alone. But Beau hasn’t just run out on me. That’s not his style, either. He’s left a note, and my lips curve into a smile as I pluck it from the top of the pillow.
You are a seriously sexy newspaper lady. See you later today x
I fall back against my pillow, the grin on my face stretching from ear to ear as I stare up at the ceiling, my heart thumping as memories of last night slam back into me.
Whatever else Beau might be, he is incredible in bed.
Like, mind-blowingly good. So much so I can’t even remember sex before him.
He takes up all the space in my mind for fantasies, making it impossible to regret what we’re doing.
But only for a moment. As I get up and shower then pull on some clothes, I try to focus my scattered brain on the feature I’m meant to be writing.
I’ve been around for days now, and I’ve definitely gotten a better sense of him, but there are still so many proper research questions I need to ask.
Questions I keep getting sidetracked from, because just being near him is as distracting as anything.
I suck in a breath and crack open my laptop, loading up my emails before grabbing a coffee from the machine in my room and carrying the mug to the small desk. I settle down and sift through a whole heap of messages, then open a blank Word document.
What is it about bull riding that captures the imagination of so many? Skill, risk, reward …
I sit back in my chair and stare at the screen.
My fingertips itch. For Beau. To touch his ridged, muscular abdomen, his lips, his hips.
I pick up my phone instead, and for some stupid reason glance toward the door to my room, like he might be about to burst in and find me snooping online for photos of him.
It’s research, I justify mentally, as I load up a search and scroll through the images, a smile playing on my lips when I see him in various clips.
Some are properly posed for sponsors, some are dragged off the ranch’s social media page and show him messing around in his natural state, on a big old property, surrounded by the familiar.
Some are taken when he’s riding. And then there are the photos of him after the accident, his body crumpled, passed out, the blood and broken bones, a rampaging bull tearing at him.
I put down my phone quickly and hold my finger on the delete key of my laptop, then start over:
What makes a man get up on a bull again after suffering an almost life-ending accident? Madness, or passion? Or a little of both?
I stare at the question, frowning now, because while I understand passion, the madness of his commitment is something I find it harder to grapple with.
Most people seem to accept that bull riding comes with risks, even when the circuit goes above and beyond to protect their riders with mandated safety measures.
But it’s still man against bull. Academically, it’s easy to understand the potential danger.
But Beau himself has first-hand knowledge of that.
He’s lived it. Or very nearly died for it.
His injuries were way more extensive than his devil-may-care attitude would lead you to believe.
He was damn near crushed by that bull, and he must know that.
He must know that every step he takes is by God’s grace.
But still, he gets back up on the bull.
Like he’s got something to prove?
My fingers move back to the keyboard and hover there.
Or like he doesn’t care what happens to him?
I sit back in my chair, moving my gaze to the view from the window. Sitting down like this, I see only the tops of the gently swaying trees, their lush, green foliage inviting me to trace their outlines with my eyes.
Is that it? Does a part of him ride out there each week halfway daring the bull to be as bad as he can be? I don’t have a death wish.
I shake my head, trying to reconcile that with the way he is. Beau’s not stupid. And he’s not someone who seems like he wants to die. He’s just … obsessed, like I was with ballet. It’s who I am.
I close my eyes, remembering the months of rehab I pushed myself to do, determined that I could get through my injury.
That I’d be one of the statistical few that somehow managed to beat the fracture and return to dancing properly.
It was gruelling and beyond painful, but that didn’t matter.
I was driven by dreams and determination: a more potent mix than anything I’ve known.
Is it the same for Beau?
Does he want to win that badly? So badly he’s willing to risk getting all crumpled up again?
I stand up, shaking my head, pacing from one side of the room to the other. Or is it arrogance? A belief that it can’t happen to him like that a second time.
All sports carry risk. Football, diving, lacrosse. Nothing is ‘safe’, even living. But surely his accident haunts him?
Every question I ask myself spawns another, and another.
I feel frustrated at how little I actually know of this man, how much he remains an enigma.
But enigmas are just riddles you haven’t yet solved, and I have weeks to solve Beau, before putting him in the rear-view mirror as, with any luck, I speed away to my new career in politics.
It’s definitely not the kind of place I would have thought Beau would bring me.
For a start, I think the closest thing they have to a French fry here is some kind of fancy sous-vide.
This restaurant is all crisp white tablecloths, silver service, waitstaff in black with bright white aprons and elegant mood lighting to perfectly complement the classical music.
My ballet training means I recognise most of the songs as they’re played, and beneath the table my feet tap with a desperate, insatiable desire to dance. To stand and move, to feel the music in my pulse, like I always used to. I knot my fingers together and press them to my thighs.
‘I know, it’s a bit much, but my sister-in-law says it’s the place to eat right now.’ He shrugs almost apologetically. ‘Besides,’ a grin lopes across his face, ‘I figure there’s pretty much no chance of us getting recognised by anyone on the tour in here.’
‘Because bull riders don’t like fancy food?’ I tease.
He shrugs. ‘That, and it’s on the other side of town.’
‘Your sister-in-law is Beth?’