“I never agreed to anything,” Harlan barked, coming out of his trance.
She held her ground and tapped her foot, which brought his attention to her long legs and then her curvy hips, to her waist, then her blouse and back down again.
“Your brother will be very disappointed if you don’t,” he heard her say somewhere in the back of his mind, far, far, away from her legs. “Boone wants to do his first-ever interview with me, specifically.” The motion of her hand flitting in the air snared his attention. “It took us ages to set this up. He’ll be upset—"
Harlan leaned back, resting on one booted foot. He folded his arms now, studying her from under his brim, trying to read her. Boone hadn’t mentioned any interview, and they talked about everything. “Who exactly are you?”
She sighed and blew out a long breath, shaking her head at the ground as if he was some sort of mind reader and should already know. “Georgia Monroe. Music journalist and reviewer. Maybe you’ve read some of my articles in Billboard or Vanity Fair?”
“Not ringing any bells sweetheart.”
“How ’bout Rolling Stone? I’ll do an honest, fair story on Boone, I promise. If you don’t believe me, call Garth Brooks. Go ahead, ask him.”
“Never heard of you.” Though he’d give her credit for coming up with such an inventive, thorough crock of shit so quickly.
Georgia straightened, boldly meeting his eyes. “Please call your brother. Let him know I’m here.” Dropping her head, she rubbed the back of her neck and then peeked up. “Look, I think I’m a little lost. Maybe you could ask Boone to meet me here? Please? I need this.” She clenched her teeth, like she was about to blow a fuse...or cry. “Or let me use your phone and I’ll ask him myself.”
“Or what?” Reporters were excellent finaglers and liars. Harlan studied her face like a map. Clear, bright, smooth skin. She probably got whatever she asked for. He cursed himself for letting his resolve liquefy.
Harlan reached into his back pocket and pulled out his phone—for Boone’s sake, and no other reason.
Her feet literally left the ground in a full jump. “You’re serious? Thank God. This has been a bad day, I swear,” she laughed, seeming to get her hopes up.
He hit speed dial and Boone picked up on the first ring. Harlan kept his voice down a notch while watching her. “You expecting a reporter?”
“I’ll find my phone and be ready to go by the time he gets here,” Georgia babbled, hurrying past him to the gooseberry bush.
“Yeah.” Boone seemed out of breath.
Damn it. “So you did give a reporter the address? To our fucking house?” Harlan fumed. “What the hell were you thinking? Why didn’t you consult me first?”
“Because I knew you’d get pissed and I need the publicity.” Boone shouted, rustling the phone, taking a deep breath. “Look, I scheduled it today because I knew you’d be home and could help me vet her.”
“Is that a fact?” Harlan followed Georgia to the other side of the plant, keeping a vigilant eye on her.
“I was hoping she'd be late. Listen, Georgia Monroe is big time. My flight was delayed, and it’s going to take me a while to get there, so can you...I don’t know...check her out? Give her a tour or something. Make sure she’s not slime?”
Harlan watched Georgia circle the bush like a lion stalking prey in an obvious attempt to confuse him. “How late?”
“About an hour or so? You busy?”
“I’ll take care of it.” She had her back to him now, with her hands on her hips, mumbling about something and probably still glaring at the shrub.
“Thanks, I’ll see you in a bit,” Boone said, and hung up.
Harlan shoved the phone in his pocket just as Georgia got on her hands and knees. What the hell was she doing now? She lifted her butt and started gingerly moving the branches one by one and feeling around the base of the plant. “I dropped my phone in here somewhere,” she explained over her shoulder. “I need to find it before Boone gets here.”
Just because he didn’t trust her didn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying the view of her gorgeous, round ass. And damn if his cock didn’t twitch at the sight of her bent over, wiggling in those jeans. What in the dang blazes am I going to with this one?
With an idea running through his brain, Harlan took his time, considering the ramifications of his plan, all the while contemplating her curves. Coming to his senses, he peeled his eyes away from her, refusing to let her sidetrack him. Harlan wasn’t going to let her ruin Boone’s career, no matter what.
“Can you call it with your phone and help me? I think I had the ringer on.”
“You’re never going to find it in that overgrown mess. Besides, I don’t have time for this shit. Come on. You’re leaving.”
She swung her head around, giving him a double take, making her long blonde hair swish over her shoulder.
“You’re not suggesting that I leave without my phone?”
“I don’t have all day,” he stated flatly, tired of listening to the whole “lost my phone” routine. Harlan wouldn’t be surprised if she had the thing stashed down her panties and was recording their conversation.
She scrambled to her feet. “When will Boone be here?”
“Boone’s not coming.”
3
Is this some kind of trick? She stepped back, keeping an eye on Harlan. “What do you mean he’s not coming?”
“Follow me.” He gave her a smug glare. “I’ll bring you to his house.”
She gasped, feeling a shiver of panic, taking another step backward. “There is no way I’m following you to—to who knows where.” She backed away farther. “You probably have some kind of kinky sex cabin out here.”
“Kinky sex, huh?” Harlan grinned, showing off his dimples. “Funny how your mind just went there, with me.”
“Funny is—” funny was...well, her mind went blank. “Call Boone again, or—”
“Or you’ll drive back to town? Sounds good to me.” Harlan gave her a three-second, darkly layered stare and then turned his back on her.
“Wh—?” Georgia gritted her teeth. A trickle of fear slithered down her spine while she watched the cocky bastard saunter down the path, taking long strides to his truck, looking every inch the rogue he was. Apparently not bluffing, Harlan leisurely pulled keys from his pocket and reached the driver’s side door. He tipped his hat to her, sending a smirking grin. “The weather’s turning, Peach. You either drive back to town or follow me. Suit yourself.”
With her heart in her throat, she gulped when he grabbed the door handle. Harlan was Boone’s brother. This was the closest she’d been to Boone all day. “Hold on!” Georgia yelled, hurrying to her car.
After giving her hands a douse of sanitizer, she gripped the Toyota’s warm steering wheel with her sweaty palms while her pulse did somersaults. Was Harlan trustworthy enough to follow? She reached into the open bag of salt and vinegar chips on the passenger seat and the smell of pickles filled the car. Georgia sniffed, and thought about the last appointment with her shrink, when they discussed emotional eating and all the weight she’d gained. She stuffed a greasy handful in her mouth and chomped. He better be taking me to Boone’s house.
But who knew what Harlan Beckett was up to? He’d made a fortune doing all the wrong things. Things like getting bleeped in prime time and laying a completely inappropriate kiss on the queen of country, Leva McKinney, at the CMA awards only made him more popular. Until The Story broke.
After Harlan’s debut album hit number one on Billboard’s country charts and “The Heartbreak Kid” stayed in the top twenty for an entire year, Harlan released a second album and then fell off the map. This was a while ago, after a reporter exposed Harlan as a lying, cheating scum. Who knew how long he'd been fooling around on his sweet girlfriend before he got caught having an affair with his drummer Danny’s wife? Harlan’s fans turned on a dime, and Danny’s fans were outright pissed.
In most genres fooling around with someone married wouldn’t raise an
eyebrow, but country music was different. It was a small, familial community where everyone knew each other. Screwing around with someone’s wife, particularly the wife of a man you’ve known since kindergarten, was an absolute no-go, and, in Harlan’s case, a career-ender.
Georgia had a soft spot for any woman who’d been cheated on. Although her parents were divorced, her dad never cheated, and the three of them still had a pretty good relationship. Her folks lived a short drive from each other in the Berkshires.
Harry, however, her mom’s second husband, had turned out to be a player. Her mom married him after Georgia moved out and was at NYU. They were only married for a little while, never made it to their second-year anniversary, so Georgia never got to know Harry very well. But Georgia knew enough to despise him. Her mother had been so demoralized after she discovered he’d cheated on her that she never dated again.
Georgia shoved the last crumbs of chips in her mouth and wiped her hand on her jeans. Clutching the steering wheel with both hands again, she fought to keep the car steady over all the potholes.
Why hadn’t she spent the extra dime on getting a truck? Oh yeah, because she was about to get the axe.
About a mile up the road, Harlan’s truck hung a left at a white mailbox. Georgia nodded to herself, getting her bearings while cruising the long, stately driveway. She focused on committing every sight to memory while maintaining a safe distance behind Harlan. The low, rolling hills and drifts of blue, pink and yellow wildflowers seemed to stretch on forever until finally a rambling white farmhouse with a wraparound porch to die for came into view.
Georgia slowed the car, blinking through the windshield, and took a swig of warm, melted ice from the Slurpee cup. She’d never imagined Boone Beckett living in such a house. Who knew he had such a flair for design?
Moving closer, she noted several other buildings on the property. With the lush landscaping, perfectly clipped hedges, and colorful flowerbeds, the mini compound looked out of place plunked there in the middle of nowhere.
Georgia pulled onto the flagstone-paved circular driveway next to Harlan’s truck while fighting to keep her swirling emotions from spinning out of control. But by the looks of the house—and, evidently, the lack of a torture cabin—so far, so good.
After straightening her blouse and wiping mascara smudges off her face, she put her notepad in her purse and eased herself out of the car.
Tall, smirking Harlan silently waited for her by the porch. She strolled over awkwardly, trying to ignore his not-smiling, unreadable stare. “It's okay if I park there, right?” She pointed to the Toyota, feeling like an ass as soon as she did it. He obviously knew where she parked. He just watched her do it.
“You’re fine.” With his arms folded, Harlan’s blue eyes stared her down from under the brim of his hat with an expression that read somewhere between I’m gonna get you and I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with you yet.
Gulping, she looked away. “Is Boone inside?” she asked, admiring the grounds.
“This isn’t Boone’s house. It’s mine.”
“No way,” she moaned, throwing her hands up, checking to see if the scoundrel was playing with her. “What the hell? Where is he?”
Harlan only tapped his foot, and a sinking feeling drained away the last of her supply of hope. She was on Harlan’s turf now. What was he doing bringing her there?
He didn’t take his piercing blue gaze off her.
“Are we meeting Boone here or something?”
Of course he didn’t answer right away, with him scanning and staring at various areas of her body, he seemed too busy checking her out. Harlan Beckett. It didn’t take an investigative reporter to figure out he was up to no good.
Harlan pointed to a large barn sitting a few yards back from the driveway and across from the house. “I keep a few horses.”
“Uh-huh.” Georgia pivoted, studying a majestic barn that looked like something out of Architectural Digest. When she turned back, expecting him to make the next move, he merely adjusted his hat, knowing perfectly well he looked like an extremely hot stripper cowboy.
Georgia fiddled with her purse. Maybe we’re going to meet Boone out here in the front yard?
Harlan cocked his head, angling it just right so she could see his face out from under the shade of his brim. Stepping away from the porch, he approached her, his big boots clicking determinedly across the pavement. And, as all six-foot-plus of Harlan swaggered toward her, Georgia took a giant step back, fighting the urge to jump in her car and haul ass out of there.
“Where’s Boone?” She begged, catching a whiff of mulberry and fresh laundry as Harlan brushed past her on the way to the barn.
“You ready for the next leg of your journey?” he grumbled.
“Um, not really.” At least he seemed agreeable about taking her to Boone. “Do we have to ride a tractor to get to Boone or something?”
“This way.” Harlan glanced down, clearly checking out her legs and taking his own damn time while doing it. “You’re going to like her.”
Her? “We are going to meet up with Boone, right?” she clarified. “He’s waiting for me.”
“She’s over here,” he said pointing to the stables.
Georgia decided to go with the flow and strode impatiently behind him. She didn’t have time for Harlan’s BS, and she still needed to blow her editor’s socks off with this story.
No heart. That’s what her boss said about her most recent piece, the one on Tim McGraw. “You didn’t take any risks. You asked all the safe questions. You didn’t dig deep enough. This article has no heart.”
No heart. If anything, Georgia had too much heart. That was her problem. She’d been burned so many times, it was no wonder she played it safe in her personal life. When Georgia wasn’t traveling to the ends of the earth tracking down her latest interview, her days consisted of writing, occasionally at the Starbucks on her corner, but mostly in the small apartment she shared with two roommates.
When she wasn’t writing, she was worrying about deadlines, edits, word counts, cross-town meetings with her boss, and whether she was doing the subject of her article justice.
On paper it might seem like she was living large, in the spotlight with celebrities, but contrary to popular belief, there was a big difference between living the life and writing about the people who experienced it.
But when it came to her career—case in point, walking into a barn with a notorious player—she wasn’t afraid to take a few calculated risks. Georgia reached into her back pocket, pulled out a half-eaten bag of melted M&Ms, and popped a chunk of stuck-together hard-shell chocolate in her mouth, taking in the view and adjusting to the concept of Harlan and his brothers living in a remote place like this, with wild animals and who knows what else creeping around in the fields…
It was all a little over the top for her, thank you very much.
Close behind Harlan, Georgia entered the cool, serene building, hearing the whizz of two retro fans above. Her high heels clacked over the spotless barn’s cement floor as she peered down a long aisle with stylish wood stalls on either side. These horses must live like kings, she thought, taking in their surroundings. There wasn’t even a whiff of horsey smell, only sweet hay, leather and cedar.
Harlan led her to a corner area with neatly folded blankets on the shelves. The sparkling metal bits, bridles, reins—all the tack looked brand new. A door on the far wall near the window was closed. Maybe someone was waiting in an office?
Charges of excitement flashed through her system. Who was the her she was about to meet now? She rarely had the chance to meet family members. Is there a Beckett sister? This could turn out to be the story of the year. Georgia reminded herself to play nice.
“I really appreciate this,” she said from behind as Harlan reached into a fridge under a shelf.
He grunted, passing her a cold bottle of water.
“Thanks.” She twisted off the cap, chuckling. “I know you're busy and coul
d probably be doing a million other things besides escorting me to your brother.”
Harlan scooted closer, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating off him and smell fresh, clean laundry and mulberry again.
“I’m not making you nervous, am I, Peach?”
“Nope. Not nervous at all.” Holy hell. Where did that come from? Georgia quickly took a step back for air, twisting the cap back on the water and stashing the bottle in her purse. She dug out her notepad and pen, blurting in one long breath, “So where’s your sister, when will I see Boone, and how many horses do you have?”
He moved closer, taking back most of the space she put between them. Locking on Harlan’s scorching eyes, she fought to stay on point and not get flustered. “You haven’t answered my questions.”
His stare turned to ice as he glowered down at her from under the rim of his hat with so much anger, she broke out in a sweat. “Stop snooping into my life. Boone’s the one who agreed to be interviewed, not me.” He stomped to the wall and grabbed a rope off a hook.
Her breath caught in her throat. She glanced around, taking another scan of the mystery door, the shelves, and up to the rafters, searching for a plausible explanation for him needing a rope.
“Um, hey,” she said gently, trying to keep her notepad from rattling in her shaking hands. “I’m sorry. I promise I won’t ask you any more questions.”
He scowled at her notepad. “Put that away. You’re going to need both hands.”
“Oh?” What the hell?
“Come.” He touched her elbow, making her flinch, impatiently ushering her around the corner to the stalls. Surprisingly, that sweet hay smell didn’t change.
“So, is Boone out riding with your sister somewhere?”
Harlan poked his head into one of the stalls and pointed. “This bay in here is Jessie’s Girl, but everyone calls her Jess. She’s mine.”
What did Harlan’s horse named Jess have to do with this story? Georgia’s head spun and her stomach hit the floor. “This is the her? You don’t have a sister?”
“No.”
Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology Page 151
