Romantically Entangled

Chapter 15

Nicki

After that, we sit in silence for a while.

My eyes sweep Bey's room and come to rest on a couple of posters on the opposite wall.

One is an enlarged black-and-white photo of a young man with wavy, dark hair that falls to his shoulders. He's perched on a stool, holding a guitar, and he's dressed in classic seventies: bell bottoms and a tight, flowery button-down.

A couple of feet away is another poster. This one is in color; it shows an older man with thick white hair, also worn long. He is also holding a guitar, also sitting on a stool. But he's dressed in contemporary clothes.

I don't have to read the print on the bottom of each poster to know who it is: Frasier Bryson, of course. The same man I saw at tonight's party, watching Bey play.

Bey's hero.

Munchie rolls over on the bed, splaying his legs and exposing his belly to me. When I don't respond right away, the dog yelps to make his demands clear.

Bey and I both laugh.

"Obnoxious animal," she mutters in a fond tone. "I've clearly spoiled him rotten."

I obligingly begin to rub Munchie's belly, and Bey stretches out on the blanket, propping her head on his elbow. She's staring at me.

"Are you sure you're comfortable like that?" I ask, my skin prickling from the heat of her glance. "I feel bad making you sit on the floor in your own room."

"It's fine, Nicki. I really don't mind."

There it is again. That husky, caressing tone that enters my ears and then seems to travel right down to where it leaves me throbbing with desire.

Again, totally inappropriate, considering we've just been talking about our dead parents. But I can't help it.

I cross my legs and slide my palms over my thighs, feeling the breath catch in my throat.

A slow smile quirks up one side of Bey's face, and I notice that her eyes—those amazing, hazel brown eyes—are gleaming with amusement.

Does she know what I'm feeling? Is it written all over my face?

I start petting Munchie as if my life depends on it.

"So, Nicki," Bey quips after a moment, "how'd you convince the editor to hire you?"

"Um..." I'm thrown off by having to quickly shift to thinking about the Daily. "Well..."

I nibble my lower lip, wondering if I should tell her the truth. The whole truth.

Since we've been baring our souls to each other tonight, maybe I should. Maybe I'll feel better when I do.

"I used my family connections," I finally respond, taking a breath. "I told him who my grandmother is. I...she..."

I'm fumbling around; I sound like an idiot.

"I knew he would know who she is," I go on in a rush, "and I figured it would make him want me as a reporter, even though all the slots are already taken."

One of Bey's sleek eyebrows shoots up. "Okay," she says slowly. "So, who's your grandmother?"

"Virginia Cooke, President Pro Tempore of the Oklahoma State Senate. You know, Cooke Ranch and all that?"

"Oh." Bey nods, her face blank. Then a look of realization dawns. "Oh. Yeah, I've heard of the Cooke Ranch."

She pushes her fingers through her hair and then rests both hands on the dusty wood floor.