I may be screwed, but at least I'm going to be well screwed. Never thought I'd be the kind of woman who’d give up her career for a man, but best laid plans…
Ha! Best laid! I kill myself.
Owen's giving me a horrified stare, though. "Oh, hell, no. You are not calling your editor. No fucking way."
"I have to. He needs to know that we're…involved."
"No," Owen says again with an adamant shake of his head. "We'll wait until the season's over. Until then, we’re just friends."
I spock an eyebrow. "I don't think just friends is possible under the circumstances, do you?"
He looks a little wounded. "You don't think I can control myself for six weeks?"
"It's not you I'm worried about."
Okay, granted, I think expecting Goin' Owen to go six weeks without sex is akin to hoping the IRS will fail to notice that you didn't pay your taxes, but he's not the only person with a sex drive here. A cocky grin stretches his mouth at my words, and goddamn, I want to kiss him right then and there and damn whoever's around to see us. Which is exactly the problem.
I rush on, "But that's not even the reason I have to tell my boss. You're willing to wait six weeks to…what? Start dating? Going steady? I don't even know what we're going to be doing yet, but I know it's more than a casual thing, whether we're sleeping together or not. And more than a casual thing means I ought to disclose. Maybe it won't matter. Maybe my editor will think it's fine. But if he doesn't, he has a right to know so he can find someone else to take my place."
Owen crosses his arms over his chest—his very nicely muscled chest, I cannot help but remember while I’m also noticing the sculpted ridges of his biceps peeking out from beneath his white T-shirt—and grimaces. "So, wait. The only way for you not to have to risk your job is for me to tell you that I’m not interested in being with you?"
“Well,” I admit, wrinkling my nose, “yes.” Although there’s an argument to be made that, even then, I should warn my editor that I might not be entirely impartial.
He gives me a level gaze. “Okay, then I’m not interested in being with you. Now you don’t have to call your editor, right?”
“It’s not that easy. You have to mean it.”
“I do mean it.” His expression utterly serious, Owen reaches across the space between us and taps the top of my clipboard. “You’re good at this. I read your articles, and not just the ones that are about me. Maybe it’s not as important as reporting on wars or politics or…I dunno, gang violence or drug cartels or whatever, but you’re doing a lot of good. Your stories are fun to read, and you bring attention to riders like Tessa Blackwood and people on the fringes of the sport, like Darnell.”
“Well, you did that,” I interrupt to point out.
He waves a hand. “You ran with it. You didn’t have to, but you did, and now maybe Darnell gets a shot at a better job than just being a motocross mechanic. Maybe one that lets him stay in San Antonio with his dad instead of chasing me around the country. And as much as I don’t want to lose him, he deserves that. And you deserve not to have to risk your job—a job you like and that you’re really good at—because of me.
“So, for the next six weeks, I’m not interested in being with you. After that, if I change my mind and you’re still interested in being with me, then we figure things out. But we’re going to wait the six weeks to figure it out if your editor pulls you off the job, too. So what’s the difference except you losing your job? I mean, unless you really think the fact that we might get together again after the end of the season is going to change the way you do your job, because I just don’t see it. That’s not who you are.”
I open my mouth to say that the difference is…and then I shut it. Because he’s not entirely right, but he’s not exactly wrong, either. It’s not like anything I report could have the slightest effect on whether or not Owen wins the championship. And what agenda could I inject into my coverage of his races, either consciously or unconsciously, anyway? Maybe the fact that I’m really hoping he does win will come through, but I felt that way almost from the start. It’s hard not to root for the guy you’re the closest to, even if the closeness is purely due to professional duty. Nothing’s really changed, except that I now know from personal experience that he’s as good in bed as he is on the track. Something I have no intention of reporting!
It could still become a problem if we get caught in a compromising situation, so we have to keep things professional for the next six weeks. And if we can’t…? Or if I think my feelings are getting in the way of my work? Well then, I’ll definitely have to tell my editor what’s going on because things could get messy if I don’t. But I don’t have to take that risk. Not yet.
A weight I didn’t even know I was carrying lifts off my chest. This might be a huge mistake, but everything in me is screaming that it’s less a mistake than the alternative.
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “We’ll play it by ear. But if things get…out of hand, I’ll have to call him.”
Owen lets out a long breath. “Fair enough. I’ll ask Darnell for his tips on being a Boy Scout.”
The rumble of motorcycle engines being kicked into life drifts up the hill again. “You have time to watch some of the women’s practice with me?”
He grabs my hand, squeezes it, and releases it again. “I’ll make time.”
I can’t stop the silly smile that spreads across my face. I’m just ridiculously content right now.
“Who’s number twenty-three?” Owen asks after we’ve watched the field pass four or five times.
I already know, because I’ve been noticing her, too. “Joy Chen. She’s a wildcatter who’s been on the circuit since the start of the season.” And I’d written her off before because, despite her solid riding skills, her machinery was obviously substandard. Not today. Today, she’s kicking ass and taking names.
“Hmph,” he grunts, frowning. “Never heard of her. She should be near the top of the standings.”
“If her bike was normally this good, she probably would be, but she’s DNF’d mechanical in at least half of the races so far.”
Owen quirks a grin. “Guess she finally found a good mechanic like I did.”
“Maybe. We’ll see how she does on Sunday and next week, I guess.”
“So you’re coming back next week?”
I laugh. “Unless we blow it before then.”
“Damn it, don’t say ‘blow’ unless you mean it.”
We are so going to blow it. If we haven’t already.