Guitars and a banjo played in the background providing a peppy beat for their wanderings. Navigating through throngs of people gathered outside food trucks and the lines for inflatable slides, Isabeau felt strangely at peace.
Rather than continuing to watch another competition—this time with two men racing against each other to climb a pole—she slid her attention to Trystan, who walked confidently beside her. His muddied cognac-brown cowboy boots were paired with worn jeans and a red flannel shirt, sleeves straining against his muscled arms.
Damn. Sexy as ever.
Isabeau cleared her throat, elbowing him. “This was a fantastic idea. I’m impressed.”
“Pleased to hear it. This is one of my favorite festivals. And it seemed a good platform to talk about ways we Alaskans are working to responsibly cultivate our resources.”
“And I’m impressed again. You have more of a way with words than you give yourself credit for.” Or than she’d given him credit for. When he was in his comfort zone, he was spot-on. “I can see you being one of those old-school gold miners, forging your way through the Alaskan frontier, living in a tent.”
She couldn’t quite make out his eyes from the shade cast by the brim of his simple Stetson.
He laughed softly. “Sounds like heaven to me. In fact, I wouldn’t even need the tent. Just give me a hammock to string between two trees and a thermal sleeping bag.”
A line of elementary school–age children walked by, laughing as they clutched cotton candy puffs that wavered in the wind in time with the banjo music. Such a sense of community.
“You fit in well here,” she said, noting how many people who recognized him waved and smiled. He was so...accessible. Not as distant as he’d seemed in more formal settings. Guilt pinched her. No matter how much she told herself she was tailoring his makeover to fit his personality, she saw the truth. He was a happy and whole person right here, right now, no changes. “This month will be over soon and you can go back to living at your ranch full-time, sleeping bag and all.” Although she couldn’t help but think how Naomi had mentioned the possibility of him taking a more active role beyond this month. Would the business still want her services long term?
More importantly, would she still be spending close quarters time with Trystan long term?
“I’ll miss you.” He nudged back his Stetson, and his deep blue eyes met hers, locking her in place.
Her skin tingled, and the noisy, packed world faded away for an instant. “We’ve only been working together a little over a week.”
“Then that should tell you what an impression you’ve made on me in such a short time.”
“I have a job to do.” And this flirting made it tougher. How would she resist him if their lives were tied together permanently through a child?
“And I’m asking you to consider the possibility we could see more of each other. You work on a consultant basis. You could take time off. Money’s not an issue. These are the sorts of things to consider, especially if there’s a baby.”
There it was. The issue that clouded everything else.
This special outing, his flirting—none of it was just about dating each other. They’d made that kind of casual relationship impossible by impulsively sleeping together. As much as she’d vowed not to live her mother’s life, vulnerable and alone for so many years, Isabeau had not made the wisest choices lately.
“I won’t be dependent on anyone, particularly a man I’m sleeping with.”
He fell silent, clearly digesting her assertion.
But before Trystan could lobby a response, Isabeau saw a news crew out of the corner of her eye.
Saved by the media.
Not a phrase she used every day. Relief washed over her. “News crew at your two o’clock.” Isabeau nodded in the direction of the huddle of journalists gathered outside a funnel cake stand.
The female reporter—high heels sinking in a mud puddle—tapped her cameraman on the shoulder. A mutual recognition, Isabeau realized. The cameraman adjusted the gear on his shoulder, and the news media team began their approach.
“Time for my debut,” Trystan muttered, motioning for Isabeau to follow.
“Mr. Mikkelson,” the reporter called, waving. “I’m so glad you and your girlfriend could meet with us for an exclusive.”
Isabeau blinked in shock.
Girlfriend?
Seven
A half hour later, as they settled into the SUV, Isabeau was still steaming over being maneuvered.
She’d been so immersed in the beautiful day with Trystan that she’d never seen it coming.
Now, he guided the rental vehicle from the packed parking lot, and she watched the fairgrounds grow smaller in the rearview mirror as her regrets grew larger.
She’d been drawn to Trystan, succumbing to that chemistry, because she’d thought he was giving her the personal space she’d requested while they waited for pregnancy results.
Instead, he was just setting her up for his own agenda. To press and push for...what? Either to get her to sleep with him again or ensure some kind of hold over her if it turned out she carried his child.
She glanced down at her stomach, then over at him, his hands so sure on the steering wheel.
As if he felt her gaze, he looked back at her. “I didn’t tell her that.”
Sure, whatever.
“The damage is done. The story’s going to run and it will say that I have a personal relationship with a client.” She hugged herself, agitation rising. “Denying the report won’t do any good.”
“Then let’s do the opposite and play it up as a great romance. People do fall for each other on the job. Letting the public know we’re dating could prep for news if you’re pregnant—”
“I know, I know. There will be no hiding the truth. But what if I’m not and we’ve convinced the world we’re having some great love story?”
“We’ll quietly break up...if that’s what you wish.”
His hesitation gave her pause as well, and launched a surprise flurry of butterflies in her stomach. “If that’s what I want? Are you saying—after a little
