Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Bailey
Not quite two hours later, we’re pulling into a town that’s little more than a single strip of asphalt with a gas station, a diner, a post office and general store, the latter two sharing the same building.
But the sky is dusky hues of pink and orange, the street wide, and there’s an old charm about the place that makes me want to explore it.
Beau takes a right and then drives through double gates with a big sign overhead proclaiming Motel.
The o is flickering a little, a light on the blink.
He pulls up down the end, where a placard in the window reads Reception.
‘I won’t be long.’ Tension stretches around me like a string.
His jeans hug his ass as he walks, and with each step his boots kick up a small cloud of dust. His shirt is a pale blue, tucked into his belted waist, and on his head he wears a black cowboy hat that he removes as he opens the door and disappears inside. My pulse kicks up.
Even when he’s gone, I feel him. The car smells like him.
I look at the driver’s seat and can still see the ghost of Beau, driving with his arm on the open window, his slow, easy smile, deep, honeyed tan, the way he sat with his legs wide, one knee cocked to the console, so I could almost reach out and touch it.
My hand drifts over, my fingertips running over the dark leather of his seat. It’s still warm.
A door closes and I jump guiltily. I glance back at the reception area as Beau steps out, still holding his hat, striding toward the car, all chiselled jaw and broad shoulders, all gorgeous cowboy action figure brought to life.
I hope I can come up with a better way to describe him in my article.
‘Sex on a stick’ is accurate, but probably not what my editor’s looking for.
He opens my door and holds it wide, so I step out on legs that are a little unsteady. I’m wearing sunglasses; he’s not. I feel the intensity in his gaze and am relieved my eyes are shielded from him.
‘You’re over there.’ He nods along the rows of doors, holding out a key. Disappointment is a visceral, tangible thing. I try to smother any response, but I know it must show on my face despite the sunglasses.
A cocky grin lifts his lips. ‘What’s the matter, darlin’? Did you think we’d be sharing a room?’
Heat floods my cheeks as I bite back a retort. I hadn’t given it any thought, but yeah, apparently that’s what I had been expecting. And wanting.
He leans down and whispers in a gravelled voice, right in my ear, ‘Don’t worry—we have our own rooms but that doesn’t mean we can’t share a bed.’
I hate that Kirk has done this to me. I hate that because of him I have flashes of self-doubt even when all evidence is to the contrary.
I hate that he’s made me wonder what a guy would see in me, when Beau’s been tripping over himself from almost the first moment we met to get in my pants.
Okay, that might just be what he’s like, I’m not stupid enough to think it means anything to him, but it does to me.
Kirk made me feel like I couldn’t trust myself, couldn’t get what I wanted in life, couldn’t have it all, and Beau makes me feel the exact opposite.
Like he’s the buffet and I can just keep on filling up to my heart’s content—and that means something.
The idea of being safe in a relationship—even just a fling—is something Bailey 2.
0 struggles with. I trusted Kirk, he screwed me over, and somewhere along the way I vowed never to trust again. So yeah, this is a big deal.
He wiggles the key with the oversized red plastic keyring; I reach out and take it.
‘My sister, you know. She drummed it into us that girls like privacy.’ He lifts his broad shoulders and my heart turns over in my chest at both the courtesy and the admission. He’s not presuming anything, despite the heat that’s bursting between us.
‘You know, you’re a real gentleman.’
A muscle jerks in his jaw. ‘Only way to be when you’re raised a Donovan.’
I strangle a sigh in my throat—just.
‘I’ll get your bag.’
‘Sure.’ I say the word into the nothingness before me, then belatedly move toward the door he indicated. A quick check of the keyring shows the room number; I scan the brick walls until we reach it, then push the key into the lock.
Inside is pretty much exactly what you’d expect, if you’ve ever seen a TV show or movie that features a roadside motel.
Aged decor, simple furnishings and a plastic palm in the corner.
But it smells like pine and lavender, and rather than an ancient coverlet on the decent-size bed, the linen is crisp white, starched and inviting.
My eyes run over it appreciatively and then, aware that Beau is right behind me, his warmth enveloping even without touching me, I fight an urge to fall back against him.
To turn and wrap my arms around his neatly muscled waist, pressing my hands to his back.
Just like I’ve been wanting to do since the diner. No, since I woke up in my own room in Fort Worth, needing him like wildfire.
‘Okay.’ He places the bags down, takes a few more steps, hands in pockets now. There’s a flatscreen on the wall, a fridge, a small safe. ‘Good?’
He turns slowly to face me, one thick, dark brow cocked in inquiry.
I nod once.
‘I know it’s not the Ritz,’ he says, with that grin I love so much.
‘I don’t need the Ritz.’ I swallow but there’s a constriction in my throat. The air between us feels heavy and thick.
I take a step toward the bed, run my fingers over the crisply substantial linen. ‘It’s clean,’ I point out.
‘A good consideration.’ His smile suggests it’s not something he really cares about. My fingers trail over the foot of the bed, then drop off, dangling at my side. My limbs feel heavy, my brain woollen.
‘Where’s your room?’
I think he might be one of those people who has more developed facial muscles than is usual, because he barely moves and yet I feel like he’s conveying something with the smallest shift in his lips, eyes, nose.
‘Three doors down.’
I nod, like it’s significant.
He doesn’t move. ‘There’s a diner in town. The woman at reception says they do a good burger.’
‘I like burgers.’ It’s so inane I almost cringe.
He starts to walk toward the door and every cell in my body shouts at me to say something, to stop him.
To jump on him, now that we’re alone. But no matter how much I want that, Kirk’s betrayal has a long shadow, and it leaves me reluctant to put myself too far out there.
To show how much I want him, even when it’s true.
‘Great. So, dinner?’
No, I want to cry, but instead I nod. He smiles slowly as he turns to look at me then winks, and my blood turns to lava.
‘Beau?’ In the end, despite my intentions, his name emerges from me as a plea.
His expression is relaxed. Only the sharp rise and fall of his chest makes me wonder if maybe he’s feeling what I am too.
Maybe he’s just better at fighting it. My fingers trail to the bed again, and this time his eyes follow the gesture, so his Adam’s apple shifts with how hard he swallows.
I can’t look away from him, from the strength of his body, the lines that radiate command and power, the crispness of his shirt, the worn softness of his jeans, the leather of his belt, the bulge just beneath it.
I bite into my lower lip, to stop myself from shouting what’s going through my mind, to stop myself from begging for him.
But it doesn’t matter. The air throbs with what I’m not saying; my need is a visceral pulse, filling the space.
He moves then, stalking back toward me, and I stand there, as though held captive by what I want and he can give, by what I need.
A second later, his hands are on my hips, pulling me against his body and I let out a soft, low moan, a throaty sound of gratitude, because this feels so damn good.
His hands are so large they seem to cover half my torso, his fingers pressing into me with just the right pressure, and then his head is dropping, his breath warm against my cheek before his mouth claims mine and I arch my back in a silent yet total surrender, grateful that we both know this is meaningless, even when, in the back of my mind, I’m starting to wonder if maybe it’s not.
Beau
Late afternoon light filters in from the high, narrow window across the room, creating a distorted diamond of gold on the dark brown carpet.
I push up onto one elbow, looking down at Bailey James.
Her strawberry-blonde hair is a streak across the white pillow, her cheeks flushed a pink that’s almost the same shade, her lips parted, eyes closed.
But she’s not asleep. She’s trying to blot me out, I think, trying to blot out how good this feels.
Or perhaps trying to wrangle it back under control.
Good for her.
If we let it, this could get way out of hand.
I’m not talking from experience. Not really.
All my life, I’ve found it easy to keep people—especially women—at a distance.
Most like the fact I’m carefree and easygoing, no one expects things with me to get deep.
Even with Ash, who’s always been one of my closest friends, I keep the real me partly locked away.
The parts I don’t want anyone to see: the anger and resentment that simmers just beneath the surface, the grief.
The grief that has shaped me in more ways than I really want to think about, especially now, with my body still humming from the pleasure of making love to Bailey all afternoon.
But the companion to pleasure looms like a warning: attachment, and I really can’t get attached. I can’t let her get under my skin. I can’t want more than what we’ve agreed this is. I won’t love, like my dad loved my mom, like we all loved our mom. I can’t get hurt again.